by Les Abend
“I promise,” Hart said with a smirk.
“Good,” Maureen replied. She directed her attention at the two Go-Team members sitting at the bar. “Would you excuse me for a moment, gentlemen? I have something to discuss with Captain Lindy.”
The men nodded. Maureen slid off her stool and moved away from the bar. She gestured her head toward a corner of the dining room. Hart followed, trying unsuccessfully not to focus on the sway of Maureen’s hips. He glanced over at the table where his team was seated. They grinned at him with leering eyes.
Jerome pantomimed an eating motion with a fork. He was asking Hart whether he would be joining them for dinner. Hart nodded, raised five fingers, and mouthed the words, “five minutes.” Jerome nodded.
Maureen turned to face Hart and said, “Listen, I have a small, personal matter to discuss.” She scanned the bar and the dining room. “There are too many eyes. This is not the place.” Maureen pursed her lips. “Would you come see me after dinner, please? Room 23034.”
Hart raised his eyebrows and said, “Yes, Madame IIC. If you wish.” His tone was cautious.
“It’s a professional issue, Captain.” Maureen glanced around the room again, catching furtive glances from Hart’s team. “And now, I would appreciate it very much if you would give me your best deadly, serious expression…like I had just told you where Jimmy Hoffa is buried. And then walk away to your table.”
“I already know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried, but thanks,” Hart said narrowing his eyes. He did his best to maintain a grim expression. Hart nodded at Maureen and then strode toward his team.
The four pilots offered unconvincing expressions of nonchalance as Hart sat down on the chair at the head of the table. Jerome began to smirk. The other team members stared at Hart but said nothing.
Hart shook his head and said, “You guys are pathetic. A group of high school seniors at the prom would be more discreet.” He attempted to disguise a smile with a frown and then gestured toward the NTSB members at the bar. “My business with Ms. Blackford? Logistics. That’s all.” He scanned the table. “Where’s my beer, please?”
Jerome replied, “I ordered you a Shirley Temple with two cherries.” He pushed a Pilsner glass full of amber liquid toward Hart. Hart grinned and took a sip.
“Maureen Blackford believes that the FBI will allow us access to the airplane later in the morning. The organizational meeting is at eight o’clock,” Hart said.
A few questions were asked and then separate conversations resumed. Menus were reviewed and then collected. Orders were taken. The usual amount of island time passed. And then dinner arrived in a flurry of plates. Glasses were raised. Toasts were made to a variety of people and events. The meals were consumed as though no one had eaten that week.
The bill arrived. It was promptly passed to Hart. As though choreographed, the team members immediately rose from their seats. They grinned and thanked Hart in patronizing tones, well-aware that dinner would be added to PAPA’s expense account. With a shake of his head, Hart pulled the MasterCard from his wallet.
When Hart finished signing the receipt, he glanced around the dining room. It was empty except for a small table occupied by a white-haired couple. They sat opposite each other, staring into each other’s eyes. Wine glasses clinked. The couple laughed.
Hart sighed. The couple were probably celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary. It was Bermuda after all; probably a good bet they had honeymooned on the island. Hart’s parents had honeymooned in Bermuda. It was difficult to imagine. He had too many memories as a kid hiding in his room to escape the fury of angry words and slamming doors. Hart erased the thoughts from his head and rose from the table. He strode down the corridor toward the hotel rooms.
When he reached room 23034, Hart stopped. He looked down the hall in both directions. He hesitated for a moment and then knocked. The door opened halfway. Maureen Blackford peeked through the open space. She wore the same jeans but had removed the flowing red blouse that had been covering a string-strap tank top underneath. The tank top clung tightly to her hourglass figure. Maureen’s lips were drawn tight.
“Come in, please, Captain Lindy,” Maureen said softly.
“Thanks,” Hart replied. He took a few steps into the room while Maureen closed the door.
Maureen smiled and motioned for Hart to take a seat on one of the lounge chairs. Hart slithered cautiously into the chair. Maureen remained standing and asked, “Do you think it says anything about a person in how they knock?”
“Perhaps,” Hart replied with a curious expression. “I guess it depends upon the circumstance.” Hart looked at the door for a brief moment and then at his watch. “In my case, the fact that Mickey’s hands are now both close to the 12, I thought it best not to disturb the neighborhood with an especially long and loud knock.”
“I’ll buy that,” Maureen said with a quick smile. “But under normal circumstances, how would you have knocked?”
Hart brushed an imaginary piece of lint off his jeans. He said, “Well…hadn’t really thought about that one, but I would define myself as a three-time knocker in rapid succession. Probably with a solid bump.
“Thought so. That would be my knock also. Sign of confidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’ll buy that,” Hart replied. He crossed his legs and cleared his throat. “Can’t say that I’ve ever had a philosophical discussion on door knocking.” Hart squirmed in his chair. “Certainly door knocking isn’t the reason for this private meeting?”
Maureen took a step closer. “Professionalism is the reason I asked you to come see me.”
“Professionalism?” Hart asked raising his eyebrows.
“Yup. Professionalism in our relationship. Me as the IIC. You as the pilots union party coordinator.”
