Turbulence

by Nance, John J. ;

  “Brian Logan. Nice to meet you … Janie.” He looked around as if a mother superior might burst through the privacy curtains at any moment and catch him molesting one of her brood.

  “I … thought you were a flight attendant,” he said, releasing her hand.

  “I am,” she said, raising an eyebrow and adopting a conspiratorial tone. “But I’m playing hookey.”

  “Really?”

  Janie slid her shoes off and retracted her legs beneath her, shifting around sideways in the wide seat to face him. “Actually, I worked this flight in from Chicago as lead, but they were one flight attendant short for Cape Town, and crew scheduling forcibly recruited me. So, technically, I’m on the crew, but in realistic terms I’m semi-deadheading.”

  She saw his hand withdraw to his lap and clench, as if he was suddenly embarrassed to have touched her or even be talking to her.

  “I see,” he said, his voice turning cold as he looked forward, pretending to search for something on the forward bulkhead.

  Did I do something? Janie asked herself. The change had been instantaneous. No, I didn’t.

  “You know, I couldn’t help …,” she began. “I mean, it’s a small cabin up here and voices carry …”

  He turned suddenly, a flint-hard look on his face. “You can go tell Ms. Jackson that this was a cheap trick and I’m not falling for it.”

  Janie looked stunned.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Sending you up here to schmooze me, to … to try to win me over. It won’t work.”

  Janie refused to take her eyes off the side of his face, even though he wouldn’t look at her.

  “You’re very wrong, Doctor. I came over here to just chat with you. Judy Jackson had nothing to do with it.”

  “Nevertheless, it won’t work,” he repeated.

  “What won’t work, Dr. Logan?” she asked, her voice quiet and soft. “Should I call you Dr. Logan, or could we use each other’s first names?”

  “Doctor will do fine.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Doctor it is. But please tell me why what I’m not trying to do won’t work.”

  The hint of a smile flickered across his mouth before he regained control and snorted. “That’s a double negative.”

  “Is it?”

  “I suspect you know that,” he said, less stridently. “You’re well-spoken. Better than most of the garrulous flotsam working for this so-called airline.”

  “Thank you … I think.” She smiled. “Gee, Doctor, you’re fun to chat with.” Janie put her hand over her mouth and spoke through it in muffled fashion. “Sorry. That was a dangling preposition.”

  “What?” he replied, forced irritation in his tone.

  She pulled her hand away from her mouth. “The old rule is, never end a sentence with with, and I just did, which is normally something up with which I would not put.”

  “Oh.”

  “This conversation is really catching fire, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve got an empty seat over there,” he said sharply.

  She let a few seconds pass. “Would you rather I left you alone?”

  “If you’re here to manipulate me, yes.”

  “I’m not. I promise. I’m not here to manipulate, convince, cajole, or shmooze you. I could not do that, would not do that, should not do that.”

  Another flicker of a smile.

  “Thank you, Dr. Seuss,” he said.

  “Yeah.” She chuckled. “Green eggs and ham.”

  He nodded, working hard to keep a grin off his face as she continued.

  “I always liked Dr. Seuss as a girl. Oops. That sounds kinky, but you know what I mean.”

  He was nodding. A good sign, she thought. “My wife and I …,” he began, but the rest of it caught in his throat and he turned away, his teeth clenched, his hand to his chin.

  “Doctor, look, I overheard you say to Jackson, that Meridian had … killed your wife and child …”

  “Murdered!” he snapped.

  “Yes, you said ‘murdered.’ You did say that.”

  They sat in silence for a few seconds before he turned and glanced self-consciously at her, then ahead, pursing his lips.

  “I will go away if you want me to,” she said, “but … I guess I’d like to know what happened.”

  He was surprised to find he didn’t want her to go away.

  “Was it a crash?”

  He shook his head no and related the basics, working to keep himself under control. When he’d finished, they sat without talking for nearly a minute as Janie made her hands fuss with her skirt, then looked down, shaking her head.

