What did he want to do? What did he WANT? The question screamed through his mind but he couldn’t answer it, and as he tried to form the words to say yes, he realized with a start that any sexual desire she might have ignited was now completely deflated by panic.
“That’s okay, sugar,” she was saying as she got to her feet. “Your eyes are about to pop out. I think I scared you.” She patted his shoulder and leaned over to give him a light kiss on his cheek. “Some other time, then.”
Phil sat in embarrassed confusion for nearly ten minutes, chastising himself from all angles, convinced his inability to act had been observed by the enemy. He would be the laughingstock of the first-officer force. He would be the laughingstock of the airline!
But you didn’t cheat, he kept thinking. You didn’t give in. He tried to cling to the thought, bolster himself with it, perhaps even hide behind it, but it was no use. His own image came back to him: ineffective, indecisive, scared, and all but impotent. He hadn’t wanted the woman; he’d just wanted to be able to decide without being scared.
And he’d failed.
A small anthology of self-loathing pummeled him like the impacts of collapsing flats on a poorly designed set.
Phil waited until the barmaid was occupied at the far end of the bar before leaving enough cash to cover the drink and a tip. He slipped out, half expecting to hear laughter behind him, and closed the door of his third-floor room a minute later, thankful for the solitude and anonymity, his face crimson.
He sat on the end of the bed and rubbed his eyes.
What would it have been like? That was the same question, he realized, that had led him to bid the international division to begin with.
But what would it be like to have sex with such a woman? For that matter, he thought, what would it be like to do anything bold without being consumed by uncertainty?
CHAPTER TWELVE
DOWNTOWN MARINA,
ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND
6:45 P.M. EDT
The young deliveryman in the door of the marina office consulted his clipboard and nodded before looking back up at the manager standing behind a small counter.
“Yeah. The name I’m looking for is Blaylock. J. Blaylock. All he gave us was this address.”
“He’s in slip eighteen,” the manager replied.
“So, he’s on a boat?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“But you said ‘slip eighteen.’”
The manager closed the master list of his customers and came around the counter to stand beside the young man in the doorway and point to the jumble of boats and masts beyond.
“You see that tall mast, just to the right of the green boathouse?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, look just to the left of it. See that metallic blue metal roof?”
“That thing with the dish antennae that looks like the top of a bus?” the young man said.
“That is the top of a bus,” the manager replied. “Like the type rock groups use on the road.”
“What’s a bus doing in a marina, man?”
“Floating, mainly.” The manager chuckled.
“A bus?”
“It’s actually a motor home. Get Captain Blaylock to show it to you.”
“A floating motor home? Like a houseboat, right?”
“Well, he decided he wanted a boat, but he already had everything done just the way he liked it in his custom bus, which he lives in, so he had a shipyard build him a custom barge for his custom bus. When he wants to go to sea, he drives his bus aboard and kind of … drives away. The rear wheels of the bus engage big rollers that connect to twin screws.”
“This I gotta see.”
The young man drove his minivan the short distance to the edge of the slip and loaded several boxes on a handcart before pulling them to the edge of a gangplank. On the side of the huge, forty-five-foot bus facing the dock was a beautiful blue-and-green painting, a watery mural of graceful whales swimming with the smaller, but equally elegant, figure of a well-endowed mermaid trailing at least ten feet of platinum blond hair. The coach looked brand-new as it sat in the drive bay that bisected the barge. The surface it rested on was three feet below the surrounding teak deck, making the wheels of the coach invisible and giving the upper body of the bus the look of a permanent superstructure. Brass railings surrounded the decking of the barge, which itself was on two levels, with the forward end forming a normal, pointed prow.
A small lecternlike stand had been installed at the edge of the gangplank with a phone and a speaker attached. The deliveryman reached for the phone, but jumped slightly when a deep male voice boomed from the speaker.
“Okay, Billy’s Market. I see you out there, and it’s about damn well time. Come aboard.”
A large door opened in the side of the bus, and the owner emerged with a broad smile to guide him in.
“The marina owner told me you might show me around,” the deliveryman said, as he unloaded the boxes.
“Yeah, well … drop by tomorrow. This isn’t a good time.”
“Okay.”
Blaylock took the clipboard and signed the charge slip. “It’s just that right now I’ve got a dinner to prepare.” He looked more closely at the young man, judging him to be in his mid-twenties. “You married?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Then you’ll understand. My guest is a lady. I intend to shamelessly seduce her with food, and she has no idea she’s walking into a culinary trap. Be gone.”
“Hey, good luck, sir,” the deliveryman said, smiling as he pocketed the ten-dollar bill Blaylock handed him.
John Blaylock pulled the door closed behind him and began rifling through the boxes, stowing some of the items and arranging the produce on a built-in chopping board. Most of the ingredients for the dinner he was preparing were already laid out in proper order. Two separate sauces simmered on the stainless-steel gas stove, filling the air with the complex aromas of their wine-enhanced, multilayered ingredients.
