Flight into Darkness (Flight Trilogy, Book 2) (4 page)

He closed the door, flipped the latch, and then headed for the coffee pot.

After filling his cup, he made his way into the adjacent den, picked up the TV remote, and pressed the ON button. He was instantly drawn to the KTLA news reporter’s somber voice. The reporter was on location. A beautiful shot of the Pacific Ocean filled the background.

Probably
another
distressed
whale
…
maybe
it’s
a
shark
attack
…
or
a
drowning
.

Ryan looked closer. The TV cameras scanned what appeared to be a tragic accident at sea. Rescue boats, rocked by ocean swells, searched through floating debris while helicopters circled above. The camera slowly panned the hopeless scene, occasionally zooming in on pieces of wreckage as the news reporter recapped:

“
Late
last
night
at
approximately
eleven
thirty
,
a
commercial
airliner
departing
Los
Angeles
International
Airport
bound
for
New
York’s
JFK
was
shot
down
by
U
.
S
.
fighter
jets
.
We
have
been
told
that
authorization
to
destroy
the
airliner
was
given
after
officials
learned
the
plane
was
headed
for
a
target
in
northern
California
.
Numerous
unsuccessful
attempts
to
contact
the
pilots
left
officials
with
little
doubt
that
the
plane
was
under
the
control
of
terrorist
hijackers
.”

“Shot down!”

Impossible
!
How
could
that
happen
?

Ryan focused on the chunks of wreckage, looking for anything that might give him a clue as to which airline: aircraft type; paint scheme; or logo.

The
tail
.
God
,
no
!
It’s
one
of
ours
!

His heart raced. A wave of dizziness ambushed him. His overactive mind scrambled the possibilities like a mixer.

The
crew
?
Are
they
L
.
A
.-
based
?
Do
I
know
them
?

Although he had access to the flight information through the Internet, the company would have it locked out before he could fire up his computer. His mental synapses, faster than any computer, raced to process the known facts.

Last
night
…
LAX
to
JFK
…
after
eleven
…
it
had
to
be
a
widebody
…
a
767
or
757
.

The sound of Keri’s bedroom slippers shuffled across the hardwood floor. Ryan turned from the TV and met her gaze. Before he could speak, she had eased up beside him, slipped her arm around his waist, and turned toward the TV. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“One of our planes crashed last night.”

Keri pulled back. “What?!”

“It crashed off the coast of California just south of San Francisco.”

She turned back to the TV. “How do you know it’s one of ours?”

“Look at the tail.” Ryan pointed to a piece of the vertical stabilizer floating in the water. “See the paint? It’s definitely one of ours.”

She looked up at Ryan. “Why? What happened?”

“They’re saying U.S. fighters shot it down because it had been hijacked and was headed towards a target in San Francisco.”

“Why would they shoot down a commercial airliner with hundreds of innocent people on board?”

“If they think a plane is a threat to a protected asset, that’s what they say they’ll do. I just can’t believe they actually did it!”

“That’s insane! Have they released the names of the crew?”

“We won’t know anything until after they notify the families.”

It was just a matter of time—not
if
but—
when
terrorists would strike again. The thought had haunted him every day since 9/11—especially on the days he flew. Even with the new security enhancements, it was impossible to seal up every crack, especially when the current administration, Congress, and the private sector had failed to act meaningfully on almost half of the recommendations set forth by the
National
Commission
on
Terrorists
Attacks
Upon
the
United
States
(9/11 commission). And thanks to airline executives whining about costs, airports still didn’t have the equipment needed to detect for bombs in carry-on luggage or in cargo.

Keri wrapped her arms around him, both of them continuing to stare at the TV in disbelief. The news reporter had said the pilots did not respond to the air traffic controllers nor did they acknowledge the fighter jet’s signals to follow them. This left Ryan with only one logical conclusion: the plane must have been in the hands of the terrorists—but how?

With enhanced classified onboard security protocols, reinforced cockpit doors, and with many pilots now armed with handguns, how could these multiple layers of defense be penetrated? In addition, it had been proven that, since 9/11, passengers would meet any attempted hijacking with potentially lethal resistance.

There was one far-fetched possibility—one that even security experts couldn’t dismiss: A terrorist might avoid detection—almost entirely—by infiltrating the ranks of commercial airline pilots. It would only take one person who is associated with a terrorist group—appearing to be a legitimate employee in good standing with the airline—to slip through the cracks.

He had another thought. With the number of airline pilots entering alcohol and drug rehabilitation programs at an all time high, and bankruptcies and divorces among airline employees raging, ruling out a pilot-assisted suicide was not completely out of the question.

Without warning, his mind buzzed in a completely different direction.

Oh
my
God
!

He glanced down at Keri, her eyes still glued to the TV screen. Beads of sweat popped from the pores on his forehead and underarms. Clamminess washed over him.

He eased away from Keri. “I need to take a shower.”

“Okay.” She paused, apparently alarmed by his sudden move. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just need to get away from this.” He left the den and hurried to the bathroom, pushing back the urge to vomit. Closing the door, he braced himself on the vanity. Covered in a clammy sweat, his legs collapsed beneath him. He eased over to the toilet, closed the lid and sat.

Details from his nightmare ambushed him: Rex; the creepy-hooded, novel-reading copilot; the attackers; the blood. Dizziness danced in his head to the ringing of a chorus of cicadas spinning him to the horrid conclusion.

It
was
Rex
.
He
was
flying
that
trip
—
my
trip
.
If
he
had
not
trip
traded
with
me
,
I
would
be
dead
…
not
Rex
.

