Paper Wings

by Les Abend

  Jim had stiffened at the suggestion that his ability to articulate was considered impaired. But when the pain returned, he resigned himself to Jerome’s assessment of his condition. Jerome said that, no matter the intimate details, his decisions had saved lives. End of story.

  Jerome excused himself to attend the NTSB meeting. The CISM pilots remained in the room for a while longer. Jim appreciated the support and the camaraderie. And sometime in the afternoon, his wife would arrive. He was surprised at how much he missed her smile. He could really use it now…

  08:05 EDT

  The hotel banquet room murmured with the sound of voices in various stages of conversation. An occasional chuckle. A subdued laugh. A stifled cough.

  Round tables covered with blue linen cloths were distributed throughout the room. Pitchers of water sat on top of the tables. A podium was positioned in front. Members of various third parties circulated throughout the room, mingling with NTSB Go-Team investigators. The FAA, the airline, the flight attendants, the engine manufacturer, the airplane manufacturer, and the pilots were all in attendance. Lanyards attached to laminated ID tags with the NTSB logo were draped around the necks of the participants.

  Hart scanned the room. Although time had blurred people’s names, some of the faces were familiar. The faces brought back memories of Flight 57. Some of those memories involved grim expressions and thousand-yard stares. Hart was certain that age wasn’t the only reason for the appearance of new lines and creases on the foreheads of those faces.

  The sound of a water glass clinking grew louder and louder. Within a few moments, the electronically amplified voice of Maureen Blackford rose above the din. Maureen requested that the participants take their seats.

  Introductions were made. Chairmen and chairwomen of the various NTSB Go-Team committees rose as they were recognized by the IIC. Gratitude was extended to all of the third-party participants for their attendance. The rules of engagement were clarified. The seriousness and value of each committee member’s contribution was reinforced.

  And as with all accident investigations, confidentiality was emphasized. Any details released to an outside source were to be approved only by the NTSB. If the policy were violated, the offender’s third-party status would be in jeopardy.

  Maureen finished her briefing and then glanced at her wristwatch. She announced, “The FBI is allowing us the opportunity for a leisurely coffee break after this meeting. We will be given access to the airplane at ten o’clock.” She paused and looked at the man standing to her right. “Please give Special Agent Fredricks your attention.”

  As Maureen took a few steps away from the lectern, Ryan Fredricks moved forward. He adjusted the microphone. The flexible stand creaked. His ensemble consisted of an unbuttoned, sailfish-adorned, Guy Harvey shirt draped over a black T-shirt, revealing the white letters “F-B-I.”

  Special Agent Fredricks tapped the microphone and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for coming. I appreciate your understanding in our delay.” He chuckled. “Isn’t that something you folks say all the time?” He scanned the room. Only a handful of people were smiling, mostly as a courtesy. “Sorry, consider my career as a stand-up comic over. I promise not to quit my day job.” A few guarded chuckles were heard.

  “Moving on… We are releasing the airplane into your hands because it will be a more efficient use of investigation skills. You are the experts in this arena. However, it is important for you folks to understand that we are still considering the possibility that a crime was committed. We are not ruling out terrorism. In that regard, we ask that you tread carefully. In other words, if you find something suspicious during the course of the investigation, please advise us immediately. I am sure nobody has to be reminded that they are working in sensitive territory.”

  The FBI man glanced at Hart. Hart nodded with a grim expression.

  “In that regard, some of you may not be aware of last night’s rather serious development.” Ryan scanned the faces in the banquet room. All eyes were focused in his direction. He continued. “The captain of Flight 63 was assaulted in his room at approximately 00:05 hours.”

  Ryan waited for the handful of suppressed gasps to subside.

  “He is in serious but stable condition. Despite the captain’s willingness to provide information, his description of the assailant was virtually nonexistent due to the surprise nature of the encounter. We are confident that this was a planned attack. The perpetrator’s instruction to the captain was to convey a warning to PAPA party coordinator Captain Lindy that the investigation should be discontinued.”

  Scattered whispering was heard. People shifted positions in their chairs. Eyes glanced about the room.

  “We are working with local law enforcement on this assault. In addition, we are following a different lead that was provided by Captain Lindy.” Ryan cleared his throat. “Please also be aware that we have detained some of the passengers from Flight 63. Let’s just say that they have questionable backgrounds. As a matter of fact, one of these individuals was a former member of the no-fly list.”

  A few tables broke out in hushed conversations.

  The FBI man waved a dismissive hand. He said, “Look, I know you all have apprehensions. My job is to investigate crime against the United States…and to keep you safe. You will find increased security measures at the hotel and at the airplane. Although it will seem tedious at times, please cooperate with these measures. They are being implemented for your protection. Please also help us do our jobs by exercising extreme vigilance. Trust me; we are looking at every aspect of this event. Thank you for your time this morning.”

  Ryan stepped away from the lectern. He nodded at Maureen and then walked out a side door at a brisk pace. A small sea of hands rose. Maureen leaned into the microphone and began to acknowledge questions from various participants. Within fifteen minutes, she officially dismissed the organizational meeting.

