Two of the flight attendants were waiting for him in the forward coach galley. “Who’s giving you a hard time?” Garth asked.
“I’m Cathy. I called.”
“Okay.”
“There’s a group of them. That doctor from first class came back just after takeoff asking who else was fed up, and he’s been, kind of, recruiting others.
“To do what?” Garth asked.
“I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never felt so much hostility. And they hate you guys in the cockpit. Every time you or Judy says anything, you’d think half these people were swallowing a lemon. They’re jeering and booing.”
“Did they really chase Judy to the cockpit?”
Cathy nodded. “There were a dozen furious men down here trying to catch her. I don’t think they were going to hurt her, but they were madder than hell. She panicked and ran.”
“She’s in the cockpit.”
“Which is where she’d better stay,” Cathy continued. “Those guys were angry, and the truth is, she could have killed that little baby … and the man who caught the baby is back there in real pain. We’ve lost control, Garth. We don’t have any real authority anymore. Y’know?”
“Believe me, I do,” he said as he pulled one of the handsets out of its cradle and toggled on the PA.
Folks, could I have your attention?
“Hell, no!” a male voice bellowed halfway down the cabin as two men standing near the back of the first coach section turned and stared at him and several other voices responded with negative comments.
Ah, look, whether you want to listen or not, this is the copilot, and the first thing is, everyone needs to get back in your seats and fasten your seat belts. We’re still climbing out and we’ve still got the seat-belt sign on.
“We’re not taking orders from any of you for the rest of this trip!” another man yelled from a left-side window seat. “We’ll obey the seat-belt sign when we decide to, since we can’t trust anything this crew says.”
“Look … sir …,” Garth said, but the man was warming to his diatribe.
“Hey! You think I’m kidding? Let’s do this democratically.” He turned sideways, trying to catch the attention of the passengers in the middle section. “Come on, everyone. The copilot doesn’t believe we’re fed up. Let’s show him how much we appreciate the way Meridian has treated us today. Everyone who’s disgusted with this crew and this airline, please stand up.”
Garth felt his jaw drop as the sound of opening seat belts clattered through the middle section of the cabin and first three, then five, then more than half the passengers got to their feet, the women standing more reluctantly than the men.
“There,” the man said. “All we want from you, Mr. Copilot, is the time we’re arriving in Cape Town. Other than that, you can go back to your cage.”
There was a flurry of movement toward the back, and Garth looked past the angry men in the aisle to see the physician who’d accosted him a half hour before. The doctor stopped, as if assessing the situation, then pushed past two of the men in the asile, patting one of them on the shoulder as he headed directly for the copilot.
Garth raised the handset to his mouth again, then thought better of it and clicked the PA off as Brian Logan came within speaking distance. He could sense Cathy and her partner backing into the galley.
“Doctor, what are you doing?” Garth asked.
“Reaching a consensus that we’re all enraged at this ridiculous excuse of an airline. What do you think I’m doing?” the physician said, his jaw set in a defiant clench. “We’re going to be calling the networks and the newspapers on arrival in Cape Town.”
“Look, we’re doing what you asked …” Garth said quietly.
“I haven’t heard an apology from that bitch of a flight attendant.”
“I’m working on that, but can’t you please just relax?” He met Brian’s gaze, seeing the same unfocused rage as before. It was different from looking at Phil Knight, he thought. Phil was simply upset. The doctor’s eyes, however, were steady pools of pain and indignation and their unblinking intensity sent chills up his back.
Brian looked around behind him and turned back to Garth. “What are you doing down here, anyway?” His tone was almost conspiratorial, and the question caught Garth completely off guard. How could a copilot explain to an angry passenger the hostility he faced in the cockpit and the problems with the flight’s captain? How could he explain how much he wanted to ameliorate all the passengers’ concerns, but that the captain refused to let him? How could he explain anything and maintain any authority over him? Garth was the second in command, after all. He couldn’t let himself enter an unholy alliance with an angry passenger, especially one whose conduct was bordering on air piracy.
“Look, Doctor, what else would you like me … like us … to do?”
Brian stared at him for an uncomfortable moment before answering.
“Tell me the truth. Are the both of you making the idiotic decisions we’ve seen today, or is it just the captain?”
Garth swallowed hard, caution slowly sinking in the rising tide of indignation at Phil Knight’s actions. “What decisions?”
“Oh, how about no communication from the cockpit, hours of delay in London, letting that woman lie to us on the PA, then hearing we’ve got a problem and are going back, no, we’re going on, not to mention all the other affronts.”
“Well, that’s pretty much the captain,” Garth said in disgust.
Brian nodded slowly, his eyes boring into the first officer’s. “I thought so. You didn’t seem like the … the same type. He isn’t listening to you, huh?”
Garth snorted in disgust. “Listening to me? Hell, he’s hardly talking to me. He’s … he’s got this idiot idea that if I make a suggestion it’s for the purpose of undercutting his command. You know, if we’re on short final with no gear and I point out it would be better if he landed with the rollers extended, he’d turn around in a purple rage and accuse me of just waiting for the chance to point out an insignificant error.”
“In other words, he’s a jerk?”
