Turbulence

by Nance, John J. ;

  “Why’d you ask that?” Phil asked.

  “Because our lead gal back there just told the passengers that we were being delayed by the Queen’s arrival.”

  “So?”

  “So, that’s not true, Phil, as far as I know. I was under the impression that we were sitting here because one engine won’t start and the company and the FAA get irritated if we take off with one shut down.”

  “Look, I don’t much care what she tells them as long as she keeps them quiet.”

  “My point, Phil,” Garth said, “is that once she tells them a big yarn like that and they subsequently find out it’s false, our credibility goes to hell.”

  “It’s their cabin. Let them deal with it.”

  “What, and we’re just unseen gnomes driving the engine on the train?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Jeez, Phil, you should be flying boxes for UPS or something. Those people back there pay our salaries. Don’t we owe them a little consideration?”

  “DAMMIT!” Phil exploded, his eyes bulging as he looked at Garth. “What is it about the word captain you don’t understand?”

  “What?”

  “I’m the captain, whether you like it or not! Quit trying to run this show.”

  Garth raised both hands in a gesture of complete puzzlement. “Phil, what on earth are you talking about? I know you’re in command, but a good first officer …”

  “A good first officer knows how to shut up and say ‘yes, sir.’”

  Garth stared at Phil Knight for a few seconds before shaking his head sadly. “Phil, this isn’t a contest. It’s supposed to be teamwork.”

  “Yeah, right. I make decisions and you undercut them. Some team.”

  “What? If I give you my professional opinion, that’s undercutting you?”

  Phil forced himself to turn to the copilot and look him squarely in the eye. “You think I’m not sharp enough to know your little game, Abbott?”

  “What little game?” Garth asked, a look of astonishment covering his face.

  Phil Knight leveled an index finger at him, his face contorted in anger.

  “All month you’ve just been looking for opportunities to challenge every decision I make. You’re just hell-bent on proving that you’re the great authority on all things international. You’re supposed to support me, not play ‘Gotcha.’”

  Garth was shaking his head. “Jeez, man, I am supporting you. I’m not out there calling the company every time I disagree with you. I’m telling you about it. You still make the final decision.”

  “You got that right,” Phil said as he diverted his eyes to the instrument panel and began fussing with the altimeter. A deep silence settled over the cockpit for an agonizing number of seconds.

  Garth Abbot broke the impasse.

  “Well … what do you want me to do, Captain? You want me to sit over here like a deer in the headlights and nod yes on cue?”

  “That would be an improvement,” Phil snapped.

  “How about the small fact that Meridian Airlines says copilots are required to speak up and be assertive when they think there’s something the captain almighty needs to hear?”

  “Just get that ‘Gotcha!’ tone out of your voice when you have something to say.”

  Garth Abbott fell silent again for a few seconds, his mind whirling between the desire to scream at the man and the reality that they had to fly together for several more weeks. He let out a loud sigh and shook his head.

  “Phil, you know what? Somehow I guess I’m sending you the wrong signals. I’m not trying to criticize you, I’m just trying to do my job.”

  “So shut up and do it.”

  Garth felt slightly dizzy from the effort of stifling the explosion of epithets he wanted so badly to launch at Phil Knight, but he kept his jaw clamped shut and simply nodded.

  This, he thought, is going to be an agony.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CENTRAL LONDON

  9:40 A.M. Local

  Senator Sharon Douglas stood at the desk in her hotel suite with her unpacked bags on the bed and dialed her administrative assistant in Washington, D.C. Bill Perkins came on the line immediately.

  “Bill, I’m sorry to wake you up at this ungodly hour over there, but I need you to get an early transcript of what they’re doing in the House hearing on airborne rage incidents and e-mail it to me as soon as you get to the office. We’re going to call our own hearing.”

  There was an anticipated period of grunts and coughs as Perkins woke up. “Sharon, we agreed that was a red herring …”

  “I was wrong, okay? Our buddies on the other side of the Capitol Building happen to be right. You wouldn’t believe what I just went through getting here.”