  Hart rose from his chair and walked over to Jerome, who was seated a couple of tables away. Jerome was grinning. All eyes from his table were focused in his direction. Judging by his friend’s body language, Jerome was about to deliver a punch line for one of his off-color jokes. Hart never understood why only Jerome could get away with such antics, especially with strangers. The group around the table began to chuckle. Had the circumstances been more jovial, a belly laugh would have been included.

  When Jerome saw Hart, he excused himself and stood up from the table.

  “What’s up, boss?” Jerome asked.

  Hart gestured at Maureen still standing next to the podium and said, “Time to face the music about First Officer Townsend’s departure.”

  “And you want me at your side just in case she shoots laser beams out her eyes?”

  “Exactly.”

  Jerome smiled. “Let’s get my NTSB witness committee chairman involved also.” He motioned at a young guy just starting to rise from the table. The young guy had short, close-cropped hair. He was the same Go-Team member that Hart had met at the bar last night. Hart remembered his name to be Chad from some suburb outside of Boston.

  As the three approached, Maureen was just completing a conversation with a tall man that Hart recognized to be the Boeing representative. She held up an index finger for them to wait. Maureen ended her conversation with a handshake. The Boeing man walked away. She turned to face Jerome, Hart, and Chad. Hart introduced Jerome.

  “Gentlemen, what can I do for you?” Maureen asked.

  “Madame IIC, I’ve got a confession to make,” Hart said with a solemn tone.

  Maureen’s eyes widened. She said, “I’m listening.”

  “I’m taking full responsibility.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  Hart glanced at Chad and then back at Maureen. He said, “I authorized the copilot of Flight 63 to take the early morning departure back to his base in Miami. He’s no longer available on site.”

  Maureen’s eyes narrowed. Hart couldn’t be certain whether she
was staring or glaring at him.

  “I’m sorry, but extraordinary circumstances were involved. That being said…” Hart gestured his head at Jerome, “…my witness committee member already conducted an interview. The interview was recorded.”

  A few seconds of icy silence passed. Maureen said, “Well, at least the captain is available.”

  Jerome took a deep breath and said, “Actually, Madame IIC, he’s not.”

  “Please explain,” Maureen replied. She clenched her teeth.

  “The captain has been prescribed heavy doses of pain medication for his injuries. Although he is cooperative, his faculties are not reliable at the moment.”

  “Are you telling me that even though we have been fortunate enough to have surviving cockpit crew members neither one is available?”

  “I’m afraid that’s true,” Jerome said. He shuffled his feet.

  Maureen looked at Chad and Jerome. She said, “Gentlemen, if you will excuse us, Captain Lindy and I need to discuss the date of his execution.”

  The two men nodded. They began to slither away toward the back of the banquet room where a large silver carafe of coffee had been placed on a table. Jerome smirked when he walked around Hart. In mock fear, he bit the fingernails of one hand.

  When the remaining crowd started to gravitate toward the back of the room, Maureen put her hands on her hips and said to Hart, “You spent most of the night in my bed. Might you have considered informing the IIC of this decision?”

  “Sorry, I was a little preoccupied with Madame IIC’s thong panties.”

  Hart explained the circumstances surrounding the personal crisis that Mike Townsend was facing at home. Maureen’s eyes widened but she remained tight-lipped. She sighed.

  “How am I supposed to handle this?”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m not overly concerned about cockpit crew input. We can obtain most of the information from the cockpit voice recorder and the digital flight data recorder…something we will be doing anyhow.”

  “Okay, I figured the CVR and the DFDR would be a priority today,” Hart said.

  “My issue is the procedures breach you made.”

  “My suggestion?”

  “I probably shouldn’t listen to this,” Maureen grunted. “But go ahead.”

  “At the end-of-the-day progress meeting, admonish me publically.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely,” Hart said. He smiled. “I was wrong. Make me an example.”

  Maureen ran a few fingers through her hair. She said, “So, why did you let him leave?”

  “I couldn’t be certain that you would release him.”

  “Do you think that I drink blood?”

  “Do I have to answer that?”

  Maureen fought a grin. “I’ll take your discipline suggestion under advisement, Captain Lindy. In the meantime, watch your step.”

  “I will, Madame IIC.”

  Hart nodded at Maureen and walked toward the crowd huddled around the coffee in the back of the room. He thought of Cathy. He envisioned her rubbing her tiny nose the way she always did when she was about to express her displeasure with Hart. What had he got himself into now?

  10:05 EDT

  Although Mike was met by the chief pilot and offered a ride home, he politely declined. He needed the time it took to drive between Miami Airport and Fort Lauderdale to think without interruption. He thanked Rod Moretti for his concern and walked outside the terminal. He waited for the next bus to the employee parking lot.

  Turning his iPhone on had been a mistake. He had purposely delayed pressing the power button until he was in his car. The amount of voice mail, text, and e-mail messages was overwhelming. He was tempted to delete everything. None of the messages would amount to anything more than sympathy. And if any one of them was consequential enough to require a response, that individual would contact him again. Nothing really mattered except for his daughters anyhow.

