A small commotion had begun in the rear of the business-class section, and Janie Bretsen pulled back a galley curtain to see a large man in a business suit with his tie askew walking toward the rear of the aircraft with his ear to his cell phone as one of the female flight attendants chased after him.
“Sir! Sir! You can’t use that in here unless the doors are open.”
“Then open the damn door,” he muttered over his shoulder.
“You can’t use that in here,” she repeated.
He whirled on her. “Oh? Your flyboys turned off the aircraft’s phone system and we’re still on the ground. Who the hell says I can’t?”
“The FAA regulations …”
“Screw the regulations! Everybody with a brain knows these phones couldn’t blow up a barrel of nitroglycerine in a paint mixer. The rule is a sham, and so is this airline.”
He jammed the phone back to his ear.
Another flight attendant, a slim, classy-looking woman in her early thirties, moved up the aisle to reinforce her friend, as the male flight attendant stuck his head around the corner from first class.
“Sir!” the second flight attendant said.
The man lowered the phone momentarily and held out his hand in a stop gesture. “You leave me the hell alone! Either turn on the aircraft phones, get me back to the gate, or leave me alone!” He leaned over, responding to a voice on the other end, leaving only an adjacent passenger within earshot of his words.
“Yeah. My name is Jack Wilson, and I want to report a kidnapping.”
CHAPTER TEN
MERIDIAN AIRLINES OPERATIONS CENTER,
DENVER INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, COLORADO
4:40 P.M. MDT
In Meridian Airlines’ operations control center near Denver, a harried crew of dispatchers and managers stared at a mission control layout of monitors as they worried about the deteriorating schedule.
“What’s O’Hare’s status?” one of the men asked.
“Twenty-six flights holding on the taxiways. Two have gone back for fuel and are back at the end of the line, but the airport’s just opened again, so takeoffs should start momentarily.”
“Everyone will make it out, then?”
“Ah … not sure about Flight Six to Heathrow, Bob,” a woman named Janice said, holding up several printouts. “We’re close on crew duty time and the captain’s making noise about taxiing back.”
“How much time?”
“Fourteen minutes more.”
“Call the captain, Janice. Tell him we need a break. Ask him to stretch the crew duty limits a few minutes.”
Janice looked at her colleague with the expression of someone who’s just discovered a friend is hopelessly insane. “You came here from Alaska Airlines, didn’t you?” she said.
“Yeah. Why?”
“At Alaska, I’m told, the pilots actually like their company.”
“Yes. Mostly.”
“This is Meridian, Bob. Everybody hates everybody, and the pilots especially hate the big, bad company.”
In the cockpit of Flight Six, both the captain and copilot had verified the image of the flight attendant on the small video screen as she stood outside the door and requested entry, her hand placed in the new cipher-lock identification slot.
“Okay, she’s alone,” the captain muttered as he pushed the lock-release button to complete the security procedure.
Janie Bretsen pushed her way in, closing the door behind her to stand with her hands on her hips behind the center console.
“Hello,” the captain began. “Jane, is it?”
She ignored the question. The name “Janie” was clearly visible on her name tag, and presumably he could read, she thought. She despised pilots who came aboard without introducing themselves.
“The passengers are revolting,” she said simply.
“Is … that a qualitative analysis, or a warning of impending action?” the copilot asked, grinning at her.
A pained expression crossed her face. “What?”
“Never mind,” he said.
She shook her head in confusion. “I’m trying to tell you we’ve got a planeful of angry people.”
“Why’s that?” the captain asked.
“Well, let’s see,” she said as sarcastically as she could manage, “for starters, you told me not to serve any meals, so we haven’t, and they’re mad about that. We’ve got a passenger in first class I called you about who says he’s sick and wants to get off, and I had to tell him you refused. His wife is furious, and there’s a U.S. senator down there listening to their complaints.”
“Wait …” the captain interrupted. “A senator?”
She ignored the question. “We’re short by thirty coach meals, and way short in business class on meals and pillows. When this aircraft came in from its previous leg, the crew wrote up two of the rear rest rooms as broken, filthy, and locked. Well, they’re still broken, filthy, and taped shut. And, it’s still hotter than hell back there.” She looked at the first officer and pointed to the overhead panel. “Is that thing on full?”
“What ‘thing’ would that be, dear?”
“Don’t get cute. The air-conditioning.”
“I’m running an air-conditioning pack,” the copilot said. “You want more?” He reached up to the overhead panel in anticipation of her response.
“Are you joking? It’s gotta be ninety degrees back there. YES, I want more. If you’re not pumping as much cool air as this plane will pump, you’re creating problems. I mean, these people are near revolt, and if you’d come through that overcrowded terminal, you’d be, too.”
“Hey, calm down, Jane,” the captain said.
“Janie, for God’s sake. It’s on my bloody name tag.”
“Oh. Sorry,” he said.
The captain turned to the first officer. “Turn all the packs to full cold.”
Janie swept a stray tendril of hair from her forehead. “Okay. I may need one of you square-jawed heros to come back and intimidate some of the passengers. One guy’s walking around with a cell phone he won’t turn off.”