  “What, you mean the flight was bad?”

  “No service, no civility, no accountability, poor training, incredible overcrowding, and what a new friend of mine calls the ‘rat syndrome.’ Bill, we may have the terrorist threat at bay, but if we don’t get some cold water on this system really soon, something terrible’s going to happen internally.”

  HEATHROW AIRPORT, LONDON

  9:40 A.M. Local

  Martin Ngume had entered the first-class cabin of Meridian Six with the wide-eyed reverence of a commoner in a cathedral. After more than twelve hours shoehorned into the diminutive agony of a coach seat, the first-class seats looked like thrones trimmed in leather, all of them equipped with the electronic gadgets he’d grown to love in American life.

  Elle Chantrese, a tall and startlingly blonde flight attendant, noticed his hesitation as she greeted him at the door and pointed to the left, toward the nose.

  “Welcome aboard, Mr. Ngume. You’re in Two-A, sir, to your left.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “A left turn here, and up that way through the curtains. You’re in our first-class cabin.”

  Martin brightened and smiled broadly. “Oh, yes. I am. Thank you.”

  He moved cautiously until he found 2-A, hardly believing the American lady could have been so kind. To make the rest of the trip in such luxury excited him, and he settled into the seat with great appreciation, breathing deeply of the rich leather aroma, running his hands lightly along the soft armrests, and carefully unfolding the small liquid crystal screen as he read the instruction card.

  “Would you like something to drink before departure, sir?” another of the flight attendants asked him as she appeared suddenly by his seat. He looked around for the usual metal cart carrying the drinks, but it wasn’t there, and he wondered where she’d left it.

  “I … would like some orange juice, please.”

  “You bet,” she said, disappearing toward the galley to get it.

  Like a restaurant, then, he thought to himself. Mother would love to see this, he thought, the reality of why he was making the trip in the first place having momentarily slipped from his mind.

  The crushing weight of his worries about her returned, before he remembered her constant admonition: “One who ruins the enjoyment of a wonderful experience with worry about things beyond his control is wasting a gift.”

  He was in a wonderful place, thanks to a generous gift. He would enjoy it as best he could. There was nothing else he could do for his mother until reaching Cape Town anyway, except pray.

  ABOARD FLIGHT SIX, HEATHROW

  11:38 A.M. Local

  On the opposite side of first class, Robert MacNaughton had been drumming his fingers on the edge of the leather seat for some time, the rhythm and intensity of his unheard tattoo increasing substantially after the last PA announcement. A window was at his right elbow, and through it he could clearly see the maintenance stand that had been moved up to the number-four engine just before the cowling had been opened. Several maintenance workers in white coveralls bearing the Meridian logo were now buzzing around the engine, and it was quite clear that their labors had virtually nothing to do with any alleged travel plans for the Queen of England.

  There had been a
growing feeling of disgust in the first-class compartment since push-back, and MacNaughton had felt it. A male passenger named Logan in a seat to his left had been the most vocal critic, complaining about the temperature, the delay, and the attitude of the airline’s personnel. Mr. Logan, MacNaughton concluded, had apparently come aboard upset, and in the absence of a decent crew, it had been all downhill from there.

  Logan was once again on his feet trying to talk to the lead flight attendant, this time pointing to his watch and gesturing in disgust toward the maintenance crew outside the aircraft, his voice almost loud enough to hear across the cabin. The exchange over, he sat back down as he glanced over and rolled his eyes in shared exasperation.

  Robert MacNaughton’s own breaking point had been reached several minutes before with the latest installment of what had become a long series of increasingly obvious lies over the PA. He could put up with certain indignities, such as an aircraft with no seat phones, but being lied to was quite unacceptable.

  MacNaughton flung off his seat belt, got to his feet, pivoted his compact five-foot-eight frame, and aimed for the first-class galley. He threw open the curtain just as the same flight attendant triggered the PA.