  And when the gate agent in Bermuda had informed him that his captain had been the victim of a vicious assault the night before, Mike felt a greater sense of urgency.

  As Mike became more immersed in thought, the late morning traffic on I-95 transformed into a blur. The road signs and billboards may as well have been printed in Japanese. None of the words formed intelligible communication. It wasn’t long before all sense of time disappeared.

  When Mike turned from McNab Road onto his neighborhood street, it took only a glimpse for him to discover that his house had been transformed into a circus. The local news stations had parked their vans on the street just barely off his lawn. The satellite dish of each van was extended to above rooftop level. Other unidentified cars were parked on the grass. The driveway was crammed worse than the back section of a used car lot. Some of the vehicles he recognized as belonging to Robin’s friends. A handful of police cruisers and unmarked cars added an element of surrealism to the scene.

  And then, of course, his oldest daughter’s prized possession sat off to the side of the garage. On the day Kim had passed her driver’s test and had maintained a 3.0 grade point average, despite the protests of Robin, Mike surprised her with a brand-new, bright-yellow VW Bug.

  The smile on his daughter’s face and the twinkle in her bright eyes was worth every cent the silly little car cost. But the moment was bittersweet. A hug and a happy tear later, Kim drove away. She would return not as a little girl but as a young woman. Remembering that moment, Mike stared at the yellow Beetle. It sat in the driveway, headlights looking like a forlorn pair of eyes.

  Two uniform patrol officers that were leaning against the trunk of a cruiser stood up as Mike approached. Mike considered driving away and waiting elsewhere but he knew it was inevitable that he get involved. He just had no interest in dealing with anybody but his wife.

  Mike pressed the button for the driver’s side window. When the window slid down he asked, “Any chance there might be room for the owner of this house to park?”

  The cops looked at Mike, noticing the epaulets on his uniform shirt.

  The taller cop said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Townsend. It got a little out of control here. Believe it or not, it was worse earlier. You can leave your car right where you are behind us. Leave the keys in the ignition. We’ll valet park for you, sir. And please allow us to escort you into your house so you can avoid the cameras.”

  “Can I trust you guys with a twelve-year-old Mercedes that’s in bad need of a new exhaust system?”

  The cops smiled. The shorter man opened the door. Mike slid out of the driver’s seat and slung his uniform jacket over his shoulder.

  Mike asked, “Anything new?”

  The shorter cop replied, “Can’t say for sure. We’ve been outside in your driveway most of the morning. It would be best if you got the information from the detective inside.”

  The cops began to walk on either side of Mike. The sliding door of a TV van opened. The cops increased the pace to a brisk walk. From the corner of his eye, Mike spotted a man with a jacket and tie and a microphone. The man began to shout questions. Before Mike had an opportunity to respond, he was gently guided through the front door.

  Almost every available seating space in the living room was occupied. Neighbors. Friends. Strangers. Uniformed cops. Uniformed pilots. Faces began to turn in Mike’s direction. Individually, all eyes acknowledged his entrance.

  A glance into the kitchen revealed a sink and counter overrun by bowls, dishes, and glasses. Two of Robin’s tennis friends had begun to clean the disarray. They nodded at Mike with sober smiles.

  From the hallway, Robin walked toward him. The whites of her eyes were pink. Dark circles were starting to work their way toward the surface of her skin. She attempted a smile but only got her lips just past a frown. Tentatively, she put her arms around Mike.

  “Guess I missed a party last night,” Mike said. He drew in a deep breath and squeezed his wife. “How are you holding up?”

  “Okay for the most part. Fortunately,
I haven’t had a lot of time to dwell. I’ve been kept occupied,” Robin said.

  Mike looked above his wife’s head and scanned the house full of people. He said, “Good. I’m glad.” He gently released Robin and took a step back.

  Robin said, “I’ll introduce you to Detective Alvarez. I’m sure you have questions for him. And I know he has questions for you.”

  Mike nodded at Robin. The word “detective” made him wince. An uneasy apprehension crept into his psyche. Mike walked into the center of the living room and greeted the unexpected guests. Introductions were made. Thanks and appreciation was given. Encouragement and support was received. Once the crowd became comfortable with Mike’s emotional status, the stiffness dissipated. People began to have subdued conversations among themselves.

  Having experienced such situations on numerous occasions, Detective Alvarez had blended himself into a small corner of the house. Now that the awkward moment had passed, the detective walked toward Mike. He extended a hand. When the introduction was complete, Alvarez gestured toward a dining room away from the main group of people. The two men walked together and then sat down at a large oval table.

  “How is Bermuda this time of year?” the detective asked.

  “Despite the circumstances, not bad.”

  “I understand,” Alvarez said, resignation in his tone.

  “What can you tell me about my daughters, Detective Alvarez?” Mike planted his elbows on the table and rested his chin on top of his clasped hands.

  “We’re following some leads, Mr. Townsend. But honestly, we don’t have much.”