Phoenix Rising

by Nance, John J. ;

  “I just had no idea this job was going to be an instant marathon the second I got here.”

  “Kelly would have been shifting for herself.”

  “I thought we’d have plenty of time, but—”

  “You will—later. You’ve got too much to worry about in the next few months. You take care of those problems, and I’ll take care of this one.” She gestured with her thumb in Kelly’s direction, as Kelly rolled her eyes in response.

  Kelly gave Elizabeth a final hug at curbside, and waved to her from the passenger seat as the van disappeared into Seattle traffic.

  Elizabeth found herself standing there for a few minutes deep in thought, the light cotton dress she was wearing feeling suddenly very good on what had become an unusual and almost balmy Seattle day. Usually, March brought showers and cold weather in Puget Sound, but the unseasonable warmth had caused more than a few weathermen to wonder whether global warming was kicking in at last.

  A small breeze ruffled Elizabeth’s skirt, teased her sandaled feet, and mussed her hair a bit. The windows of a passing bus gave her a brief glimpse of herself standing there, looking fresh and lithe and windblown. If it had been five degrees warmer, it would have been exactly the type of day she usually loved, the type of day that seemed to demand a barefoot run through a grassy field. She never felt more feminine and attractive and … well … sexy, than she did on days like this.

  So why did none of those delicious feelings course through her now?

  Brian was due in two hours, at 5:00 P.M. She had just enough time to bathe and freshen up as she tried to get her mind off Pan Am’s troubles—and on its chief pilot.

  Saturday, March 11, 3:00 P.M.

  Pan Am’s maintenance chief had been home for only a few hours’ sleep each night since Clipper Ten’s close brush with oblivion. The fatigue showed on his face now as he stepped through the cramped doorway of the salvage barge and back into the sunlight of a Saturday afternoon. The large, unshaven owner followed him out, clanging the door closed behind them as he adjusted the unlit cigar he had been masticating since Bill Conrad arrived. The man patted his enormous beer belly and smiled, and Conrad could well understand why he didn’t dare light the cigar: he reeked of diesel fuel, but not sufficiently to mask what could be referred to charitably as the pervading bouquet of a man who apparently perspired more than he bathed.

  “I could have her on site in about two days, Mr. Conrad. But the support equipment, the divers, the sonar equipment, and all that—we’ll have to get that elsewhere, as I said. Once they find it, I can haul it up.”

  Bill thanked him, shook the greasy paw the man offered in parting, and returned to his car, wondering if he had a towel in his trunk to wipe off his hand. He had run the gamut now from the professional and neatly run salvage firms to the other extreme, and they all charged the same.

  He punched the number of Operations Vice-President Chad Jennings into his car phone as he backed through the maze of rusting industrial marine equipment in the unkempt waterfront yard and turned around, heading back to the Interstate.

  There was one more possibility for reaching the drowned engine. A research vessel he knew of docked in Tacoma. The captain of that vessel was to meet him in an hour.

  Jennings was on his new sailboat in the middle of Puget Sound when he answered his maintenance chief’s call on his cellular, a hand-held model. Jennings sounded distracted, and possibly a bit drunk, as Conrad filled him in on the bottom line: finding the sunken engine and bringing it up was going to cost a minimum of fifty thousand dollars, and probably a lot more.

  There was an attempt at a soft whistle from Jennings’s end.

  “So do I have your authorization, Chad?” Conrad asked.

  There was a pause.

  “For what?” Jennings asked.

  “To contract for a salvage operation that’s going to cost that much,” Conrad prompted, heading his car east onto the West Seattle bridge.

  “Tell me again why we need it?” Jennings asked.

  Bill Conrad shook his head in silent disgust. Somehow the idea of Jennings sailing around and enjoying the day while the prospects of his company were in peril seemed wrong and repugnant.

  Pay attention, man, you’re supposed to be the executive in charge!