“To put it mildly. You think I wanted to go wheeling around in the sky changing destinations when it was obvious all we had was an indicator problem?”
“I didn’t know. None of us down here know, because you two aren’t telling us anything.”
“He won’t let me, Doc,” Garth said, keeping his voice low but warming to the presence of a confidant, the memory of Brian’s unstable acts melting rapidly in the welcome hope of camaraderie, however strained. Brian put a hand on Garth’s shoulder and nudged him to turn away from the coach compartment and the glare of so many eyes. They moved into the galley.
“What’s your name?” Brian asked.
“Garth Abbott, Doc.”
Brian pointed up, toward the cockpit. “He’s dangerous, isn’t he?”
Garth nodded, then caught himself and shook his head no, a modicum of caution returning. “Not really dangerous …,” he hastened to add. The conversation with his wife replayed in his head. “And not incompetent, just …”
“Just acting arrogant enough to make catastrophic decisions if you’re not there to counter him,” Brian asked.
“Yeah. I’m afraid so. I hate to admit that,” Garth said. “This airline has … gone downhill lately. All the emphasis on money, you know. They’re too busy expanding to fine-tune the little things, like whether a guy’s really ready for prime time.”
“How’d this fool of a captain ever make captain?”
“He’s … he’s really not a fool. He was a very good domestic captain for many years. I know guys who flew with him. Steady, competent, knowledgeable about the technical details. But when your seniority number lets you have a shot at upgrading, too many airlines judge you just on flying ability. Meridian isn’t doing anything to screen out the guys who can’t handle the foreign languages, the diplomacy, the complexity of foreign airspace, and the fact that you’ve got to be a good commander and
take care of all your people. Back home it was just a matter of hauling the winged cattle car to Tulsa and getting to the gate on time. Here it’s much more demanding. Phil isn’t prepared, he’s scared to death, he won’t admit it, and he won’t take advice.”
“Then, please,” Brian said, “get back to the cockpit and try to keep us safely on course to Cape Town before he kills us with another stupid move.”
Garth started to turn to go, but looked back at Brian. “Doctor, upstairs a while ago, you said something. You said to ask the company about a Daphne Logan. I didn’t get the chance.”
“And?” The hard edge returned.
“Well … is that you wife, or … or daughter?”
“Daphne Logan was my beautiful, loving wife, Garth. The love of my life. My soul mate. And she bled to death internally on one of your airplanes last year because the captain refused her pleas to land and get her medical help.” Brian added the details as he watched the horror reflected in the copilot’s eyes.
“I’m … so very sorry!”
“You know something? It’s too late for anyone to be sorry. But you’re the first Meridian employee … no.” He caught himself as he recalled Janie. “The first Meridian pilot to really mean that.”
Logan turned and walked quickly back down the aisle toward the rear of the 747’s main cabin.
As Brian passed, Brenda Roberts gripped her husband’s arm and whispered in his ear.
“There he is again!”
Jimmy nodded.
“I’m worried, hon! You saw all those people stand up. Shouldn’t we have joined them? I mean, aren’t we just as ticked off?”
Jimmy shook his head and put his lips next to her ear. “We don’t want to get involved in all the anger going on around this plane.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
NRO HEADQUARTERS
CHANTILLY, VIRGINIA
12:20 P.M. EDT
Before leaving the NRO’s building, George Zoffel had given John Blaylock and David Byrd a quick tour of the new facilities, avoiding the most secret areas of the building where sophisticated satellite images of almost any spot on the planet could be called up at a moment’s notice.
“I hear,” David said as they walked toward the front entry, “that you also have control of several rockets, always in prelaunch readiness, that can insert a new satellite into any orbit you need within two hours.”
Zoffel adopted a neutral expression. “You’ve heard this, have you?”
“Yes. How about you?”
“Interesting ideas.” Zoffel said. “Sort of like the so-called Area Fifty-one in Nevada or the Aurora Project supposedly zipping around California at eight thousand miles per hour.”
“Something like that.” David smiled.
“You probably know more than we do,” Zoffel replied.
“Understood,” David said, well aware of how adroitly George Zoffel had sidestepped the question without the slightest validation or denial.
Zoffel waved to the two Air Force officers and disappeared back inside as John Blaylock gestured toward the parking lot.
“Time for an early-afternoon libation, Colonel? You like Guinness Stout on tap?”
“Of course.”
“If you’d said no, I’d be very suspicious of your real identity.”
“Where would you suggest we go?” David asked.
“A seedy little bar in Alexandria, and this evening, if you’d like, a sumptuous dinner over at the Willard so we can talk some more. I assume you didn’t have other plans?”
“Not really.”
“Good! Here’s the bar’s business card. Friend of mine owns it. He’s an ex-spook. CIA, in other words.”
“Understood.”
“See you there in thirty minutes. I’ve got a stop to make.” John Blaylock turned without waiting for a confirmation and walked briskly off toward his car. David looked down at the card, memorizing the address, turning it over by habit, and was startled to find a small note on the back.
Col. Byrd: I get the impression that female senator really turned you on when she called from London this morning. Oh, and next time you visit an old intelligence operative, don’t ever leave him alone with your cell phone.
