The Benefactor

by Jake Aaron

  the BENEFACTOR

  by

  Jake Aaron

  Copyright © 2018 Jake Aaron. Except as provided by the Copyright Act of 1998, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to George Noory for his public service as articulate host of Coast to Coast AM. He treats his radio listeners to a compelling late-night talk show that spans the gamut from paranormal phenomena to stark reality. His broad audience, including nightshift workers and long-haul truck drivers, applaud his enlightening programs. The solitary, the housebound, and the lonely frequently call in to praise his dedication to do live broadcasts on traditional holidays, when most hosts are on vacation. A skilled listener, he does a magnificent job of interviewing prominent guests and getting to critical issues. For reasons that will become apparent, particular details of one of his greatest contributions to public discourse will be revealed at the end of this book.

  I also must express my sincerest gratitude to Colleen and Dawn who have provided astute and insightful guidance in story arc and proofing. I am immensely grateful for their patience and careful review.

  Prologue

  This was the worst day of Captain Hap Risotto’s 55-year life. And it was his birthday! He was minutes away from beginning the descent of his Crossfield 520 turbojet into Missoula, Montana. Life had been great up until now. In high school, he was student body president, all-state quarterback, and letterman in basketball and baseball. He married the homecoming queen. A prized NROTC scholarship put him through the University of New Mexico. Sweet! Naval flight training at Pensacola was tough, but getting to fly anti-submarine P-3 Orions afterward made up for it, especially the last year of his obligation, a stint out of Kaneohe Marine Corp Air Station, Hawaii. Hiring on with Sapphire Air Lines was icing on the cake.

  He led a charmed life. Flying commercial jets for a living afforded him a lifestyle beyond anything he could have possibly imagined. Sapphire Air Lines had grown quickly. As a result, he became a captain in three short years. He made more money than his roommate from college, who went on to become a neurologist. To boot, he worked — if you could call piloting work — fewer hours than the MD did. His life had been exceptionally good.

  Had been exceptionally good. Today he learned his wife had run off with his accountant, taking nearly everything he owned. The two drained his 401K and siphoned off virtually all of the equity in his real estate holdings. It should have been a clue when both fiscally conservative souls had separately urged him to refinance his properties: a luxury executive home in Seattle, a condo in Aspen, a beach house in Malibu, and a large apartment building. Now he couldn’t possibly pay the mortgages on the properties.

  Hap knew he was not without sin. His wife must have learned about Keala, a model-beautiful blonde flight attendant. He and Keala Joergensen were avid scuba divers, surfers, skiers, yoga devotees, fans of Brad Thor thrillers, and tequila enthusiasts. With all the other pain of the day, it suddenly hit him that he might not be quite as attractive to Keala without his money. On top of of that, he had to acknowledge his suppressed fear that his age might end that relationship. The 28-year-old could easily be his daughter. He still had the physique of a fit athlete, but nothing like that of his buffed 30-year-old copilot. And now Keala will find out I am not divorced, he winced.

  The woe-is-me routine was wearing thin on him. He was way out of practice in dealing with hardship. Life had been too good. Before he wallowed anymore in the quicksand of self-pity, a perky flight attendant bounced through the crew compartment door.

  “Coffee the way you like it, Captain — two creams, no sugar,” said the smiling lady. “Figured you could use the boost with our being nearly two hours behind schedule and all. Long day!”

  He grinned, pretending cheerfulness, “Thanks, Keala. Just in time.” He made sure his fingers touched hers two milliseconds too long in the handoff. “How’s everything in the back?” He tried to keep up the illusion of a professional relationship for a dozen reasons, not to mention the unforeseen.

  “Folks have settled down after the heavy ‘chop’ over Idaho. I guess that’s the ‘mountain effect’ you aviators talk about. I’ll leave it at ‘turbulence’ for the passengers,” she said with her charming manner.

  Copilot Mark Schiff smiled approvingly as he mulled their coffee exchange, then bellowed, “Hey, miss, where’s my coffee?” His voice was effortlessly booming. In Air Force pilot training, his nickname was Darth Vader.