  He explained it again: the refusal of the NTSB to pay for such a mission; the refusal of the NTSB even to admit publicly that sabotage was a possibility, despite the intruder in the Moses Lake hangar; and the growing holocaust of publicity pointing fingers at the competence of Pan Am maintenance, and therefore the safety of the airline in general.

  “I don’t know, Bill, that’s an awful lot of money.”

  Conrad could hear ice cubes tinkling against a glass in the background and the murmur of a feminine voice saying something low near the mouthpiece. “Just a second,” Jennings said, and the sound of a hand brushing the mouthpiece in an ineffective attempt to cut off the sound reached Conrad’s ears. Jennings, he knew, was newly divorced and showing, at age forty-two, all the signs of a midlife crisis resolved at the expense of his family. Bill Conrad had tried to avoid the gossip about Jennings, but at fifty-eight, with a stable and happy thirty-three-year marriage, he couldn’t help but be put off by the rumors about the younger man. Chad Jennings had supposedly walked out on a wife and four children in Dallas and paid incredible sums to some high-priced legal talent who had successfully manipulated the court into leaving him with most of the assets, and his family with nearly nothing.

  Conrad negotiated the on-ramp to southbound Interstate 5 as the sounds of Jennings’s partially covered phone came through the speaker in his car.

  The mouthpiece was suddenly uncovered. “Okay, Bill, sorry. Something came up.”

  There were more giggles in the background.

  “You were asking for money? No, you were asking for authorization to spend up to fifty thousand, right?”

  “At least.”

  “Okay. Go ahead, you got it. Call me back on Monday.”

  The phone rang again almost immediately, and Conrad punched it on, fully expecting to hear Chad Jennings’s voice with second thoughts.

  Instead, a Seattle newspaper reporter introduced himself and asked for an interview on the NTSB’s search for answers to Clipper Ten’s accident.

  “No,” was Bill Conrad’s reply.

  “Okay, I know this is out of the blue, but—”

  “If you’d like, I’ll give you the number of our public-relations department, and you can—”

  “Already talked to them.”

  “Well, then, I can’t help you.”

  Several seconds ticked by as his car moved south on I-5, Boeing Field passing on the right. A row of multicolored 747-400s lined the northern end of the airport, each with a different airline logo.

  “I know about the sabotage, Mr. Conrad.” The words echoed around the car before Bill Conrad was able to compose an answer.

  This is dangerous! He’s guessing, or fishing!

  “We had a tip that someone broke into your 747 at Seatac the night before the accident and fooled with the engine.”

  “I’ve heard no such rumor regarding Seatac,” he said, walking the razor edge of the truth.

  “Okay, but I’ve heard you’re urging the NTSB investigators to look into sabotage, and the FBI’s been seen working on your aircraft at Whidbey. Now talk to me, Mr. Conrad. You’re the maintenance chief.”

  “And not the PR man, which is why I have nothing to say.”

  “If you change your mind,” the reporter said, “my name, again, is Adrian Kirsch, K-I-R-S-C-H, and here’s my number. Please write it down.”

  It was a useless gesture, Bill told himself, to take down the number; he had virtually no intention of using it.

  But he did it anyway. He rehashed the conversation mentally during the remainder of the trip to Tacoma. How had the reporter found out? Who had tipped him? How did they know about the FBI? What had the FBI found, if anything? Jake Lovesy and he had talke
d Friday night, and there was nothing new. They still weren’t going to mention sabotage as a possibility, Jake had said, until there was at least one piece of hard evidence.

  So who the hell is leaking? Bill wondered.

  Deep down he wished that Kirsch or someone else would tell the public that all the bad press was nothing but a rush to judgment.

  Pan Am maintenance wasn’t at fault!

  Or so he hoped.

  11

  Saturday, March 11, 5:00 P.M.

  Downtown Seattle

  Brian was early, and Elizabeth was ready, greeting him at the door with a long, sensuous kiss, wearing only a silky Hawaiian print shift that was little more than a negligee with flowers.

  Both of them had been through so much tension the previous two days, they were determined to put their problems behind them for a few hours and enjoy this evening.