Blaylock glanced around the interior of his four-hundred-thousand dollar bus-boat, appreciating what he saw. The continuous battles with the conversion shops had been worth it. In the end he’d gotten exactly the interior he’d designed: a third of the coach contained the gourmet kitchen, dining, and living area; a third was devoted to an electronically sophisticated bedroom decorated in what he laughingly called “early cathouse,” with heavy use of red velvet; and the remaining third was a combination wheelhouse and driver’s station crammed with enough instrumentation to make Boeing proud, arrayed like a miniature of the Star-ship Enterprise’s command bridge. The woodwork was custom-crafted walnut and oak, the fixtures brass, and the wheel—for both driving and controlling the helm while afloat—a six-spoked ship’s wheel.
And all of it was his, paid for by a career of banked salary and careful investing, fueled by the fees he still occasionally collected for various projects.
He checked his watch. Ninety minutes until the unsuspecting female was supposed to arrive and be so dazzled she’d fail to see the carnal plot. He chuckled, then grew serious as he struggled to recall her first name.
Damn! Janice? Jan? Where is that slip of paper? He fished through the pockets of his jeans and extracted a dog-eared business card.
Jill! Of course. He stuffed it back in his pocket, turning the name over in his mind as the phone rang.
He glanced at the displayed number. Jill had said she had a D.C. cell phone. This was the same prefix, and she was supposed to call for directions.
He toggled the speakerphone to the “on” position.
“Hello, beautiful! You on the way?”
There was the sound of someone fumbling with a phone, and then a confused male voice. “Ah … I’m sorry … I’m calling for Colonel John Blaylock.”
“He’s dead,” John Blaylock said. “Hanged himself last week over a lost lover whose phone call was blocked by someone he didn’t care to talk to.”
He disconnected and turned back to the counter to
start chopping onions.
The phone rang again after a minute, and he hit the answer button without saying anything.
“Ah … Colonel, please don’t hang up. I’m betting that’s you, dead or alive. This is Colonel David Byrd.”
“Unless you’re a mighty cute biological female with an exceptionally low voice, I do NOT want to talk to you right now. Call me in October.”
Once again he reached for the switch to cut off the call, but the voice on the other end shot back a single name.
“Overmeyer … General … one each. Jim Overmeyer told me to call you.”
John Blaylock hesitated, then yanked up the receiver. “You think you said the magic word, don’t you?”
“Well, I’m trying.”
“Tell that three-star windbag … Wait a minute. I can’t say that. I’m not really retired. Okay, what do you want?”
David Byrd fired back a quick synopsis and waited.
“So, a bird colonel hanging out with the FAA is trying to figure out why people get mad on airlines. They get mad because they’re treated like dirt. I’ll send you a bill.”
“I need to meet with you. Is this evening possible?”
“Not without a federal court order. Tomorrow will work, though.”
“Okay. Where and what time?”
“Zero-seven-hundred, here in Annapolis.” He passed on the address and the slip number. “I’ll give you no more than an hour, unless I’m alone.”
“I … what?”
“Never mind, Colonel. Give me your cell number … Wait! I already have it here on the screen.” The sound of a call-waiting beep pulsed into the handset. “Time’s up. I’m on a prelaunch checklist. See you at six.” He punched the appropriate button without waiting for a response, relieved to hear a woman’s voice on the other end, the same cellular prefix displayed on the screen.
“Is that you, Jill?” he asked carefully.
“Yes,” she said, her voice forming a tonal question mark.
He relaxed, a broad smile covering his face. “Then hello, beautiful! You on the way?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IN FLIGHT,
ABOARD MERIDIAN FLIGHT SIX
6:31 P.M. CDT
The Boeing 777 had been airborne for less than eight minutes when Janie Bretsen began reaching for the buckle of her seat belt and hesitated, calculating whether there were any FAA inspectors on board who might write her up for getting up too soon. She’d been disciplined several times before for popping to her feet to start the cabin service before the pilots rang the cabin chime twice to indicate they were climbing above ten thousand feet, but that was back when she had the misguided idea that it mattered and her company cared. Now she knew better. No one cared, and the fact remained that there was simply too much to be done to sit any longer than absolutely necessary.
The sudden sound of the PA system caused her to jump.
Folks, this is the captain.
Thank God! Janie thought. The original cockpit crew had been replaced at the end of the runway where they’d sat for a half hour, and now it looked as if the replacement pilots were going to be communicating with the passengers. They’d even introduced themselves to her as they hurried aboard.
She hoped the original two were in trouble, but she doubted it. They would be sitting in some management office about now, she figured, whining and pointing fingers at the cabin crew, and it would all end with her being called into the office again and made a scapegoat. At Meridian, any contest between a pilot and a flight attendant ended badly for the flight attendant.
Something the new captain was saying caught her attention.
… be frank with you. We were about to pilot a trip to Paris when they asked us to come over and fly your flight, because our other pilots had run out of crew duty time. But they also warned us that you were an angry and unruly bunch, and that the last hour of delay was courtesy of someone who illegally called the cops and filed a false report. I know one passenger was taken off by ambulance, but we’re told he was only mildly sick. Now look, folks. I’m the chief pilot for the triple-seven fleet here in Chicago, and while I want you to have a good flight and come back and all that, anyone who fails to obey the orders of my crew will be physically restrained and arrested at the other end, and that includes anyone using cellphones or turning on a laptop before we give you permission. We take security very, very seriously. We appreciate your business, but this airline is simply not going to put up with disruptive passengers anymore, and for the majority of you who would never act that way, you should be as angry as I am at people who try to flout our authority.