“Okay,” Hart replied. He uncrossed his leg and shifted his weight in the chair.
“You do remember Flight 57 in San Juan?” Hart nodded. “Might you remember an escapade with a little barmaid at your hotel room door?”
Hart had a vision of red lips intertwined with his while being gently molested by a tall, lanky Latin brunette, all before she took a step into his hotel room. He had worked his charm at the bar for a while, never expecting her to make an appearance. “Uh, yeah…actually she was not just a barmaid, she was the bar manager.” Hart took a deep breath. “Look, I understand. I’ll keep my conduct professional. I’m sorry you had to witness that moment. I hadn’t intended it to be an event for public consumption.”
Maureen sat down on the armrest of Hart’s chair. Hart didn’t move, attempting to hide his discomfort. He felt awkward.
“I’m okay with that. I just thought you had better taste.”
“No comment. It wasn’t Ms. Right. It was Ms. Right Now.” Hart tried to grin.
“If truth be told, I was turned on. And when I learned that you were a party coordinator for this investigation, I felt both reluctance and excitement.”
“Uh…I don’t get it.”
“Hey, let’s face it. You weren’t fond of me at the Flight 57 investigation. Your words were cordial, but your eyes said something completely opposite.”
“That’s not fair,” Hart said as he squirmed.
“Be honest. Haven’t you felt the sexual tension between us?”
“Well…”
Hart felt a thump in his chest. This doesn’t happen.
“Look. I might be one of only a handful of women in this business, but I didn’t get my job because I slept around with the boss. I got my position because I am confident. I can assess a situation and make a reasonable decision within a relatively short period of time. In that respect, I’m thinking that if we release that tension now, we can go beyond it into our professional roles. Otherwise we’ll be distracted from the task at hand.”
With a graceful twist, Maureen dropped herself from the arm of the chair and into Hart’s lap. She wrapped an arm around his neck. She stared into his eyes and then moved her lips toward him. Hart relax
ed his mouth and felt the moisture of her tongue slither over his. Without taking a breath, they kissed for a long while.
Maureen drew her head back and smiled. Her eyes sparkled in the dim light. Hart caressed her dark hair and then moved a hand over the small of her back. With the other hand he glided his fingers over her shoulders, down her slender arm, and over the cup of her breasts.
As he held Maureen in his arms, Hart rose from the chair. He began to carry her toward the king-size bed.
Hart said, “Professionalism? Really?” He grinned. “I’ve never considered sleeping with someone an act of professionalism.”
“You haven’t tried it yet,” Maureen whispered.
23:55 EDT
Initially, Jim had been resistant to speak with the two CISM guys from the union. What the hell was “critical incident stress management” anyway? Wasn’t that for wimps that couldn’t handle a little pressure? He flew F-16s in the Gulf War. Bad people tried to shoot him out of the sky. The emergency he dealt with today was nothing.
If they really wanted to help mitigate the aftereffects of the event, Jim suggested that they focus their energy on Mike. Mike’s situation was far more serious. They agreed and indicated that Mike was already a priority. In fact, Jim’s participation would be of great assistance when the two had an opportunity to debrief the event together.
Out of respect for his colleagues, Jim had invited them into his room. After all, they had volunteered to come to Bermuda specifically for just such a purpose. At first, Jim was reluctant to discuss the circumstances of the emergency on his plane. But their relaxed demeanor promoted conversation. And before Jim realized it, he had covered almost every detail.
They listened to his bad jokes and his dry sense of humor. And they also listened to a self-critique of his performance. Somewhere in his mind he felt that he could have achieved a higher standard…or that maybe better vigilance could have prevented the entire event. The two CISM guys had told him that his reaction was normal, dismissing his self-deprecation as typical.
When the two union guys had left, Jim felt a surprising sense of relief for having unburdened himself. For the moment, he needed something to numb his brain. He pressed the power button on the TV remote. The screen crackled to life. As he surfed, CNN caught his attention. Video of the emergency landing was being replayed.
This was the first time he had actually seen the entire footage. The blazing right side of the airplane was an amazing sight. From the cockpit, none of this had been visible. It was just as well. The impersonal nature of flashing lights, electronic bells and messages kept the reality of the drama from view. In simple terms, the cockpit warnings focused him on matter-of-fact problem-solving.
Now that it was over, the serious nature of the entire event began to sink in. Jim shook off the feeling. Why dwell? It served no purpose. But then after watching the spectacular video in which he was the star, why not at least commemorate his success with a photo of the dramatic image of the airplane landing. A trophy picture. He chuckled. The all-about-me wall in his office could certainly use something other than his plaques and squadron photos.
A knock on the door interrupted Jim’s thoughts. Still gazing at the last seconds of the images on the TV screen, he walked toward the door. He heard two more knocks.
A voice on the other side said, “Room service.”
Jim rolled his eyes. He twisted the door handle saying, “Didn’t order anything.”
Without warning, the heavy wooden door slammed open into the room. A flash of silver metal struck Jim hard on the temple. He struggled to maintain his balance, teetering toward the low dresser against the wall. The door thudded closed. Jim caught a quick glance of the object that hit him as it clanked to the floor. It was a room service plate cover. What the hell was happening?
