Mark couldn’t breathe. He tried to wrap his hands around the attacker’s forearm in an attempt to pull free, but he couldn’t dislodge the assailant’s grip. As Mark pulled, John tightened his grasp even more. It wasn’t long before Mark began to lose consciousness.
Writhing on the floor in pain, Bill knew he had to act. He snatched a stolen hotel pen from his shirt pocket, removed the cap, and stabbed the pointy end into John’s leg with all his might. Initially there was no reaction and Bill thought he’d failed.
It took nearly two agonizingly-long seconds before the pain registered in John’s brain. But the moment it did, the attacker screamed out in pain and loosened his grip on the copilot.
Mark, who was only partially sure of what was going on, momentarily turned to his right as if to get away. Then, using leverage from his torso, he abruptly swung hard to his left and punched John square in the face. It wasn’t actually a conscious thing, but every bit of anger Mark had been holding inside for weeks managed to channel itself into his fist. Even though he had been forced to act from a sitting position and twist to the left as he punched, Mark’s adrenaline-fueled punch struck John’s face with such force, the six foot-one, 190 pound John Tacker literally flew off his feet. When the stunned Fed’s feet returned to the floor he was caught off balance, causing him to stumble uncontrollably backwards until he finally thumped into the large, fluffy, reclining jumpseat located in the very aft part of the cockpit.
Bill watched the whole thing with awe. It was like watching Superman. He’d never seen anything like it. As he stood, Bill said to Mark, “Remind me to stay on your good side.”
Bill turned to face John Tacker with fists at the ready. He expected a knockdown, drag out fight. He was actually looking forward to it. But when he looked down, John Tacker was unconscious.
Bill opened the cockpit door hoping to see a friendly face. He sighed in relief when he saw the petite young girl with a pouty expression, standing right outside the door.
“Stella, grab the plastic handcuffs out of the service kit and get back here immediately!” he yelled.
“Right away, captain!” she replied, before quickly turning and making her way aft.
Being careful to keep one foot in the door jamb so as to prevent the door from closing behind him, Bill dragged John Tacker’s limp body out of the cockpit and flopped it onto the floor outside the two lavs.
Bill momentarily glanced back toward his copilot and shouted, “Mark, are you OK?”
Mark tried to respond verbally, but could only manage a few raspy sounds while nodding his head in the affirmative.
Three male passengers had quickly come forward when they saw John rush into the cockpit, but had been unable to act once the door slammed shut. When they saw Bill open the door and toss John’s body out, they cautiously approached the forward part of the cabin. As Stella ran past them to grab the handcuffs, all three looked at each other and then rushed forward to help.
Bill raised his right hand toward the approaching mob and yelled, “Stop! Don’t come any closer! Each of you back away slowly.”
“We only want to help,” said one of the men.
Bill’s head was swimming. He could feel his heart throbbing in his chest. He could actually feel the blood pulsing through his neck and into his brain. Bill was frightened. He had no idea what was going on. All of his years as a pilot failed to prepare him for the situation in which he currently found himself. He wasn’t sure who he could trust and who were his enemies. In his frightened and confused state, Bill decided that the only safe thing to do was to consider everyone an enemy, even his copilot.
Bill resolved, at least for the time being, that he was on his own. He knew he needed time to sort out the mess, but there was no time. He fought to bring the pilot inside of him to the surface, telling himself to get ahead of the situation. He struggled to calm himself, but he couldn’t. Everything seemed so surreal.
“I have them!” shouted Stella as she cleared the last step of the stairs leading to the upper deck. She ran toward her captain as fast as she could.
“I’m here, captain!” shouted Penny, following two feet behind Stella.
Penny stopped dead in her tracks the moment she came upon the three male passengers standing in the forward part of the upper deck. Her training and experience instantly took over. In the blink of an eye her personality switched from the friendly, smiling, what-can-I do-for-you flight attendant, to a rough and tough, seen-it-all-before inner city cop. “You men need to back off, now!”
“Let us help,” offered one of the men.
“Stand back, now!” she screamed, her words ricocheting throughout the upper deck.
Two of the men winced and quickly backed away. The third man resented her attitude and wanted to argue, but then, after seeing the fire in her eyes, decided against it. Silently admitting defeat, he too took a few steps back.
Bill secured the cuffs on John Tacker’s wrists and then said, “Stella, after I close this door, have those three men help you get him to his seat. Make sure you strap him in tight. Instruct each of those guys to take turns making sure he stays where he’s supposed to. Penny, I need you to grab the medical kit and get as many vitals as you can on this man’s wife. I’ll call the Mayo Clinic when I get up front.” Both women agreed.
“How many people on board are ill, Penny?” asked Bill, now standing inside the cockpit with the door open only an inch.
“As far as I know, only the two flight attendants that were working up here are sick,” said Penny. “They’re lying down in the crew bunks now. From what I was told, they were both feeling nauseous, but were otherwise OK. So, except for the two pilots and this woman up here, everyone else seems fine.”
“OK, very good. Call me when you have something to report,” ordered Bill.