  She turned, startled, and replaced the handset.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “You are obviously the lady making those announcements for the past two hours, correct?” he said quietly.

  “Yes,” she replied, her eyes registering the fact that this was a first-class passenger and an impeccably groomed man with a full head of silver hair wearing a suit worth at least a thousand dollars.

  “Would you be so kind as to tell me your position on this crew?” the gentleman asked, his voice friendly and thoroughly controlled, his words devoid of any trace of upset or anger. Judy visibly relaxed as she smiled.

  “Of course, sir. I’m the lead flight attendant.”

  “Very well,” he said, smiling slightly, his accent cultured British. “And there is, I presume, a captain up top?” He flared his eyebrows and smiled, causing Judy to chuckle.

  “Yes, of course. It’s hard to fly without one, you understand.”

  “Perfectly. And one other thing before I share a little something I’ve been thinking about. Are the words you’ve been speaking yours, or his?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your words, as spoken into that instrument.” He motioned to the interphone receiver still in her hand, which also served as the PA microphone. “Am I to understand that everything you say is dictated by the captain? You have no choice in the matter?”

  Judy tossed her head in a defiant gesture. “Good grief. Of course not! I mean, yes, it is my choice. I’m in charge of the cabin. I find out what’s going on, and I tell my passengers.”

  “Of course. Now, I need just one clarification if you would be so kind.”

  “Certainly,” she said warmly. “What would that be?”

  “I’m having a few difficulties with your factual recitation, you see.”

  “Oh?” she said, still smiling.

  “Indeed. First, you informed us that we were being delayed by the Queen, yet I happen to know personally that the Queen is in India this week and not due back from that state visit until Friday. Air traffic control delays occupied center stage of your apologies for the next thirty minutes, whilst your own airline’s aviation band channel on the entertainment system, tuned to the control tower, rendered no evidence of any delays whatsoever.”

  Judy Jackson’s smile had begun to fade. “Well, that’s what we were told,” she managed.

  “Really? Extraordinary, because you then provided the excuse of ramp congestion on an uncongested ramp, followed by an arriving medical emergency in the total absence of ambulance activity, and finally, your pièce de résistance, apparently, was a magically materializing line of invisible thunderstorms in a clear blue sky, despite the fact that as of eight A.M this morning the nearest convective weather activity was eighty miles north of Denmark.”

  “There was weather in the area, and …”

  “And that transparent weather undoubtedly caused some sort of sympathetic malfunction in the right outboard engine of this jumbo, eh?”

  Judy was totally off balance. She adopted an angry expression, her hands migrating to her hips. “If you knew much about airplanes, sir, you would understand that when there are delays, our mechanics must make certain ground checks.”

  “I’m certain you’re right. I’ve only been a licensed jet pilot for a short thirty-two years, and my corporation has only owned a Boeing Business Jet for the past two years, which, I might add, I am now rated to fly. For the uninitiated, that’s merely a Boeing 737.”

  He’s shouting at me! she thought, realizing that somehow his words had accelerated in force, but not a bit in volume. The recognition left her momentarily speechless.

  “So, young lady, my question to you would be this: Are you a bloody frustrated fiction writer, or do you simply enjoy lying like hell to your passengers?”

  “Just who do you think you are, talking to me like that?” Judy snarled.

  “Oh, no one of consequence, really,” he said in the same quiet tones. “Other than being one of your paying passengers.”

  “Then I suggest, sir, that you get back to your seat.”

  “As you wish,” he said with a small hint of a bow. “However, I should like to request that in future announcements, you confine yourself to the rather quaint and obviously archaic practice of telling the truth. Contrary to your obvious belief in assuming psychological commonality with your passengers, we are, in fact, not idiots.”