“You’re kidding?” the captain asked.
“No, I’m not kidding,” she replied in disgust. “You know, it really doesn’t help things when you guys refuse to talk to them. They get to the point where they don’t trust a thing we say, and the anger just builds and builds.”
The whoosh of a departing jet heralded the first takeoff after the thunderstorm’s passage.
“How tall are you, Janie?” the captain asked.
“Excuse me?” she replied, a look of confusion her face.
“Well, we don’t have many pretty, petite, female flight attendants.”
Janie stood still for a few seconds meeting his gaze. “You are kidding, right? You’re just pulling my chain to get a feminist reaction or something?”
“Well, no …”
“Captain, I met the minimum five-foot height requirements just barely when I was hired. I’m still the same size. Thanks for calling me pretty, and yes, I’m female. Now, should I ask in return, have you always had that paunch?”
He shook his head slightly and looked wounded. “No.”
“Good. Now that we’ve finished appraising each other’s bodies, would you please tell me when we’ll begin flying somewhere? Inquiring minds below want to know.”
The captain sighed. “I think we’ve got a chance of getting out of here in a little while.”
“Good. I love precise answers,” she said, pulling a half dozen folded pieces of paper out of a pocket in her uniform.
“What’re those?” the copilot asked.
“Love letters to you two,” she snapped, opening one of them.
“‘Captain,’” she read from the note, “‘yours has got to be the worst display of arrogance I’ve ever experienced as a passenger.’”
“‘Arrogance’?” The captain asked in a pained voice.
She looked up. “Yeah, ’cause you two won’t talk to them.” She sel
ected another. “Quote, ‘If there’s not a federal law against keeping people trapped in a hot cabin, there should be. What’s the matter with you people?’”
She selected a third. “Here’s another. ‘What the hell do you think we are back here? Cattle?’ Shall I go on?”
“No,” the captain replied. “I get the point. They don’t like us.”
“Hell,” the copilot chimed in, “judging from our last union meeting, WE don’t like us!” He twisted around and gestured to Janie Bretsen. “You flight attendants hate us pilots and the company. The mechanics hate the company and the pilots. And the Teamsters hate everyone. Take a number.”
“We don’t hate you,” Janie said. “We just don’t like being told we’re a team, and then being ignored. By the way, we have only half a tank of water. We won’t make it to London without running dry, which means no coffee or tea for breakfast.”
The captain sighed. “Doesn’t matter, probably. We’re almost out of crew duty time anyway.”
Janie looked crestfallen and let out a small moan. “Don’t tell me there’s a chance, after all this, that you two may have to be replaced?”
“Well …”
She sighed. “That one you’ll have to explain yourselves, and may God have mercy on you. The passengers are already mad enough to kill.” She started to leave but turned back. “By the way, do you two have names?”
The pilots exchanged glances, and the captain turned and nodded.
“I guess we should have said hello or something when we came in.”
“‘Or something,’” Janie replied. “Yeah, I guess you should have.” She leaned down to make sure no one was waiting outside the door, her eyes scanning the video screen carefully.
“Cleared to leave?” she asked the captain.
“If you insist,” he replied. She turned and slammed the door behind her before he could say anything more.
“Jeez,” the captain said, watching the copilot shaking his head.
“Just another cute bitch on wheels, Bill. They’re all being bitchy because of their contract.”
“Oh, you mean those pickets out front?”
“Absolutely.”
“I didn’t know what that was all about.”
“The usual. Madder than hell and not going to take it anymore. And they’re trying to get us to honor their silly little picket lines if they strike.”
“Fat chance,” the captain snorted.
“Tell me about it. I should give up a month of pay and hurt my stock options because they don’t have enough cash to clean out Neiman’s on every layover. The company’s gearing up to replace them with office staff anyway if they strike.” He pointed out front. “We’re moving at last.”
“How much time left?”
The copilot shook his head as he looked at his watch. “One minute. No way we’re gonna get off the ground in time.”
The captain looked at him. “You want to hang it up and go back?”
“Hell, no,” he said. “Janie the little dragon lady back there will tell the passengers we did it out of spite and start a revolt. I don’t want to deal with angry passengers.”
“And our fuel’s okay for London?”
The copilot nodded. “Barely. We’re legal. We’re not fat.”
“Then we’re outta here.” The captain released the brakes and began inching forward, following the 747 ahead as the copilot reached up to change to the control tower radio frequency. A voice from ground control beat him to it.
“Meridian Six, O’Hare ground.”
He punched the transmit button as he glanced at the captain.
“This is Meridian Six.”
“Okay, Six. When you get up to Taxiway Alpha, pull off to the left and make sure you’re clear of the outer. Give your operations a call.”
“What’s up?”
“Ask them,” the controller replied, continuing the string of instructions for the dozens of other aircraft jockeying for position around the field.
“Dammit! It’s our crew duty time,” the captain said with a sigh. “They’re gonna force the issue.”
The first officer dialed in the right frequency and made the call, which triggered an instant answer.