Janie Bretsen hid her face in her hands and wondered if she could find an alcove somewhere to crawl into. The passengers were already furious at them. The last thing she needed was another insensitive throttle jockey fanning the flames with the PA. She stood and turned toward the galley.
“Excuse me.” A cultured female voice stopped her, and Janie turned to find Senator Douglas at the edge of the galley.
“Yes. I’m sorry,” Janie said, feeling off balance. She knew Sharon Douglas from television but had had no idea she was on board until one of the supervisors upgraded her to first class. The supervisor’s explanation had been cryptic: “One of our gate agents messed up, and this seat is an apology.”
“You’re the chief flight attendant?” the senator asked.
She nodded and remembered to hold out her hand. “Yes. Janie Bretsen,” she said, before quickly adding “Senator.”
Sharon Douglas shook her hand briefly, then inclined her head toward the cockpit. “Are they all that hateful?”
“Excuse me?”
“The pilots. Are they all that militaristic and abusive to the passengers?”
Janie felt the blood draining from her face. This was a powerful woman in her galley. If she said the wrong thing, she could be fired.
Sharon Douglas recognized Janie’s discomfort while the flight attendant searched for safe things to say.
“Look, Janie,” Douglas said, holding up the palm of her right hand, “it’s cool, okay? I know you’re worried that anything you say to me might end up hurting your job, but that’s not true. I’m just asking you personally so I can get a feel for what’s wrong here. Everyone working for this airline seems furious.”
“Well …”
“Would you accept my word of honor that absolutely nothing you say will ever be attributed to you?”
“Yes, Senator,” Janie replied, hating the fact that her eyes were probably huge with fright.
“Okay. Now. Call me Sharon, not ‘Senator,’ and tell me, woman to woman, what in the hell is going on with this airline?”
Janie looked at her watch before answering. “I … hate to ask, but … could we wait until the dinner service is done?”
Sharon Douglas nodded immediately. “Of course. When you’ve got time, then. There’s an empty seat next to me … but you know that.”
“I’ll come up as soon as we’re through. I promise,” Janie said. She could feel her heart still fluttering as the politician considered the most powerful woman in aviation slipped back to her first-class seat.
Janie moved alongside the galley by the privacy curtains and surveyed the coach cabin behind, wondering whether mollifying the passengers was even possible. Seldom had she dealt with such a high level of fury on the ground. Then again, she’d never before had to write up two of her crew members on one leg even before takeoff.
There was no choice with the male flight attendant, Jeff Kaiser, after the arrogant way he’d treated a young mother in coach, and especially after he’d responded to Janie’s dressing him down by shoving her and warning her to “watch your backside, little girl!” Any unwanted touching at Meridian was a firing offense, and even if it wasn’t, his attitude could not be tolerated.
And there was Susan, another veteran flight attendant, who had caused a major problem with a couple named Lao by calling Mrs. Lao bitchy when she didn’t want to check a compu
ter bag. The husband had exploded when he’d found out and Susan had jumped the chain of command and called back the replacement captain who threatened to arrest both of the Laos, all of which had inflamed half the coach cabin.
Undoubtedly the Laos would sue.
Janie closed her eyes for a second and rubbed her forehead. The confrontation with the current captain had been just as difficult, and now he, too, was angry, which would mean yet another pilot complaint about her.
Is there anyone working for this poor airline who actually likes the job? she wondered.
Janie sighed and let go of the curtain, turning to move back into first class to do a walk-through. She felt like plunking herself down in the nearest empty seat and just going unconscious. It was like watching Pan Am die over twenty years before, amid assurances that it could never happen. She’d been in college when they parked the fleet of familiar blue-and-white jetliners and went out of business. It had been a jet-set equivalent of a child of the fifties losing Buddy Holly, or a child of the sixties losing John Lennon. An end to innocence, especially for young girls who dreamed of the glamour of being a sexy, jet-setting stewardess for Pan Am, or Meridian.
Airlines had offered a strange, magical world of travel and fun and unlimited possibilities. Airline people were special, exciting folk living exciting lives in which depression and discouragement were altogether impossible.
How she wished that were true. But depression was a constant companion, especially in the previous five years as her once-proud airline lost its way, and then its passengers, the pampering of whom had been its reason for existence. They’d been in bad financial shape even before the horror of the attacks on the Pentagon and the World Trade Center forced the federal financial bailout. She’d expected a rededication to passenger service after that, but it hadn’t happened. They were back to abnormal.
“Meridian Airlines,” she had once been told, “is the best there is. The epitome of customer service. The number-one-rated airline in the world.”
And it had been, in decades past, which was why its slide from excellence to pedestrian mediocrity was so hard to take. It was akin to Kmart running Neiman Marcus, or Starbucks selling Folgers.
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