Bill closed the cockpit door and made his way forward. He still wasn’t prepared to trust Mark. He told himself to remain on guard.
Bill gently touched Mark’s left shoulder and asked, “How are you feeling?”
“I, uh…” Mark coughed and cleared his throat a few times. “I’m fine, Bill. How about you?”
“I’m trying to figure out what’s going on here,” said Bill, as he turned and sat down in the left seat. He buckled his seatbelt, but left it loose in the event he was forced to act quickly. Once situated, he continued, “Penny told me that Steve and Doug are down, plus two flight attendants and a woman in first class. Since only five people are affected, I’m guessing that whatever is going on here isn’t in the air. But there is no way that this is just a coincidence.”
Mark looked directly into his captain’s eyes as he spoke, but didn’t say a word.
“Do you have any ideas? I’m open for suggestions,” asked Bill, as he turned the frequency knobs on his number two radio.
Mark shook his head and uttered a succinct, “No.”
“Well, I’m glad to see that you’re all right,” said Bill. Then, with an adolescent smirk on his face, revealing the cocksure attitude of nearly every pilot on earth, Bill added, “I can’t believe that I’ve totally trashed a brand-new white shirt. This is total B.S. But, other than being out thirty bucks, I guess I’m fine too.”
“San Francisco Radio, San Francisco Radio, Northwest Orient twenty-one transmitting on one one two seven nine; two hundred miles northwest of Petropavlovsk, requesting a phone patch, over,” announced Bill.
Northwest Orient owned and operated its own radio network throughout the United States and Canada. But since flight twenty-one was a half-a-world away, Bill was forced to contact a long distance radio operator in Oakland, California on a high frequency radio and request a phone hook-up to any ground station of his choosing.
“Northwest Orient twenty-one, San Francisco, go ahead.”
“Northwest Orient twenty-one is requesting a phone patch to dispatch in Eagan, Minnesota, over,” said Bill.
While the captain waited, he mentally ran through what he planned to say. When he finished talk
ing with his dispatcher, he intended to have them transfer his call to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. As Bill listened to the phone ring through the speaker above his head, he glanced quickly at his paperwork to see who he would be conversing with.
“Northwest Orient flight calling dispatch, go ahead,” stated Gloria in a matter-of-fact tone.
Bill was reassured once he heard her voice. Gloria had been a dispatcher for a long time and he trusted her implicitly.
The thirty-something dispatcher knew her job better than most, seemingly knowing the answer before a pilot had a chance to ask. She took her job very seriously, but managed to inject her gentle, humor-filled personality into nearly every conversation.
“Dispatch, this is flight twenty-one enroute to Narita,” said Bill.
“I have you loud and clear, Bill. What’s up?” she asked.
Before Bill had a chance to reply, he turned and looked at Mark who was clearing his throat again, trying to speak.
“Bill, the only thing I can think of; the only thing that seems to make any sense at all is the food. Maybe the pilot crew meals were poisoned,” suggested Mark.
A hot flash passed through Bill’s body like a knife through butter. Mark was right--it must have been the food.
Thirty
Gloria, Northwest Orient flight twenty-one’s senior dispatcher, sat stunned as she listened to Bill Pratt’s story come through her headset. She only allowed her emotions to run unchecked for a few moments though because the internal rise in her body temperature was telling her to act fast. While Bill spoke, she punched the conversation directly through to her supervisor’s desk and, at the same time, pushed the button that connected her directly with corporate security.
“Ron,” she said, trying desperately to control her voice, “notify the FBI. I think we have a terrorist attack on board flight twenty-one to Narita.”
Ron Rudd, the consummate corporate cop, didn’t even think to ask if it was a joke; he never joked. Without hesitation, he moved quickly and methodically with no outward sign of emotion. He listened to Gloria’s every word, even the inflection she used while pronouncing the words, while at the same time flipping through the pages in a spiral-ringed binder. In only a matter of moments, Ron was looking at the proper page in the playbook for this sort of situation.
The moment Gloria stopped talking, sitting at his desk two floors above the dispatcher’s, Ron spoke directly to Bill, whose airplane was nearly nine thousand miles away and well inside Russian airspace. There were rapid fire questions and answers between the two.
Meanwhile, listening in on the conversation, Gloria contacted the doctor on duty at the Mayo Clinic and placed him on hold until their more pressing problems were resolved. Without being asked, she pulled up the passenger list and began looking for anything that might raise a red flag. Then, on another of her computer screens, she pulled up a map of the western Pacific Ocean that included eastern Russia and Japan. On this screen she could see exactly where flight twenty-one was located, as well as the location of every usable airport within five hundred miles. On yet a third screen, she pulled up the weather for each airport with a runway suitable to accommodate a B747 that was within flight twenty-one’s fuel range. The busy dispatcher also sent a quick message to the B747 maintenance controller to stand by.
“So you’re reasonably sure it was the food?” asked Ron.
“At this point, it’s the only thing that makes sense,” said Bill.
