Flight into Darkness (Flight Trilogy, Book 2) (18 page)

He squinted hard at the burst of fluorescent light that met him on the other side of the door.

At least six times each month, Chuck commuted to LAX from Fresno to fly the red-eye to JFK. After fifteen years as a first officer, all-nighters were the best he could hold. If he ever did upgrade to captain, he was destined to spend the rest of his career nailed to the bottom of the seniority list—on reserve—flying the same crappy trips. At least now, he had a schedule, something reserve didn’t offer.

His weekly routine consisted of non-reving down from Fresno, crashing in the sleep room—a converted closet in the corner of flight operations—for a couple of hours, waking in time to sign in for his trip, locating the captain he was assigned to fly with, then racing to Starbucks before they closed at 10:00 p.m. for a venti bold drip with a double shot, then out to preflight the jet.

The LAX to JFK red-eye was a two-day trip with a scheduled landing in New York at 6:36 a.m. followed by a glorious layover at the airport Best Western next to the freeway. The return leg to LAX late that afternoon, if on schedule, would arrive back at LAX in time for Chuck to catch the last flight to Fresno. If he missed it, he would have to bunk down in the nasty sleep room—provided other pilots had not already taken claim to the three recliners—and catch the first flight to Fresno at 6:05 the next morning. Every two days, he repeated the cycle.

Chuck blamed the airline for his wife divorcing him ten months ago. She said she didn’t get married to live alone. She might have never left him if Chuck hadn’t come home unexpectedly to find a big brown delivery truck parked in front of his house, and the UPS guy upstairs making a special delivery of his own.

A chatty neighbor’s wife later told him she found it strange that, when he was out of town, the same delivery guy dropped off a load once, sometimes twice a day. It didn’t help that the UPS guy made twice the money Chuck did and was home every night.

After leaving the sleep closet, Chuck stopped off in the men’s room to relieve himself and freshen up. He brushed his teeth, splashed water on his face, and ran a comb through his thinning blond hair. He paused, peering at his image in the mirror, questioning how life had taken such a toll on his appearance.

At forty-one, he could easily pass for fifty. The dark shadows under his eyes normally cleared up after a few days off, but the rest of it was permanent. He might not be the catch he was ten or fifteen years ago, but he still knew how to please the ladies.

He checked his watch—9:40. The line at Starbucks was guaranteed to be out the door as passengers and crewmembers queued up for one last caffeine rush before scattering to the far ends of the Earth.

He still had to meet the captain. He would make one swing through the flight planning room. If the captain wasn’t there—screw it—he’d meet him at the jet. The thought of watered down airplane coffee made him shake.

He strolled into flight planning and saw one lone pilot, a captain, staring into a computer screen. Chuck didn’t recognize him, but by the strained look on the guy’s face, it promised to be an interesting night.

* * *

Ryan glanced over his shoulder. A pilot with three-striped epaulets on his shoulders was headed his way.

Must
be
him
.
Should
I
tell
him
now
,
or
wait
?
If
I
tell
him
now
,
he
might
try
to
call
someone
.
I’d
better
wait
until
we
are
locked
up
in
the
cockpit
,
checklist
complete
,
and
ready
for
takeoff
.

“New York?” the pilot said.

With only a handful of outbound red-eyes, it was often easier finding a pilot headed to a certain destination than it was finding a name.

“Yeah.” Ryan turned, extending his hand, forcing a smile. “Ryan Mitchell.”

“Chuck Smith.”

They shook hands, Ryan feeling his sweaty palms against Chuck’s spongy grip.

Chuck was a good head taller than Ryan, skinny as a rail with a dark tan. His thinning, blond hair looked more like a skull cap than hair, combed back with well-defined rows, held down with water, spray, or some type of gel or mousse, curling at the neck. Ryan turned back to the keyboard and clicked a few final keys, sending a request for his flight plan. Chuck eased his lanky frame up next to the counter and propped on an elbow. “Hey, Cap’n, I don’t believe we’ve flown together.”

Continuing to stare into the monitor, hoping to hide the distressed look on his face, Ryan said, “I don’t think we have.”

“You live local, or commute?”

“I’m down in Orange County. What about you?”