  They had closed the door and were gravitating toward the couch when the phone rang.

  Eric Knox had called as promised during the morning and asked to postpone a more lengthy report until late afternoon. Elizabeth had forgotten until now that he was planning to call back.

  Reluctantly she disentangled herself from what had become an increasingly impassioned embrace and answered the call, sinking to the couch with a hastily retrieved notepad as Brian took the bottle of wine he’d brought to the kitchen and tried to busy himself with mundane duties, while his thoughts kept migrating back to the couch, and to her.

  “It’s a tough sell, Elizabeth, I won’t kid you,” Eric was saying. “Pan Am’s reputation on the Street took a harpoon in the middle yesterday, and I was almost laughed at by a number of our old friends when I pitched the need for a short-term loan.”

  “We’ll find the security to back it, Eric.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it. I’m just looking for basic willingness, and I’ve got several people outside our firm looking and spreading the word that you’re interested. You may have to call in some markers on this one, Elizabeth. I think you need to get your lovely tail back here tomorrow and be ready to hit the bricks Monday morning.”

  “That hard a sell?”

  “Indeed it will be. Bring your ideas for security, and best have your legal department standing by to jump through any hoops anyone raises before you.”

  “Okay. Okay, I’ll come in Sunday.”

  “Elizabeth, you may not win this one. Just … just be prepared.”

  She replaced the receiver as Brian materialized beside her with two crystal goblets of cold Zinfandel wine—her favorite. He held his glass with his left hand, then, sipping at the wine and lightly running his right hand through her hair as she told him about the call and the hurricane of problems she had confronted since arriving in Seattle—carefully avoiding a specific mention of the ticking bomb, the eighty-five-million-dollar payment that could doom the company. He was chief pilot, but he wasn’t a corporate officer, and there were certain things she couldn’t tell him.

  She didn’t notice the faraway look in his eyes until he spoke suddenly, interrupting her litany, his mind obviously on other thoughts.

  “I’ve missed you, Elizabeth,” he said, his eyes tracking the cascading mane her amber-blond hair had become under the teasing of her hair dryer a few minutes before he arrived. She knew he liked it that way. The “Farrah Fawcett in an open cockpit” look, he had dubbed it.

  She stopped talking about Pan Am and smiled at him, remembering the warm security of being enfolded in his arms. He had carried her emotionally through a thousand doubts and terrors in those early years. Whatever battles she had faced by day, whatever heartless torpedoes had been fired at her self-esteem, she could always escape in his embrace and know everything would work out.

  Elizabeth chuckled quietly and shook her head as she let her eyes drop to his chest, extending her hand to touch him the way she used to—unbuttoning a single button on his shirt and lightly caressing his skin with the tip of her finger.

  She looked up at him then, getting lost in his eyes.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” she said. “I could never let myself dwell on it, because …”

  “I know. Me too,” Brian replied. She felt his large hand brush her cheek as he worked absently to push back her hair and arrange it just so. His hand brought with it the aroma of a woody cologne, and she turned to nuzzle it, kissing his palm and enclosing the back of his hand in hers before turning to him with a smile and a nod toward the kitchen.

  “Come on, my long-lost lover, and let me feed you.”

  The aromas from the ample kitchen in the two-story condo had already commanded his attention and approval. She had always been an incredible cook, trained by her mother, who was equally adept at producing a multi-course meal out of almost nothing.

  “Remember the MRE?” he asked, as he watched her effortlessly prepare a sauce for the beef bourgignon main course.

  “The what?”

  “Meals-ready-to-eat. Friend of mine gave me one from the Army, and I brought it to you on that visit to New York, what was it—four years ago?”

  “Oh yeah.” She smiled at the memory, knowing what he was going to say and loving it.

  “You took that barely edible stuff and made a gourmet meal out of it, how I’ll never understand. The deal was, you couldn’t use anything but spices and bouillon cubes and a few tomatoes.”

  “It wasn’t hard.”

  “Yeah. You’re saying that to a guy who can burn water.”