  Returning the mock formality, Keala answered, “Sir, they’re still passing it around so everyone can spit in it.” Her face was deadpan, but her voice was one octave higher than normal.

  Mark laughed, “I’m sure it’ll be better than the urine-laced coffee the C-17 loadmasters used to pass up to me in the Air Force … . Keala, you know, you busting my chops all the time reminds me of my sister.”

  “I’m bracing myself. Let me guess,” Keala said, “your older sister?”

  The copilot nearly choked on his teasing answer, “She is older, much older!”

  Keala replied, “Who’s busting whose chops now? I’ll get that special coffee for you now, under-pilot.” She turned crisply to Hap, “One other thing, captain, what kind of landing shall I tell the passengers to expect?” She gently touched Hap’s shoulder and said dryly, “Will you be kissing this baby onto the runway — or will it be a copilot landing?”

  Mark opened his mouth for a smart reply, but no words came out. He reconsidered his retort in the repartee. Keala had a sharp wit.

  Hap answered her question with a broad smile, “I’ll be landing. I need the practice.” His reply was self-effacing; he could touch the huge jet down without any of his 175 passengers even knowing it. He hated to see Keala leave the flight deck. He sipped his hot coffee — so hot that Keala had double-cupped it. He scanned the horizon for conflicting air traffic out of habit.

  Keala, the coffee, and the beautiful clear night sky distracted him from his former dark mood. Nice way to spend New Year’s Eve, he mused, in spite of everything else. The rural orangey-yellow lights below, the twinkling blue-white stars above, the comforting whine of the twin turbojet engines — it was glorious flying above the cares of humdrum earth, even on the worst day of his life.

  “Mark, over at 11 o’clock in the distance, you can see heaven-on-earth. Those are the lights of Hamilton, Montana. Great people, beautiful views, and fine trout fishing.” Hap didn’t say, but his inner voice sorrowfully mourned, that was where I was going to retire.

  Hap mentally rehearsed his New Year’s message for the passengers. He looked at his Swiss watch, automatically synchronized to the National Naval Observatory master clock time. He keyed his mic for the PA system, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. I’m going to give you a ten-second countdown to midnight and the beginning of a new year. “10 - 9 - 8 - 7 - 6 - 5 - 4 -3 - 2 - 1 …” He appeared to stop there. The crew and passengers waited for the anticipated Happy New Year!

  It did not come. The whole aircraft went silent and dark. There were no lights, not even emergency lights. All communications systems were dead; no intercom, no PA system, no radio. All flight instruments and systems indicators failed. Every passenger and crew member experienced extreme shock and panic, except the captain.

  Thank God for simulator training, Captain Hap thought, as he kept his cool. He had seen many electrica
l failure scenarios before in practice, but none was total. After a short pause, the battery was supposed to power minimum essential instruments like his airspeed and attitude indicators. It did not. He calmly but loudly yelled to Mark, “Total electrical failure. Start the checklist!” Both pilots pulled out their flashlights to push away the blackness.

  “Autopilot’s off,” Hap observed; he knew the craft was remarkably stable even so. Seconds later both aircraft engines flamed out. Each pilot felt a slight tug from his shoulder harness as the aircraft slowed. The sudden absence of jet noise was a reverse boom, the impact of nothingness. That abrupt onset of no noise added to the visceral terror. It even shocked Hap.

  Mark stated the obvious, “We just lost one and two!” Right now he wished he were in the four-engined C-17. As if two extra fuel-starved engines would help, he scoffed to himself. The cockpit become quieter than either man had ever experienced in the air. The CF 520 was gliding — no familiar engine noise whatsoever.

  Hap analyzed quickly, “Fuel pumps quit — no electricity.”

  The two pilots went through their procedures to recover electricity. Their second attempt was also unsuccessful.

  Without any indication of airspeed, Hap instinctively pushed forward on the sidestick to compensate for lack of thrust. “Damn fly-by-wire! I have no authority with the stick,” Hap announced. “Same with the rudder pedals.”