Jim felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. Something slammed him solid in his gut. He doubled over, falling toward the tile floor. Jim’s head struck the corner of the TV frame as he fell. He felt a warm trickle on his forehead. His focus narrowed. The world became grey.
As his jaw smacked the tile, Jim heard a voice come from some unknown direction in the room. The voice was hollow with a heavy accent.
“This is another message for Captain Lindy. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention.”
Jim heard footsteps shuffle around his head. He watched as the toe of a black shoe rocketed in a blur against his side. He felt a searing pain. Instinctively, he covered his head with his hands. He heard the footsteps travel away and then the sound of the doorknob clacking open. The door slammed shut. Silence.
Time lost all perspective. He wasn’t sure how long he remained motionless or whether he had even remained conscious. Jim began to drag himself across the floor. He reached for the phone on the dresser. He pulled on the cord. The console crashed to the floor with a crack. Jim picked up the receiver and pressed the “O” button. A voice that sounded distant and faint answered.
“I need emergency medical help now,” Jim coughed into the phone.
His vision began to blur. And then he was enveloped by blackness.
Chapter Eleven
Saturday
05:30 EDT
The drugs the hospital intern had prescribed were starting to lose their effectiveness. Rather than searing pain, Jim was beginning to sense a dull ache. The ache had migrated to almost every pore of his body. He pushed with his arms, attempting to move his upper torso higher against the inclined hospital bed.
“Captain, please. Do not strain yourself, mon. It’s too early yet,” a lilting female voice from somewhere within the room scolded.
Jim scanned his arms. They were covered with tubes and bandages. He could feel the gauze on his forehead and around his side. He glanced out the small window by his bed. The glow of an occasional car headlight from the street nearby was all that was visible.
Jim asked, “What time is it please?”
The voice replied, “5:30, Captain.”
“Is it morning?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Can I have a martini? Two olives and a splash of vermouth, please.”
“How about a little shot of morphine instead, mon?”
“That’s not what I had in mind, but it will have to do.”
The voice walked over to his bed. As he had guessed, the voice belonged to a nurse. She was thin with short, black hair that was flecked with gray streaks. The nurse smiled and reached for a button lying by Jim’s side. The button was attached to an unidentified wire cord. She handed it to Jim.
The nurse said, “Here’s your martini, Captain. Press the button when your pain requires a cocktail.”
“Great. How soon before I have to attend a rehab clinic for drug addiction?”
“Probably tomorrow. All of you pilots think the same way. I haven’t created any drug addicts in this hospital yet.” The nurse pressed the button. “You’ll feel better in a minute, mon.”
“This is Bermuda. There are no drug addicts on this island,” Jim said, making a feeble attempt at a grin. He felt fortunate that his injuries weren’t inflicted while on one of his other less medically sophisticated layovers. He shuddered at the thought.
The nurse began to walk from the room. Abruptly she stopped and turned. She asked, “This is probably against my better judgment, but are you feeling up to visitors?”
“What visitors?” Jim asked.
“You have quite a list actually.”
“Really?”
“For starters, an officer from the Bermuda Police Service, the FBI, and some pilots from your airline.”
“Who are the pilots?”
“I’m a nurse, Captain, not a hotel concierge.”
“Are they all here now?”
“The officer has been here most of the night.”
Jim said, “Okay, send him in, please. What about my airline guys?”
“Apparently the airline people didn’t find out about your assault until very late last night, but my understanding is th
at they are on their way.”
“Can you have them sent up when they arrive?”
“Would you like me to carry their luggage also?” The nurse sneered.
“That won’t be necessary,” Jim said with a smirk. He added, “I think you and I could be an item, don’t you think?”
The nurse glowered with a grin. “Be careful, Captain. I have access to a lot of needles and other sharp objects.”
The nurse strutted out of the room. Jim heard her murmur to somebody nearby. A large portly man walked into the room. The man wore the black and white uniform of an inspector. He introduced himself to Jim.
A discussion ensued about the forced entry of Jim’s assailant into his hotel room. Jim became frustrated with his own lack of clear details. He couldn’t determine whether the whole mess was a blur as a result of the assault, as a result of his injuries, or a result of his pain medicine. His only concrete recollection of the event was of the room service knock on the door. The inspector listened with narrowed eyes and tight lips. He left the room with a perfunctory nod, wishing Jim the best for his recovery.
Jim couldn’t help but feel unsettled. Guilt crept into his thinking. Couldn’t he have defended himself better? Or perhaps, been wary enough not to have opened the door in the first place?
While Jim became lost in his thoughts, three figures stepped into the room. Jim recognized two of the faces as the CISM guys that he had met earlier the previous evening. They exchanged greetings and surveyed the extent of Jim’s injuries.
The third man introduced himself as Jerome Jordan. He explained his position with the PAPA investigation team. Jerome’s cheerful demeanor took Jim away from his dark place. Although he indicated that Jim’s account of Flight 63 was vital to the investigation, his convalescence would take priority. When he was ready, Jerome and the NTSB would discuss the details of the emergency.