  “I had no idea,” she said softly. “No wonder you hate everything Meridian. I would, too.”

  “You have any idea what it’s like being on this airline?” he asked, pain replacing anger. “Being … being inside a Meridian airplane?”

  “No, I don’t,” she replied, triggering a curious look.

  “No?”

  “I can try to understand, Doctor, and I am trying, but for me to say yes would trivialize the incredible pain you’ve endured.”

  “Brian,” he replied.

  “Sorry?”

  He dipped his head and grimaced slightly as if apologizing for a painful faux pas. “Please call me Brian.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, Brian. And I’m Janie.”

  “I … ah, want to thank you for being understanding. I didn’t expect that from …”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, purposefully ending the need for further explanation.

  “I’m … just sorry to see a lovely woman like you with such a hideous airline.”

  “So am I,” Janie said, startling herself and wondering why the words hadn’t passed her conscious scrutiny before they rolled out.

  Brian Logan was looking puzzled, and she put a hand on his forearm.

  “Brian, we have some terrible people at Meridian, including one woman on this airplane you’ve already encountered … and we have some who are burned out … and we have a lot who, like me, are simply sick to the depths of their being about what’s happened to our company.”

  He nodded, unconvinced, and she related the conversation with Senator Douglas and the problems with the Chicago-to-London flight, losing herself in the narrative at times, but conscious of the fact that he was listening carefully. She knew she hadn’t defused him, but it was a beginning.

  It had taken Karen Davidson thirty minutes to figure out a way to safely suspend the child carrier from the magazine rack. She’d worked hard to get the handle to hook into the rack and make sure the attachment was secure but at last she’d fashioned a better solution than placing her baby on the cold floor.

  Cathy Eileson, one of the flight attendants, had come slowly up the aisle at the same moment, and spotted Karen Davidson’s handiwork with the child carrier. Cathy knelt down beside her. “Now that is clever!”

  “Thanks,” Karen replied. “Some airlines provide hooks for just this purpose, but I had to jury-rig this.”

  “That’s a great idea, but … I hate to tell you, we aren’t allowed to let a mother do this.”

  “Don’t worry,” Karen added. “I’ll take it down before landing.”

  “I know you would, but … we’ve got a monstrous set of rules to follow, and they don’t give us much flexibility. If we hit turbulence, this could fall off.”

  Karen nodded and sighed as she unhooked the child carrier and set it down at her feet. “I put it up there because the floor gets too cold,” Karen said.

  “I’ll try to find more blankets,” Cathy replied. “I’m really sorry.”

  Karen looked closely at her. “You work for this airline?” she asked.

  Cathy Eileson moved back a few inches in surprise, unsure whether the question masked an attempt at humor. “Sorry?”

  “I just wondered if you were really a Meridian flight attendant? Other than the lead flight attendant out of Chicago, Janie somebody, you’re the only other one I’ve met so far w
ho … well, seems to give a darn about any of us.”

  A look of confusion dissolved to a momentary flash of panic as the young woman pushed a cascade of soft, brown hair back from her eyes and shook her head. “I … I hate to hear … I mean …”

  Karen held up her hand. “That was unkind of me. I’m sorry.”

  “No,” Cathy replied, shaking her head. “I need to hear about it if we’ve mistreated you. I’m so sorry.” Cathy got to her feet in silence and then leaned over, whispering, “Ask for me if there’s anything you need the rest of the flight, okay? I’m normally working in the back galley.”

  Karen waited until she’d turned and disappeared before carefully leaning over to reattach the bassinet to the bulkhead.

  On the upper deck of the Boeing 747–400, Garth Abbott emerged from the small toilet behind the cockpit and moved quietly to the nearby galley to pour himself some coffee and think. There was movement in his peripheral vision and he looked toward the rear of the cabin, catching Judy Jackson’s eye.

  It was, perhaps, the last thing he’d wanted to do at that particular moment.

