by Les Abend
“Have it your way, boss,” Don said with a sarcastic grin.
Hart took in a quick breath and exhaled. “Let’s see how this goes.” He adjusted the strap that held the airline ID tag around his neck, ensuring that the photo side was visible. He opened his door and stepped out onto the ramp.
The FBI man pulled the cigar from his teeth. In a nasally voice he said, “Sorry, no access to this area.”
Hart walked over to the FBI agent and extended his hand. The agent surveyed Hart for a moment and then shook.
The stocky man smiled and said, “I’m Special Agent Ryan Fredricks.”
“Pleasure to meet you, sir. My name is Hart Lindy. I’m the party coordinator for the Patriot Airlines Pilots Association.” He turned and pointed at the van. “My investigation team along with the other parties will be working with the NTSB.”
“The NTSB? Never heard of them.” The FBI man grinned.
“Aren’t you supposed to be driving a dark-blue Ford Taurus? And why aren’t you wearing a thin tie with a black suit and the no-nonsense expression?”
“The movies and TV have given us a bad rap. We’re trying to change our image to a more updated version.”
“It may take a while to grow on people.”
“We’ve also changed our motto to, “We’re not happy until you’re not happy.” Special Agent Fredricks cleared his throat. “And in that regard, I’m not allowing anybody near this airplane for the moment.”
“I think you guys are stealing the FAA’s motto by the way,” Hart said with a smirk. “Do you mind telling me why we can’t conduct a preliminary walk-around? We promise not to touch.”
“I’ve already explained that to the NTSB.”
“Would you humor me with an explanation? The organizational meeting isn’t until tomorrow morning. The NTSB didn’t make us aware of access issues.” Hart folded his arms across his chest.
The FBI man rocked a thumb back behind him in the direction of the airplane. “We are considering this a crime scene.”
“Okay. Based on what evidence?”
“Good question. Actually, I’m surprised that you, of all people, would ask.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Aren’t you the same Captain Lindy that experienced a multitude of threatening little events today?”
Hart said, “Word travels fast.”
“Our Miami field office got your report through the Dade County P.D. and forwarded it on to me.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Well…your experience today concerns us. It adds another element to this investigation.”
The FBI man pulled a lighter from a trouser pocket. He flicked the lighter and moved the orange flame in a circular motion around the cigar. He placed the cigar between puckered lips and began to puff. Smoke billowed from his mouth.
Hart sighed. “Is there physical evidence that indicates this incident was caused by something extraneous to mechanical causes?”
Agent Fredricks looked away for a moment and then said, “Extraneous? That’s a big word, Captain Lindy. I’m just a government employee. We try to keep our syllables at two per word. But that being said, we have our suspicions.”
“But no preliminary investigation on the airplane itself has been conducted?”
“Nope.”
“Do you have resources here in Bermuda that would assist an investigation involving aircraft mechanics and procedures, more specifically, resources involving a Boeing 767?”
“Nope.”
“Forgive me, Special Agent Fredricks, but aren’t we all on the same page?”
Ryan Fredricks smiled, took a puff of his cigar, and said, “Well…let’s just say that we’re on the same chapter.”
“Look, in the end, all of us would like to find the cause of the emergency and determine why two people died.”
“Agreed…but not until I release the airplane.”
“Wouldn’t it be in your best interest to allow aviation experts the opportunity to assist?”
Agent Fredricks crossed his arms in front of his chest. He said, “Captain Lindy, I kind of like you. But right now you’re starting to annoy me. I’m sorry, but you just can’t play with your airplane today.”
Inside the van, Don, Matt, and Ron smirked. The conversation wasn’t quite audible, but the stiff body language spoke volumes about the discussion.
In his Southern drawl, Don said, “I think our boss is losing his charm.” Don chuckled. “You guys want to start pooling cash for bail money just in case it gets ugly?”
The rest of the team, including the driver, snickered.