  MacNaughton returned to the fourth row in the first-class cabin, sliding past the empty aisle seat to maneuver into his by the window and brushing past his briefcase in the process. A small, leather identity tag with the logo of English Petroleum caught the fold of his pant cuff and turned over, revealing his name embossed in gold: ROBERT MACNAUGHTON, CHAIRMAN OF THE BOARD.

  The sound of the PA coming alive focused his attention on the overhead speakers. The woman’s voice was back, but now there was a case-hardened edge to it.

  Just a follow-up note, folks. Because of all the other problems that have delayed our departure, our maintenance department elected to do a routine inspection of the right outboard engine, which is what you may have noticed out the right. Nothing wrong, in other words. Just routine. I appreciate your patience, but now that the line of weather is clearing the area, we should be ready to go shortly.

  Once more Robert MacNaughton’s fingers began a small drum coda on the seat arm as he shook his head slowly in astonishment, almost missing the sudden motion to his left as a man plopped down next to him with his hand outstretched.

  Robert stopped drumming and looked at the man.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” the man said. “I’m Dr. Brian Logan. I’m a physician from the U.S.”

  MacNaughton took the doctor’s hand and shook it without enthusiasm. “Delighted to meet you, Doctor. Robert MacNaughton, here.”

  “I got the impression, Mr. MacNaughton, that you were upset by those announcements, too.”

  “Indeed.” MacNaughton quickly studied the physician’s eyes, trying to decide whether to say more and weighing the emotional need for alliance in the face of such stupidity against a small voice of caution—which he decided to ignore. “She’s been spouting a pack of lies, you see, and I’m bloody tired of it!”

  Logan nodded, his eyes narrowing. “That’s the way they run this lousy airline. All that garbage about the Queen and weather and traffic, and I think they’ve had a problem with the right outboard engine since we left the gate.”

  “I’m beginning to agree with you, Doctor,” MacNaughton said. “I spoke to her about it, but as you can hear, it was of no consequence.”

  Brian nodded again and raised himself up in the seat, looking around as if checking for eavesdroppers. The gesture sent a small jolt of alarm through MacNaughton. Brian turned to him again, lowering his vo
ice. “May I count on you to testify?”

  Robert MacNaughton paused as he watched the physician’s face. “I’m sorry? Did you say, ‘testify’?”

  “Yes. About their lies! I think we’ve caught them red-handed.”

  Rising caution slowed MacNaughton’s response, and he chose his words carefully. “Ah, Doctor, I entirely agree their conduct is outrageous, but … even though I’m not a solicitor … I seriously doubt what’s happened constitutes grounds for legal action, if that’s what you’re contemplating.”

  Brian stared back for a few seconds, then blinked and shook his head. “Sorry, I’m … I didn’t phrase that correctly. If I file a complaint with aviation authorities, may I count on you to back me up?”

  “Oh, I see.” Robert MacNaughton pulled a business card from an inside coat pocket and handed it to him. “Indeed you may. Simply contact my office. The fact is, I’ve been sitting here contemplating the same action myself.”

  “Finally!” the doctor said, startling Robert MacNaughton until he realized the doctor was pointing to the window. MacNaughton followed his gesture and looked to the right, relieved to see the maintenance team pulling the stands away and resecuring the engine. He watched as one of them spoke unheard words into a handheld radio, and within seconds, the power fluctuated in the 747’s cabin as the rising whine of the engine could be heard.

  The creak of leather caught his attention, and he looked toward the aisle seat again in time to see the doctor getting to his feet and moving rearward through the dividing curtain.

  Odd, his behavior, MacNaughton thought to himself, as he pulled his briefcase to his lap to retrieve one of the voluminous reports he needed to study. He had to prepare for a meeting in Cape Town that had come up suddenly, and with the company’s jet fleet already busy, Meridian’s flight had seemed the best choice. He was beginning to regret that choice.

  The sound of the PA system clicking on again caught his attention, and he paused with the briefcase open, wondering if the pilots were finally going to speak.

  The voice, instead, belonged to Dr. Logan.