  Garth knew Judy all too well, having flown with her off and on for years. “She’s mad at the world for no apparent reason,” he’d told another new captain a month before when Judy had stormed into the cockpit after takeoff and chewed out the four-striper for some perceived slight.

  “Who the heck’s in command here?” the captain had asked Garth in genuine puzzlement after she’d left. “I mean, I know being an airline captain these days means we get no respect, but, good grief, Garth! She called me some choice names there.”

  “You should feel honored.” Garth had chuckled. “She only insults pilots she likes. The rest of us die of starvation on her flights. No food, no drink, no quarter.”

  “Well, maybe it’s time someone complained to the company about her.”

  “Be very careful,” Garth had warned. “The last cappy who wrote her up ended up fighting for his career with an undeserved sexual harassment charge. At least, we’re pretty sure it was undeserved.”

  “Really?”

  “She owns the cabin, Captain. She’s tough as nails, and we’ve all given up trying to wrest it away from her.”

  When Judy spotted the first officer in the galley, she gave him a small wave before moving in his direction.

  Oh, wonderful, Garth thought to himself as he tried to decide if being in Phil Knight’s company was any better. He thought of his wife again with that same sinking feeling, wishing he could just close his eyes and try to decipher their predeparture conversation without interruption. There was a tiny crew rest compartment behind the cockpit, and he’d thought of crawling inside for a while, but it opened into the cockpit, and Phil Knight was sure to notice.

  “I could have brought that to you,” Judy announced, tossing her hair and smiling as she pointed to his coffee cup.

  “Oh, that’s okay. I needed to stand up and get out of there anyway.”

  Judy shifted her weight slightly, the small motion broadcasting the shape of her hips beneath the well-tailored uniform skirt as she watched his eyes, wondering if they were going to travel down her body. She saw him look away instead, studying the galley, the rug, the ceiling … anything but her.

  “You, young man, look worried about something,” she said, her voice surprisingly gentle.

  Garth looked at her, the unexpected words sparking a curiosity he expected would be answered by a smirk. But her eyes were wide and exceptionally blue, and he saw no mockery there.

  “I, uh … just personal stuff,” he managed, instantly irritated at the inept response.

  “It’s all personal stuff,” she said. “Lord knows, I’ve gone through a lifetime of it. That …” She began maneuvering herself to the left a bit to stay in his shifted line of vision. “That’s why I can always spot a worried man. I know I’m prying, but …” She glanced at his left hand, instantly recording the wedding band, which she hadn’t paid attention to before. “Problems at home?”

  Garth smiled involuntarily and squelched it as he shook his head. “What? No.” He tried to chuckle, but it came out wrong and he coughed instead. “I, uh, just … wish I were somewhere else, you know? You ever feel that way?”

  She laughed. “Only about every other hour. Welcome to the club.”

  His eyes found hers again for a very unsettling second. He’d always had trouble meeting a woman’s gaze. The act was so personal, so … intimate. But Carol had taught him well the low opinion women had of men who wouldn’t look them in the eye. “Either they’re shifty and unreliable,” Carol had said, “or they just can’t tear their eyes away from your boobs. Either way, you don’t trust them.”

  “Dollar for your thoughts,” Judy was saying, her voice bringing him back to the present. Garth shook his head and looked at her again. “I’m sorry?”

  “You were off in another dimension there for a second.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, well … I’m going to be off looking for another job if I don’t get back up there with Captain Sun … ah, with Phil.”

  She smiled, confusing him even more. This was the firebrand he’d seen in action? This was the caustic woman he’d maligned a few minutes ago? How could she suddenly seem so nice, so … feminine?

  “See you later,” he said, turning awkwardly to reach for interphone and the cipher lock.

  “Count on it,” she said to his back.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND

  6:56 A.M. EDT

  David Byrd stopped at the foot of Slip 18 and looked up at the squadron of gulls that had snagged his attention with their sudden coda of shrill cries. He stood for a moment, watching them bank and turn effortlessly in the early orange light, tracking the subtle movements of wing and tail with the wonder of an experienced pilot immersed in the never-ending thrill of probing the mysteries of flight.