Back at the airplane, Hart sighed and said, “All right, Special Agent Fredricks. I got the message. We’ll stay out of the way.” Hart grit his teeth and grinned. “If I buy you a cocktail at the hotel tonight, will you change your mind?”
The FBI man smiled and said, “Call me Ryan, please. And that offer seems like a thinly veiled bribe. I’m a government official. I was hoping for something more substantial than a cocktail. Regardless, access to your airplane probably won’t happen until tomorrow.”
Hart nodded and said, “On other subjects, along the lines of nefarious activities, I got bad vibes from a passenger that flew inbound on our deadhead flight. I asked our gate agent to reference this guy’s seat number for an ID check.”
“I’ll confer with the agent and check it out. Anything in particular about this passenger that concerned you?”
“If I was non-politically correct, it would seem the gentleman had a Middle Eastern origin to his physical characteristics. But we don’t profile, of course.” Hart glanced at the pavement for a moment. “The man had an uncomfortable air about him. Perhaps it’s my pilot, post-9/11 paranoia.”
“Understood,” the FBI man stated.
Hart extended his hand. The men shook, and then Hart strode back to the van. Hart opened the door and plopped into his seat. He stared out the windshield and offered a casual salute to Special Agent Fredricks. Fredricks nodded.
“I either made a new friend or a new enemy. I’m just not sure. The man certainly doesn’t fit the FBI mold,” Hart stated.
Don said, “For a second or two we weren’t sure whether he was going to shoot you or arrest you.”
The team broke into a chorus of subdued laughter.
17:30 EDT
Hart heard two loud thwacks on his hotel room door. He pulled the toothbrush out of his mouth and rinsed it quickly under the faucet. He drew a towel across his face and then tossed it on the granite sink counter. Hart walked to the door and opened it.
“Took you long enough to get to the door,” said the man with the wire broom moustache who stood in the hallway. The moustache grinned at Hart and stepped past him into the room. “Are you getting slow in your old age or were you just adding a little more mascara to your eyelashes?”
Hart smiled and watched his friend, Jerome Jordan, strut into the suite. He was wearing a black, skull and crossbones T-shirt that exclaimed, “Give up your booty!” His khaki shorts were frayed at the bottom edges. Although Jerome shared the last name of the legendary basketball player, life had dealt him a cruel irony. His stature reached all of five-foot-seven. But what he lacked in height, he made up in pure energy.
It was still hard to imagine Jerome sitting in the left seat of a 777. And not just because he was vertically challenged, but because his demeanor and appearance were more appropriate to a college football coach on vacation than an airline pilot. That being said, he took the insults concerning his height in stride.
Their former fraternity brothers had been relentless in harassing Jerome. When the two had begun the pledge process, Hart and Jerome shared a bond of mutual empathy, Jerome for his height and Hart for his odd name.
The last name, Lindy, although coincidental, was a proud reminder of the aviation legend that had flown the Spirit of St. Louis across the North Atlantic. In Lindbergh’s honor, Hart’s dad had argued for his son to have the first name of Charles. B
ut Hart’s mom did not share the same passion for aviation. She was less than enthusiastic about being constantly reminded of a long dead hero. Acquiescing to her husband’s unrelenting love of all things airplane, she offered a compromise. Women aviation heroes should be represented also. Amelia, if it was a girl and Hart if it was a boy. Problem solved.
Unfortunately, time took its toll on his parents’ relationship. Airplanes were the center of all that was wrong with Deloris Lindy’s life. The small, country airport that was their sole source of income did not meet her pre-marital expectations of being able to drive a new Cadillac every year. Hart’s dad seemed more committed to the airport than the marriage. Deloris Lindy sought commitments elsewhere. Before Hart had gone off to college, he had memories of his mom rolling into the garage at the same time the morning school bus was rolling to a stop in front of the driveway.
Jerome scanned Hart’s hotel room. Bleached wicker furniture and tropical paintings with picturesque ocean scenes were scattered about. A ceiling fan painted with tropical flowers circulated above a glass coffee table in the center of the room. The view out the sliding glass door opened to the bay.