“Does…,” Ron paused for a second to search for pictures of the two pilots. Once found, he displayed them on his screen. Though they were computer generated still shots, the same images used for their company IDs, he preferred having them in view so he could see who he was conversing with. As he glimpsed the images of Bill and Mark he made an instant visual evaluation of the two, then continued. “Does Mark feel OK? Has he shown any signs of sickness at all?”
“No, both of us are fine. The only thing we can figure is that neither of us ate our crew meal,” said Bill.
Ron quickly studied Mark’s file, up to and including the two speeding tickets he’d received since becoming a licensed driver. Mark was clean. “What about the two ill flight attendants?” he asked. “Has anyone talked to them lately?”
“No, not that I’m aware of,” replied Bill. “I was advised earlier that only two flight attendants were sick, but I have not received any updates. As I said, our purser told me that they were not nearly as bad off as the two pilots. The one female passenger is in pretty rough shape though. Last I knew she was unconscious.”
“Captain, let me get this straight. All of the passengers and other crew members, with the exception of you two up front, have eaten; but only five people on board are sick. Is that correct?” asked Ron.
“That’s affirmative.”
“Then as I understand it, three people are unconscious, or nearly so, and the other two are just very sick.” Ron hesitated for a moment and then continued. “Considering there are over four hundred people on board the airplane, captain, I think it’s quite possible that it may not be the food. I am unable to understand why only two flight attendants are ill. I mean, considering there weren’t that many food choices on board, there ought to be a great many more people affected,” said Ron, in a tone that sounded totally void of any emotion.
When Bill heard the corporate cop’s words, he pushed the call button to the lead flight attendant.
“This is Penny.”
“Penny, I need you to go back and interview those two flight attendants who aren’t feeling well. I need to know what they ate today and what time they ate. Call me from the phone in the tail as soon as you have something,” ordered Bill.
It took almost five minutes, during which time Bill, Gloria and Ron discussed whether or not there might still be a threat on board and what to do about it. Most people would be inclined to believe that there was nothing more to it than some spoiled food, but not Ron. Ron saw a criminal behind every tree. He often mused to himself that he would make an excellent criminal if he hadn’t been born with such a strong sense of right and wrong.
Ron lit another cigarette, noting his pack was nearly empty, and briefly thought about how easy a couple of scotch and sodas were going to go down during his interrupted drive home. Stopping at his favorite pub on the commute from work had become a ritual. After all, it wasn’t like there was anyone at home awaiting his arrival. The thought of another lonely night in front of the television, eating leftover Chinese takeout, forced him to whisper out loud, “Make that three.”
“Bill, this is Penny. I’m in the back. I spoke to both of them and neither seemed to be all that sick. They are complaining of stomach cramps and fever, but they are conscious. Both said they had the chicken entrée about two hours ago. Now, I didn’t mention it earlier because I didn’t think it was a big deal, but catering screwed up and gave all four pilots chicken. As you know, you guys are not supposed to eat the same meal. You and Mark didn’t eat, but the other two pilots did eat the chicken, and so did that lady on the upper deck. Remember? She had your meal.”
It took Bill a second, but then it hit him. He instantly felt a stab of guilt, knowing that he’d given Liesel Tacker his meal. He never imagined she would get sick. The selfless captain had only been trying to keep the peace.
“Penny, there has to be more. Half the flight attendants on this airplane probably ate the chicken,” said Bill.
“Yes, but they are the only ones that had the shrimp cocktail,” she said.
“What shrimp cocktail? I’ve never had shrimp cocktail on a crew meal.”
“Well, uh, yeah, I suppose,” muttered Penny.
“Penny, get on with it. I’m guessing the President of the United States is being briefed right now about this. I need everything.”
“Bill, none of you guys know this, but, um, some of the flight attendants remove the shrimp from the pilot crew meals and put it on their trays because the meals you guys get are better than what the company
gives us. They took the shrimp from your meals and ate it,” Penny said with a sigh. She looked at her feet, suddenly ashamed of herself for allowing such a widely accepted and unspoken practice to go on for as long as it had. In fact, she herself had been indoctrinated by some of the senior gals when she was just a new hire; being told that it was customary because pilots earn more and could afford to buy their own food. Though she herself never engaged in such behavior, the cohesiveness of the group dictated that the non-participators look the other way.
Mark, when he heard the lead flight attendant’s words, perked up. He wanted to start screaming at her, but instead muttered under his breath, “Serves them right.”
Bill shook his head. He’d been a captain a long time. He knew there was often a rift between the employee groups, but had no idea that it ran so deep. Do they resent the pilots that much? he wondered. He’d always considered the pilot and flight attendant personality profiles to be pretty similar, at least as far as both being the “take charge” type. Pilots, he knew, could be arrogant and difficult, but he never met one that was a thief. Every pilot he’d ever met would likely give someone the shirt off their back if they were in need. Penny’s admission was a difficult revelation for Bill to hear. He couldn’t believe that it was so widely accepted as the norm. He thought about all the wonderful flight attendants he’d known throughout his career. He’d always believed that they knew their job and were professional to the core. Bill shook his head, recalling all the high class dinners he’d bought for flight attendants over the years.
“Anything else, Penny?” asked Bill in a somber tone.
Sojourners of the Sky Page 27