  The postdawn air wore a hint of midnight chill as it slowly warmed its way toward morning, but it was already redolent of a cocktail of aromas radiating like a biological perfume from the glassy green waters of the harbor. The slightest rumor of a sea breeze ruffled his hair as he closed his eyes and breathed in the mixture of salt air and day-old kelp brushed by a hint of fishiness—a pleasure almost spoiled by the sudden assault of diesel fumes from a nearby yacht idling in predeparture.

  David checked his watch. It was two minutes to seven. General Overmeyer had warned that John Blaylock was an unpredictable sort, a strange mix of bohemian and disciplinarian who was well known for arriving at a high-level meeting precisely on time down to the second, clad in a rumpled uniform with shoes that hadn’t been polished since they left the factory.

  David stepped on the teak deck of the hybrid yacht and raised his hand to knock on the door of the motor coach, surprised when it was suddenly pushed open about twelve inches. A man’s face appeared in the gap, his eyes suspiciously examining the visitor in silence.

  “Hello?” David said.

  The door was pulled shut without a word.

  David raised his hand to knock again, but the door flew open once more, this time revealing a man wearing the lightning-bolt-encrusted uniform cap of an Air Force colonel—and clad only in a pair of Mickey Mouse boxer shorts.

  “Colonel Blaylock?” David said.

  The six-foot-three Blaylock saluted in exaggerated fashion before extending his hand.

  “Welcome aboard, Colonel Byrd. I appreciate a man who’s right on time.” Blaylock turned and motioned David to follow him toward the galley. David stepped up to the planked, oaken main floor of the coach and pulled the door closed behind him as he watched Blaylock move easily behind the butcher-block counter in his galley. John Blaylock, David noticed, still had a full head of dark hair framing a tan face over an equally tan chest and a moderate gut. His face relaxed naturally into a pleasant smile, which he could instantly broaden to fifty-megawatt proportions.

  “Coffee?” Blaylock asked, using the fifty megawatt mode.
r />   “Please. Just cream, no sugar.”

  “Roger. Pull up a stool there.”

  David complied, watching Blaylock smoothly perform what had to be a morning ritual of retrieving and grinding a stash of beans from a Starbucks container before using the finely powdered results to prime an elaborate brass-trimmed commercial espresso machine far too big for a motor home.

  John Blaylock took off the Air Force wheel hat and slid it down the counter with one hand as he scratched his hairy chest with the other. His espresso maker was clearly designed to dominate the galley, and almost on cue he inclined his head in its direction. “My prime addiction,” he said. “Wait! I mean my prime addiction after consideration of the female of the species.”

  “Ours, I assume?” David shot back with a grin. “Species, that is.”

  John Blaylock’s eyebrows climbed to an unnatural altitude. “Hey, I’m impressed! A Pentagon weenie with a genuine sense of humor!”

  “For the record, I’m not a Pentagon weenie,” David replied.

  “For the record,” Blaylock echoed, “I refrain from involvement with females from species other than human.”

  “Good, since I think there’s an Air Force Instruction about that.”

  “I’m not into Air Force Instructions,” John Blaylock answered as he squinted at the dials of his espresso maker. “I’m a reservist. Reservists are, by nature, suspicious of regulations, inhabitants of the Pentagon, and colonels who show up dockside seeking information.”

  “I’m seeking information?” David asked.

  Blaylock grinned at him. “Okay, coffee and information. Speaking of which, what is it, precisely, that the good General Halftrack thinks I can do for you?”

  “Well, to begin with, this is an official visit.”

  “I gathered that,” Blaylock replied, forcing himself to look serious as he pointed to the wheel hat. “That’s why I wore my blues this morning.”

  “Yeah. But see, I’m pretty sure Mickey’s boxer shorts are nonregulation.”

  “Nonsense! How many times in your career, Colonel Byrd, have you muttered to yourself that we’re working for a Mickey Mouse organization?”