(I’ll remove the bug at the bar.)
John Blaylock was on his second draft of Ireland’s finest when David found him in a well-used mahogany booth toward the back of the bar, which was a smoky, diminutive place that easily lived up to the adjective seedy. Blaylock waved him over and bellowed to an underdressed barmaid for another round. She blew him a kiss and curtsied before heading for the bar to comply.
“So tell me, Colonel Byrd, what did you learn today?”
David plunked his cell phone on the table in front of John Blaylock and pointed to it, smiling ruefully. “Blaylock, I think you broke about a half dozen federal statutes, but … how the hell did you tap this phone?”
John was grinning. “Long experience, my boy. When you were on my boat, if you’ll recall, you went to the can and left me alone with your phone for nearly a minute.”
“That’s all it takes?” David said as he pulled out a scarred-up captain’s chair and sat down.
“Well, so happened, you have a type of phone I’m prepared for.” John picked up the cell phone with one hand and popped off the battery, then reached in his pocket and replaced it with another before handing the tiny instrument back.
“The bug is in the battery?” David said.
“You thought I’d whirled a few screwdrivers around and soldered a few wires in sixty seconds? Hey, I’m good, but I’m not a magician.”
David sighed. “So, you asked what I learned. I learned I can’t turn my back on you for a minute.”
“No, you learned that we reservists are a lot more sneaky than you active-duty types would like to think.”
“I guess.”
“We have to be. We carry half the load and still get treated like second-class citizens.”
“Not really true anymore, John,” David said, trying to muster as much authority as he could manage in the face of what was obviously a very experienced senior veteran of the Pentagon. “We’ve activated half of you guys, and ever since the reserves became a separate command—”
John Blaylock cut him off with a big right hand raised in a stop gesture. “Granted, it’s gotten better, but it’s still the same old adage, Davy. Age and treachery will win out over youth and enthusiasm every time. That’s the reserve credo.”
“Okay, I’m warned.”
“You shook my hand. Did you count your fingers?”
“Oh, cut it out, John.” David laughed.
“Tell me about your divorce, David.”
“My … divorce?”
“Let’s see.” Colonel Blaylock rolled his eyes to the ceiling as if the dossier on David Byrd were written across the tiles. “You were married in 1985 in Memphis to the former Katie Ann Lewis, a natural blond with an amazing figure, whose lawyer father was a two-term congressman from Tennessee, and whose mother was a pediatrician at Baptist Memorial, where Elvis died. Katie was an Ole Miss graduate, class of 1984, and you met her when the Air Force Academy played a strange exhibition game with Ole Miss in Oxford and those Mississippi boys slaughtered you zoomies.”
“Where on earth …”
“You’re an Air Force Academy grad, of course, who made it through with honors and no unwanted pregnancies in the surrounding community that we know about—though you were pretty worried for a few days of your freshman year about a little gal named Lucy in Colorado Springs. You were the top distinguished graduate from Undergraduate Pilot Training in the class of eighty-five-oh-one at Vance and chose an F-15 assignment to Soesterberg, Netherlands. But first, of course, you ran to Memphis and made an honest woman of Katie Ann, who’d been secretly living with you anyway during UPT, and whom you’d already married in a secret civil ceremony in eighty-four that even her mom doesn’t know about yet. That means you’re a traditionalist, which is good.”
“There’s no way you could know all that!”
“Now, you see … that’s a really bad way to deny something, Dave. Hey. What can I tell you? I’m a damn good researcher and I found both marriage licenses and talked with people who were eager to help you win my favorite get-them-to-talk dodge, the “Real Officer of the Year Roast,” which requires exposure of one’s warts. Anyway, there’s a lot more. Too bad you and Katie couldn’t conceive. Maybe she wouldn’t have developed a real hankering for that smooth-talking young captain from New Orleans while you were stationed at Hurlburt as a squadron commander flying Special Ops missions, and, I might add, doing a damn good job of surviving some tight situations and bringing all your guys home. You won the air medal twice. I’m impressed. She wasn’t. The divorce was final in ninety-seven.”
David was shaking his head, the previous smile gone from his face. “Why bother asking? You obviously know more about me than I do. I don’t believe this.”
“Uh oh. Now you’re offended.”
“No, I’m just …”
“Yeah, you’re offended. Get over it. I have to know you to trust you.”
“Hell, John, a profile is one thing, but it sounds like you’ve been hiding in my bedroom closet! I’ll bet you’ve even got an accurate count of how many times Katie and I screwed.”
“Actually, I’d estimate the final number at less than eight hundred times over a ten-year marriage, which comes out with weighted averaging between the hotter onset and the cooler end of the relationship to slightly more than one point five incidents of heterosexual coitus per week, which is terribly unhealthy.”
“You’re a real piece of work, Colonel. You know that?” David snapped.
“But, am I right?”
“None of your damn business!”
“Yeah it is, Dave. You’re active duty. We own you, and life isn’t healthy without a lot of sex, and you’ve apparently been behaving like a monk for the last few years, which makes you vulnerable. I saw your eyes pop out when Jill opened the bedroom door this morning.”
Turbulence Page 19