“We’ve been trying to reach you, Six. Hold your position. We’re sending out portable air stairs.”
The captain raised his right hand to stop the copilot and toggled his transmit switch, a plaintive tone in his voice. “We’re almost number one for takeoff after hours of waiting. Are you guys crazy? We’re going to lose our place in line and run out of crew duty time.”
“Do you have a medical emergency aboard, Six?”
The captain and copilot exchanged incredulous glances.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Is there any hostile activity in progress in your cabin?”
“What? No!”
Another voice came over the company frequency. “Six, this is the station manager. We’re pulling you aside because the Chicago police are ordering you to stop, and the FBI has ordered a ground stop. They’re going to come aboard. Seems one of your passengers has called 911 to report three hundred twenty people being held against their will, and someone else just reported he was having a heart attack and said you wouldn’t get him any help.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LONDON, ENGLAND
11:30 P.M. Local
Phil Knight waved to Glenn Thomasson as the British captain accelerated away from the hotel. He glanced at his watch, surprised it was only eleven-thirty. The evening had seemed interminable.
Phil entered the lobby and turned toward the elevators, but changed course for a bank of telephones to call Meridian Operations. The inbound flight was often late. Maybe he could pull an extra hour of sleep.
“It’s running way late, Captain,” a Meridian agent told him. “The usual Chicago nonsense. It’s already three hours behind, and I doubt it’ll get off for another hour and a half.”
Phil thanked the agent and hung up, calculating the result. He wouldn’t need to wake up until half past six at the earliest. Suddenly the night seemed young and wide open to anything he wanted to do.
So, what do I want to do? he thought, no ready answer coming to mind.
The aroma of cigarette smoke hung in the lobby, which was otherwise deserted, and he could hear voices coming from the hotel bar in the distance. He glanced at his watch again. The rule on drinking was twelve hours between bottle and throttle, and he had just enough margin for a drink—something he seldom did on layovers.
So what DO I want to do?
He repeated the thought. There were TVs in the rooms with movies available. Maybe he could go watch one. But that was a lackluster option. And it was too late to go into central London, even if he had a reason.
Phil entered the bar instead and sat at a small table, ordering a brandy from the barmaid as he took note of the discontent on her face. A faded mid-thirties, he decided, her body shapely but harshly laced into a skimpy costume some male had designed to resemble that of a sixteenth-century tavern wench: tight around the middriff, her not inconsiderable breasts artificially cupped and thrust out, forcing her to kneel rather than lean over a table to set down drinks.
The thought of engaging her in conversation crossed his mind. Maybe he could bridge the gap between them by sharing their respective agonies.
But the hard look on her face warned him off.
He thought of Doris, his wife of twenty-three years, and the fact that he’d never cheated on her. He should be proud of that, but somehow it now seemed an indictment of sorts, and that was confusing. Garth Abbott, as far as he knew, wasn’t running around on his wife. Nor were the other copilots he’d flown with in the international division, who all tried to act so sophisticated and worldy around the bumpkin stateside captain in their midst. Yet, the feeling persisted, deep and strong, that he was far too conventional and boring and ordinary to ever keep up with this league, and now, he told himself, the concept of marital fidelity, even
if by default, somehow just seemed to confirm what he perceived was their image of him as a hopeless provincial.
He thought of his copilot, Garth Abbott, who tried to hide his contempt behind a facade of forced courtesy. But Phil could see through that. That sanctimonious little bastard! Phil thought. He was out to prove that Garth Abbott and not Phil Knight should be in command.
Phil closed his eyes and shook his head to expunge the anger and confusion just as a gentle zephyr of perfume wafted across his consciousness accompanied by the sound of a chair being pulled out.
He opened his eyes, startled to find a gorgeous redhead in the process of seating herself at his table, her hair cascading over her shoulders. She was clad in a short fur jacket that stopped just above her long, shapely legs, a pearl necklace visible around her neck even before she opened the coat to flash a plunging neckline and heart-stopping cleavage.
“Hi,” she purred.
Phil looked around in confusion, then back at her. “Ah, hello.”
“You look lonely,” she said.
He smiled, feeling flushed and cornered. “Well … I mean … yes, a little.”
“I’m available,” she said, glancing around herself before continuing. “I’m not cheap, but I’m available, if you’re interested.”
“I’m sorry?”
The woman sat back slightly and cocked her head. “You aren’t getting this, are you, ducks?”
“I guess not.”
She leaned forward, deftly presenting her chest to him as she placed her mouth next to his left ear.
“I’m a professional, honey. You pay me two hundred pounds and I come to your room and have sex with you for an hour. Five hundred pounds for all night. Clear enough?” She drew back with a knowing smile, watching conflicting emotions play across his face.
A cascade of jumbled thoughts crackled through his mind all at once: There was at least £300 in cash in his map case. But what if she had AIDS? And what if one of the copilots had set him up, and was watching, maybe with a camera? But, if not, could they get upstairs without being seen?
God, she’s sexy! Yes, I’ll do it. No! Yes, dammit!
No!
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