“Commute. Fresno.”

Ryan nodded, acknowledging Chuck’s response with a cursory glance.

“I didn’t get a chance to check out the rest of the crew,” Chuck said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky tonight and have a couple of hot stews,”

Ryan shot Chuck a questioning glare.

Hot
stews
?

In all of his years at the airline, he’d never heard flight attendants referred to as “hot stews”.

“Oh, don’t worry, Cap’n,” Chuck patted Ryan’s shoulder, “I’d never use that term in front of the ladies. The last thing I want to do is piss off the help or end up being counseled for sexual harassment.”

Ryan’s concern escalated. He needed a copilot with more of a military-type attitude—someone that understood war—not some has-been, laid-back, skirt-chasing surfer dude.

Chuck eased off the counter and checked his watch. “Hey, I’m gonna hit Starbucks before they close. Can I get you anything?”

Nice
gesture
,
but
how
would
you
carry
two
cups
of
coffee
plus
drag
your
roller
bag
?

“No, I’m good. I’ll meet you at the plane.”

“Great. See ya there.” Chuck hurried off.

God
help
me
.

CHAPTER 25

10:05 p.m.

When Ryan stepped aboard the plane, Chuck was standing in the first-class galley engaged in meaningless conversation with two flight attendants. He wondered if Chuck had even started his preflight duties. Normally, when Ryan arrived at the plane, most copilots were in the cockpit busily flipping switches and loading the flight computer.

Chuck turned, proudly gripping his venti-size Starbucks cup. “There’s the man.”

Looking past Chuck, Ryan greeted the two flight attendants. “Hi, I’m Ryan.”

The young, attractive brunette Chuck had cornered responded, “Tina.” He guessed her to be in her early 30’s.

The stout, blond woman in her late 40’s, standing beside Tina said, “Hi, I’m Bev. You got anything for us, Captain?”

As the lead flight attendant, she wanted to know if there were any special briefing items: security issues, expected delays, ride reports.

“No, nothing unusual. No delays and it should be mostly smooth. Possibly some chop crossing the Rockies. Let me know if you need anything during boarding.”

Hearing passengers coming down the jet bridge, he dragged his kitbag and suitcase through the narrow hallway leading into the cockpit. He stowed his roller bag, securing it with floor straps, and then slung his kitbag into the small space to the left of the captain’s seat.

He checked the time—10:05. In exactly twenty-five minutes the agent would seal the cabin door, and they would push back from the gate. The lunatic said he would be watching his every move. Any delay might cause alarm.

After checking the logbook, Ryan climbed into the left seat. A quick glance around the cockpit told him that, surprisingly, Chuck had already completed the preflight; he’d even loaded the flight plan into the computer—a flight plan that would not be flown.

After checking over his shoulder to ensure he was alone, Ryan took the lunatic’s instructions and quickly loaded the profile into the computer’s secondary route. The secondary route was normally left blank, but if used, could be activated with only a couple of key strokes.

Chuck eased into the cockpit at the same time Ryan completed loading the computer. Chuck moved in a certain sloth-like manner, calm and laid back, almost as if time had no meaning. Ryan glanced over to see Chuck staring out his side window into the dark. Not until he raised a hand, running it slowly along the top of his blond helmet, did Ryan realize Chuck was using the window as a mirror.

With ten minutes remaining before scheduled departure, Ryan said, “Let’s get started.”

Chuck came to life and rattled off the checklists with the ease of a seasoned veteran. It was Ryan’s first inkling of hope that beneath Chuck’s apathetic shell was a skilled and competent professional.

With the checklist complete and the passengers boarded, the gate agent closed the jet’s entry door at exactly 10:29. Chuck radioed ramp control for pushback clearance. Once the clearance was received, Ryan released the parking brake and advised the ground crew on intercom that they were cleared to push. At precisely 10:30 p.m., the jet pushed off the gate.

Ryan knew his only hope of saving Keri and the kids depended on Chuck. The plan he had dreamed up required Chuck to fly the jet solo, while Ryan raced home. The lunatic would never suspect it. Once the cockpit door was bolted closed, post 9/11 security procedures prohibited the flight attendants from entering the cockpit without permission from the pilots.