With a sarcastic snarl, Jerome said, “I guess you have to be a big deal party coordinator to rate a suite on the PAPA expense account.”
Jerome held out his hand and shook Hart’s with a firm grip.
“I’ll be glad to swap with you, Captain Jordan.” Hart swept his arm in a wide arc. “But since this side of my suite will become the command center, I’d thought you’d enjoy some privacy in your own place. I know how cranky you can get.”
“Likely story.” Jerome grinned.
“How are you anyhow?”
“Never better. Living the dream with this almost-bankrupt airline just like you.”
“Wife? Kids?”
“They always seem to be home when I walk through the door,” Jerome said shaking his head. “They’re just not smart people.”
Hart asked, “Aren’t you going to be sending the oldest to college?”
“Yeah, can you believe it? I told him that college was overrated. After all, look what happened to his dad.” Jerome shuffled his feet. “Princeton for crying out loud. The kid got a full ride to play soccer.”
“Glad to hear it. He deserves it. He worked hard in high school.”
Hart pointed at the couch against the wall. Jerome dropped onto one of the cushions. Hart sat on a reclining chair opposite his friend. For a few more minutes, the two men discussed random subjects. Wife. Cathy. Airline. Goals. Ambitions. Vacations. Friends.
When the conversation turned to the investigation, Hart said, “I need to make use of your charm.”
“That’s asking a lot.”
Hart explained the predicament involved with the copilot of Flight 63. He also described the events of the day, including the creepy, thin guy. Throughout the narration, Jerome’s eyes remained wide. He barely took a breath.
Hart said, “Before the other guys get here for my pre-cocktail briefing, I need you to conduct his investigation interview. It will be your best opportunity before First Officer Townsend leaves on the morning departure to Miami.”
“What d’ya mean he’s leaving? He’ll be a great witness. Really? Have you told the NTSB?”
“Nope. I don’t want to take the chance that they delay him here. The IIC is Maureen Blackford. I think she likes to dot the i’s and cross the t’s twice. I’m going to beg for forgiveness rather than ask permission. Just make sure that you record the interview.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re on the witness committee, remember?”
“I’m not just another pretty face?”
Hart looked at his friend’s pockmarked, puffy cheeks and grinned. “Let me know how it goes. The rest of us will either be up here in my suite or at dinner.”
“I always miss the fun.” Jerome rose from the couch. “How’s Dad?”
“The chemo has got him feeling like crap. But you know him. The word ‘whine’ is not in his vocabulary. He’s still working at the airport every day. It keeps him alive. When this investigation is over, I’m due for a visit.”
Jerome said, “Well, send him my best. And when you get up there, why don’t you see if you can find our Super Cub. You’ve been talking about it for the last hundred years.”
“It’s gone. I don’t think it’s based at Dad’s airport anymore. A guy that’s a CEO for some dot-com company owns it.”
“Figures. What happened to the days that airline captains owned all the toys? Maybe you can buy it back.”
“Maybe,” Hart sighed.
Jerome sighed and said, “Before we all got caught up in this airline career, the three of us had a lot of fun in that airplane. We did have fun, remember?”
Hart nodded. He, Jerome, and Rod were flight instructors back in those days. The three were inseparable. They flew the Super Cub in and out of grass fields. Windows open. Never getting higher than 500 feet. The girls they took up for rides sooner or later ended up at one of their perpetual parties or in their bedrooms or both. He loved that airplane. But then Don, their retired airline pilot mentor and owner, sold it. Hart had grieved as though he had lost a brother.
Jerome said, “And, sorry, but I have to ask. Have you and our boy that went to the dark side mended fences yet?”
“As a matter of fact, Captain Moretti and I had a civilized conversation about this investigation just before I left Miami.”
“Civilized?” Jerome shook his head. “I guess you guys haven’t come to terms.”
“No. I guess not.”
“What’s it gonna take?”
“Probably a lot of alcohol.”
“Well, that’s a start.” Jerome shrugged his shoulders.