  “No response with mine either.” Mark added, “No sidestick or rudder control on my side. I noticed Hamilton disappeared when we lost electricity. The lights on the ground went out at the same time we lost power, except the fireworks.”

  “I noticed that, too,” Hap said. “Check the circuit breakers!”

  Mark was tempted to add inappropriate humor to project calm, “I don’t think the circuit breakers will light up Hamilton.” Instead, he stayed appropriate, “Circuit breakers — all good.”

  The pair tried to restart both engines, twice unsuccessfully.

  With no warning, another flashlight shone on the flight deck. It was Keala. “Captain, not to interrupt, but we have no lights at all in the back. None! Just crew flashlights.”

  “We know, Keala. We’ve lost all aircraft electricity. Mark noticed the lights on the ground went out at the same time we lost power. How’s the pressurization holding?”

  “It's good. The masks did deploy, as advertised; however, with your permission, we'll stop using them.” She had noticed those in back who hadn't put the masks on, fared well.

  “Keala, watch for hypoxia anyway. Be sure to use the oxygen masks if you see any signs of it. Keep that trick in your pocket, too, if the passengers get too unruly. Hard to stir up others with the mask on.” He gently squeezed her arm and ordered, “And take care of yourself!”

  “Will do, Hap!” With that, Keala went aft. She had already thought of those things but appreciated the reminders. She dismissed her gaffe of calling the captain by his nickname to consider her next move.

  *****

  The jet liner was now five miles above the ground, descending.

  “Mark, I’d have us both on oxygen if we could communicate with our mics. The engines aren’t pressurizing us anymore. I’m thinking the air outflow valves are stuck in the closed position and this new airframe doesn’t have many leaks. We’re lucky so far.” Hap laughed at his last statement. Lucky?

  Neither Hap nor Mark could think of anything else to try to regain aircraft electricity or power. Mark fell back on something he had read about the mindset of successful CEOs confronted with the seemingly impossible. “There is something that will work. We just have to find it!”

  Hap consciously slowed his breathing. The words of his grandfather challenged him: “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” His mother’s dad charged him to remember that when life was the bleakest. He had hated his granddad’s saying that, again and again. But, he did need to apply all of his life experiences to save the nearly two hundred lives in his care. He needed to solve an unsolvable problem. It was a question of life and death.

  “You’re right, Mark,” he said. He paused, then with inspiration, he added, “We’re going to surf this baby! We’ll ride it like a surfboard. You go to the back and move passengers around the CG (center-of-gravity). I’ll be directing you nose up and nose down, and indicate level wings — with two flashlights, when appropriate. I have a spare. I’ll find the horizon from the moonlight and try to sense a stall with my talented ass.

  “Mark, what I want to avoid is a repeated series of screaming dives followed by shuddering stalls. Below ten thousand feet we can stop worrying about pressurization holding. Questions?”

  “No, I’m on it, Captain. We’re gonna do this!” Mark unstrapped and climbed out of his seat. If anyone can do this, it’s Hap, he thought. He himself never would have thought of surfing.

  Whether it was adrenaline, training, or character, each man was rising to the occasion. It beat the hell out of anticipating falling out of the sky from miles above the ground. Each knew, better than any passenger, the sheer terror of being thrown around the inside of the aircraft in a stall-induced spin — and the horror of impacting the ground at terminal velocity. Those nightmares had haunted each’s deepest subconsciousness since military pilot training.

  Hap: “One more thing, Mark: Tell Keala what we’re doing. She can help with moving the people around — and she’s a surfer. Your powerful voice will convey authority. When we approach touchdown, I’ll let you know. At that time, prepare the passengers for a crash landing. Then, you and Keala make your way to the back to strap in.”

  Mark appreciated the gift. In crashes, statistics strongly favored the survival of the those in the tail section over passengers seated elsewhere. “Roger, Captain!” He left the crew compartment with dispatch.

  Hap nodded at Mark and turned his gaze back to the dark sky in the windscreen. I know Mark thought I’m saving his butt, he reasoned. I want him in back to comfort our passengers. My first concern is their well-being.