  “Five more minutes,” she announced, leading him out on the balcony.

  The sun was still swimming above the horizon beyond Elliott Bay, backlighting the Olympic Mountains on the Olympic Peninsula fifty miles distant, its low angle creating a softened light that painted a warm glow on their faces as they stood holding hands, watching the Bremerton ferry churning away to the west.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked, as Brian turned his head to look at her.

  “Incredibly beautiful,” he said, “and the scenery out there’s nice too.”

  “Brian! Honestly!” She turned to him. “What am I going to do with you?”

  There was a definite twinkle in his eyes as he stood there grinning at her.

  Elizabeth took his hand and slowly intertwined her fingers with his, her eyes focused on the effort. “I … think … we’d …” She looked up suddenly. “… better eat first.”

  There would be no more shop talk, they agreed. Not tonight. He had thoroughly compartmentalized the complex troubles that had greeted him Thursday night, and if he could put impending personal disaster out of mind for one night, so could she.

  Though she had agreed, Brian could sense a part of her holding back.

  Dinner was magnificent, just as she had planned it, and just as he had known it would be. With the usual Puget Sound evening chill in the air after sundown, they built the inaugural fire in the new condo’s fireplace and settled back together on the white leather couch, talking of Cambridge, New York, Phoenix, and flying, and the strange twist of fate that had never let either of them find another to permanently fill the void.

  “I never thought we’d ever live in the same area again,” he said. “I never thought we could ever make it work again.”

  “Can we now?” she asked, instantly upset at herself for the suddenness of the question.

  We haven’t even been together one whole evening, she chided herself, and already I sound like I’m pushing for commitment!

  Fortunately he smiled, and the smile expanded and grew to a chuckle and then a laugh. The laugh ended and he shook his head then, side to side, as his eyes became preoccupied once more with her hair.

  “Oh, honey,” he said, “if you only knew the thoughts that have been going through my head these last few weeks since you called.”

  His right hand had moved around to cup the back of her head, and she felt herself being drawn forward gently as he leaned to kiss her.

  She eagerly met his embrace, lighting a flame in both of them as she nibbled his lips
and drew his tongue inside, rising on her knees to his height, her breasts feeling the hard, masculine wall of his chest. Her hands climbed his back, feeling the cropped hair on the back of his neck as she moved to cradle his head and hold him even tighter against her.

  She was powerfully aroused now—as was he, she knew. Their kiss had become an impassioned tangle of lips and tongues when the ringing of the phone cut through the moment like a fire hose. Elizabeth began to disengage, finding Brian unwilling to stop.

  “Don’t answer it!” he said somewhat breathlessly, while nibbling her lips. “Please!”

  “I have to.”

  “No … no, you don’t.” He was smiling and so was she, but the phone was on its third ring.

  “Don’t you have an answering machine?” he asked.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Let the machine earn its keep. We’re busy.” His mouth closed on hers again as the machine snapped on, playing its recorded announcement to the unheard caller. She tried to surrender again, loving the feeling of his strong hands on her back, but the message had ended and she realized a large part of her mind was waiting for the tiny machine to broadcast the voice of the caller through the room.

  “Elizabeth, this is Ron Lamb,” the message began. He sounded exhausted and beaten, and Elizabeth instantly felt compassion for the agony he was going through. “Uh … I’ve been on the phone with some of the bond holders, people I know, trying to work something out in principle.”

  The message continued on, somewhat rambling. It was obvious he was losing hope even before his new CFO had had the chance to look for a rabbit—let alone pull one out of her hat.

  And it was obvious to Elizabeth that if Ron Lamb went too far with the phone calls on his own, he could prejudice her efforts.

  Brian’s embrace slackened a bit. He could feel her drifting away. They kept nuzzling each other, but even Elizabeth’s eyes, he noticed, were looking toward the machine.

  Patience! Brian cautioned himself as he pulled back.

  Elizabeth turned back to him suddenly, caressing the back of his head. “Brian, I need to talk to him.”