Ryan would have until midnight to get home—exactly one hour and thirty minutes from now. If Chuck flew the lunatic’s profile perfectly, Ryan would be able to climb out through the cockpit window, hop a ride on the back of a baggage cart to the employee parking lot, and race home—hopefully before Chuck reached the Golden Gate Bridge.

After the ground crew disconnected the tug, Chuck called the tower for taxi clearance. The tower cleared them to taxi to Runway 25R. Ryan began carefully maneuvering the big jet through the dimly-lit taxiways toward the runway. He glanced at the clock—10:35.

The 68 mile drive back to his house would normally take 55 to 60 minutes. At this time of night, he didn’t suspect that traffic would be a problem. He knew his only real problem would be convincing Chuck to fly the profile solo—especially after what happened to Rex’s flight, ten months earlier. Never before had a commercial airliner been shot down by military chase planes. There was a high probability they would do it again—especially if the plane was descending and heading toward the Golden Gate Bridge. Hopefully he could convince Chuck otherwise.

Ryan eased along the dark taxiway, responding to the checklist items as Chuck called them out.

“BEFORE TAKEOFF CHECKLIST is complete,” Chuck said.

A United B-747 thundered by in the opposite direction down Runway 25R. “Cap’n, you want me to tell the tower we’re ready?”

“Tell ‘em we need five minutes.”

Ryan felt his chest tighten with every minute. Once the tower approved the short delay, he would unload his plan on Chuck.

“Tower, Angel 54 needs five minutes.”

“Roger. Hold where you are and let me know when you are ready.”

“So…what’s up?” Chuck said.

Ryan checked the time—10:38. He turned to Chuck.

“Chuck, I desperately need your help, and we don’t have a lot of time. I need you to listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you.”

CHAPTER 26

The albino stooped down at the foot of Keri’s gurney. She craned her neck to watch. He rose with a two foot long IV pole. With a jerk, the pole telescoped to twice its length. He clamped it to the aluminum tubing of her stretcher, just to the right of her head.

He leaned down again and picked up the silver case and placed it between Keri’s spread legs. He flipped open the latches and raised the lid. He lifted three pre-filled plastic bags of fluid from the case, all complete with drip chambers and a long tube with a regulating clamp. He hung the three bags of fluid on hooks at the top of Keri’s IV pole.

Keri’s eyes widened as she read the labels taped to the bags:

SODIUM THIOPENTAL

PANCURONIUM BROMIDE

POTASSIUM CHLORIDE

The same three chemicals used to perform lethal injections.

Talking in a calm voice as Samael fiddled with the tubes dangling from the bags of chemicals hanging above Keri’s head, he said, “Keri, I’m going to hook you up first, then the children.”

He removed an infusion pump from the aluminum case and clamped it to the IV pole.

“Being a nurse, I’m sure you’re familiar with all this,” he said, “and you’ve probably read the labels on the bags by now. But you have no reason to worry. The chemicals will only be used if your husband fails to do as I have instructed him.”

Samael worked with the tubes as he connected them to separate channels of the infusion pump.

“These multichannel infusion pumps are set to automatically sequence the chemicals,” he said. “The pumps have been interfaced with our computer and will only be activated under certain conditions. The circuitry is tied to a simple program, similar to a light switch. If the conditions are met, the circuit is switched on, activating the infusion pumps. The chemicals will flow through the tubing and into you and your children’s bloodstreams, one bag at the time.” He paused and met Keri’s stressed stare. “Don’t worry, dear, you and the children won’t feel a thing. The sodium thiopental is first, and it will put you into a deep sleep.”

He moved to the foot of the children’s gurneys, each having their own silver case and IV pole, and repeated the setup. When he’d finished, he called to Usman. “You can connect the pumps now.”

The little man connected the loose ends of the three colored roped cables to its respective infusion pumps. He then checked the connections at the hub and to the computer’s processor.

“Keri, there are two conditions that will turn these pumps on. The first is if your husband does not complete his mission at exactly midnight. Secondly, once we activate the program, if the infusion pumps are disconnected from the computer or power is lost, the pumps will switch ON.”