  *****

  The aircraft was now four miles above terra firma, descending.

  In the forward passenger compartment, Mark quickly and quietly explained to Keala the aircraft situation and what Hap wanted. Then he shined the flashlight on his face. With his powerful, resonant voice, he addressed the front half of the aircraft: “Folks, remain calm. You know that we have lost much of our electricity. We are in the hands of the best pilot in the world. I mean that! The senior flight attendant and I will be giving directions on what you can do to help. With your help, we will resolve the situation shortly. Standby for further instructions!” He took no questions and marched briskly to mid-fuselage to repeat the message.

  Flashlight in hand, Keala walked the aisle in the front half of the aircraft reciting, “Remain calm. The captain is resolving the situation.” Despite her initial reaction to the darkness and loss of power, Keala regained her composure as her internal voice chanted: For this I came! For this I came! For this I came! Keala’s nausea ebbed.

  She heard her Christian Scientist grandmother telling her to control her mind: “Honey chil’, you just control your thoughts. As you think, so you will be. You just remember why God has sent you here. When life seems overwhelming, you just ‘member, you were sent here to overcome. For this you came!”

  As she trooped the aisle, she paused to lean in and quickly speak to five separate, strategically disbursed people she thought she could count on and got each’s pledge. She finished her message with, “When I ask for your support in a few moments, I want a loud and resounding I’m in! and raised hand.”

  Passengers remained remarkably under control — a reaction to Mark’s honesty and authoritative voice. The crew worked under the unspoken rule of commercial aviation: Stay ahead of passenger panic with action. Keep passengers informed as much as possible, keep optimism, and create diversions if necessary.

  When Keala, former Miss South Dakota, arrived back at Mark’s side, she summoned up her high school cheerleader
voice. She shouted with a voice originating in her abdomen, “Okay, folks, you know as much as I do. The pilot needs us. Now, who are willing to help?”

  The prearranged I’m in! and hand up gestures caused a chain reaction. As Keala shined her flashlight slowly around the passenger compartment, every hand was raised. “In that case, stay in your seats while we wait for instructions from our pilot,” she belted out. Standing next to her now was a professional football tackle she recruited to walk beside her. Keala made sure her flashlight occasionally illuminated his oversized, intimidating form. She had the other flight attendants acting upbeat as they passed out snacks as if everything were normal.

  Meanwhile in the cockpit, Hap turned off his flashlight to accustom his eyes to dimmer outside light. He intently studied the attitude of the aircraft against the few visual cues he could pick up. He was grateful he had vacationed many times in the Bitterroot Valley below. That, along with a little ambient moonlight, helped him with minimum safe altitudes

  When two beams of light emerged from the flight deck, Mark and Keala watched intently. Hap held both flashlights high, then moved them rapidly down and kept them there, saying, “Nose down! Nose down! Nose down!” He repeated this one more time.

  The two lights disappeared as the captain went back to his seat in the crew compartment. From there, Hap immediately marked the current horizon on his front window with an inch-long band using his fluorescent-green Night-Glo felt-tip pen, as well as the time. He would make another mark when the new nose-down attitude stabilized. He was approximating the aircraft’s angle of attack.

  In a state of flow, Hap was caught up with the task at hand, pushing out the eeriness of the tomb-like cockpit.

  *****

  The passenger jet was now three miles above ground level, descending.

  For this I came! For this I came! For this I came! On Mark’s advice, Keala marshaled twenty people from the back of the plane, twelve forward of the wing and eight over the wing. Mark had them stand in the aisle. He and Keala understood that Hap thought a nose-down attitude had precedence over any adjustment to the wings. Mark thought of possibilities: The captain might have sensed an imminent stall with level wings being a lower priority, or he might have anticipated needing the nose-down attitude and the wing position was level. In any case, Hap was attempting to fly the aircraft with very few large adjustments compared to the thousands of small inputs a pilot or autopilot would normally make with flight controls over the same period of time.