Hart said, “We’ll see. I’ve got other fish to fry at the moment.” He stared at Jerome’s T-shirt. “On other subjects, there is no doubt that you’re a chick magnet with that ensemble you’re wearing but would you consider a little different attire for the interview with the copilot?”
Jerome grinned and patted his chest over the skull and crossbones on his T-shirt. He asked, “Do you mean this isn’t professional enough?”
“Get out of here. I’ve got important things to do…like put ice in the cooler.”
The two men smiled. Jerome stood up and walked over to the door. He turned the knob and began to hum the shark’s theme from Jaws as he disappeared into the corridor.
Chapter Ten
Friday
18:05 EDT
Despite Hart’s best intentions to keep his initial briefing alcohol-free, he was unable to prevent access to the cooler in his room. He had only himself to blame. The cooler was too visible. Only a matter of minutes passed before each team member held a frosty bottle in his hand. With a sinister grin, Don had snapped the cap off the top of a bottle and handed it to Hart. If you can’t beat ‘em…
The briefing had progressed with limited questions. NTSB committee assignments were confirmed. The known facts surrounding the event were explained. The objective and rules of conduct were discussed. And the threatening events that Hart experienced were brought to light in addition to the current status of the investigation in regard to the FBI’s jurisdiction. He advised his team to be extra cautious.
Jerome returned from his interview with Mike Townsend in ample time before the briefing was complete. His entrance was received with the usual repertoire of short-people jokes. The references to his nonexistent basketball career soon followed. As always, Jerome reveled in the attention. His pained expressions were a thin veil for his pure enjoyment of the camaraderie.
Once Hart realized that no further constructive discussion would ensue, he began to herd the team out of his room. It was time for dinner. With limited resistance, the room emptied. The team headed in the direction of the hotel restaurant. Hart followed.
The five men were ushered by the hostess to a large table near the outside. As they passed the bar, Hart caught a glimpse of a familia
r face. Maureen Blackford was seated on a tall stool between two men with short, close-cropped hair. Her fitted jeans enhanced the shape of her long legs. She was engaged in conversation with the two men. She was smiling, the expression accenting her sculpted jaw line.
Maureen looked away from the bar and saw Hart approaching. She nodded and continued to smile.
“Maureen,” Hart said, extending his hand. The close-cropped-hair guys swiveled on their stools. Maureen reached for Hart’s hand and shook it. The grip was firm.
“Hart. Glad to see that you made it. How are things?”
“Things are good.” Hart leaned against an empty spot on the bar. “My understanding is that hotel space is limited. I guess we’ll be sharing room service with the U.S. government.”
Maureen smiled and said, “We promise not to order the same pizza.”
“Good. Because if you’ve seen my guys, they’re not the type to take a lack of pepperoni lightly.” Hart gestured at the table where the four pilots were beginning to sit down. Maureen turned to survey the table. She nodded in the team’s direction.
Maureen introduced the two men with her. As Hart had guessed, they were part of the NTSB Go-Team. One of the men didn’t look old enough to have ever experienced a razor. They exchanged pleasantries.
Maureen reached for her martini glass. It was filled with a pink, slushy liquid. She said, “So I hear that you made the acquaintance of Special Agent Fredricks.”
Hart chuckled and said, “He has an interesting fashion sense for an FBI guy.”
“You’ll warm up to him.” Maureen took a dainty sip of her drink. “Or not...”
“Well…now that we’re all dressed up with no place to go, what’s the chance that the FBI will release the airplane so we can do our job?”
“Good question,” Maureen said. She slid her glass back onto the bar. “As eager as you guys are to begin, let me deal with the FBI. It’s my job anyhow. I’m hoping that we’ll have access tomorrow after the organizational meeting.” Her lips formed a coy smile. “I’m sure that Special Agent Fredricks will see the light. He’s not about to initiate an investigation on his own. He can’t tell a Boeing 767 from a Cessna 172. But please…don’t piss him off any more than you already have.”