CHAPTER 4

Istanbul
,
Turkey

Ten
months
later
—
Sunday
,
May
25
,
2003

Samael Janus, a tall, broad-shouldered albino man, stepped onto the balcony of his third-story, four-star, boutique hotel, the Hotel Daphnis, and peered down at the shimmering, blue waters of the Golden Horn River. The afternoon sun mirrored sharp flashes of light off the water’s surface causing him to squint. His prescription, transition lenses were worthless shields against the dancing diamonds of light. He quickly pulled his wrappers from his pocket and placed them over the prescription lenses.

Much
better
.

The geriatric-looking wrappers shielded his sensitive eyes and were excellent for hiding the uncontrollable and embarrassing rhythmic movement of his eyeballs. In addition to his heightened sensitivity to light, he’d been plagued since birth with nystagmus (a pendular quivering of the eyes) and a mild case of achromatopsia (inability to see color).

With his bald head shielded beneath a hooded cloak, the moon-faced albino gripped the balcony railing with both hands, closed his eyes, and lifted his head toward the heavens. His mind journeyed into the distant past—
his
past. As he remembered, a smile spread across his face.

On that glorious day in 1453, under the blood-red moon of a partial eclipse, the words of the prophets rang true when Constantinople—along with its allegiance to Christendom—fell under the ruthless hand of the Ottoman warrior, Mehmet the Conqueror. It marked the beginning of the greatest period of growth for the Ottoman Empire.

A rush of adrenalin burst through his veins. His chest tightened and his white skin tingled with excitement as his time-traveling mind visualized the siege of the city. The screams of slaughtered and tortured Christians echoed in the darkness as blood ran through the streets of the city. Ottoman soldiers and Janissaries massacred men and women, young and old, by the blade of the scimitar. No one was spared. Married women and girls committed suicide to avoid being savagely raped. Men chose to die defending their families to avoid being taken as slaves.

After the killing came the gathering of slaves. The most beautiful women would be added to the harems of sultans. The strongest, young boys would be trained as Janissary warriors. The less fortunate, fair and delicate lads were given over to the soldiers to appease their sexual appetites. The adult men would be sold in the slave markets or chained to the oars of Muslim warships.

From his lofty perch over the Golden Horn, Samael took in the panoramic view and the activities along the quiet river’s shores. Couples strolled along her banks. Children played. People sat and read or basked in the sun.

He was drawn to a woman walking alongside a bearded man. The woman’s head was covered by a white shawl. The man wore a woolen hat. A young boy, about ten, ran up to the woman and hugged her. As the woman leaned down and embraced the boy in her arms, Samael felt an ache in his heart. His eyes grew watery.

At the age of fifteen, Samael learned from his adopted parents of his abandonment as a newborn in an alley-way dumpster in downtown Chicago. The news clipping read:

May
29
,
1970
:
While
taking
the
trash
out
,
a
local
merchant
noticed
what
appeared
to
be
the
head
of
a
small
doll
protruding
above
the
pile
of
rubbish
.
The
man
said
, “
When
I
got
closer
,
I
saw
the
hands
moving
.”

The first nine of Samael’s thirty-three years he’d spent warehoused at St. Mary’s Asylum for Boys, a Catholic institution for emotionally troubled adolescents, located on the outskirts of Chicago.

By the early 1970s, the Illinois Department of Children and Family Services had forced almost every orphanage still operating to shut down, allowing only the most emotionally troubled adolescents to live in institutions. With nowhere to go, St. Mary’s Asylum had agreed to care for the freakishly abnormal infant until he could be placed in a home.

Samael’s horrid appearance resulted in merciless name calling and abuse from the other children. They tagged him with names such as whitey, freak, monster, spot face, and demon-boy.

During the frequent, adoptive viewings, prospective parents would poke and prod the children, testing for strengths and weaknesses. The head nun, Sister Bertha, would push little Samael to the back of the line, hoping not to startle the prospective parents or cause a disruptive outburst from the children as they eagerly competed to point out the freak as a “must see” attraction for the unsuspecting guests. A mere glimpse of Samael—a large red birthmark on his right cheek, oscillating eyes, and ghost-like skin—would always unleash recoiled gasps and impulsive outbursts: “Oh my! That poor child!” The mere sight of the child often sent prospective parents scurrying for the door.

Rejected, ridiculed, and depleted of all hope, refusing to be further humiliated by the embarrassing, adoption interviews, Samael resorted to whatever means possible to avoid the fruitless and painful examinations. He hid in closets, under beds, in trash cans, laundry baskets—or wherever—until the guests had departed.

One day, while hiding in a utility closet, he overheard Sister Bertha and Sister Mary talking. They’d stopped by the water fountain located in the hallway beside the utility closet. The deep, raspy voice of Sister Bertha said, “The train is our only option.”

“But if we put him on the train,” said Sister Mary, in her sweet, almost angelic voice, “you
know
what will become of him.”

“Well, we can’t keep him here any longer. No one wants him, and it won’t be long before we have serious problems with the other children. God forgive me, but they should have left the poor child in the dumpster. He will never make it in this world.”

At the time, Samael thought the train sounded like a good idea. He liked trains. But he soon learned that “the train”, referred to by the sisters, was merely a code name originating from a social experiment conducted from 1854 to 1929 where Orphan Trains were used to transport orphaned, abandoned, or homeless, city children into the arms of loving families throughout the country. The modern-day “train” the sisters were referring to was not a train at all, but, instead, an underground child sex service operated, surprisingly, by top government officials, bureaucrats, and diplomats. The orphaned children were flown around the country to engage in child, sex orgies with American’s ruling elite. The sisters had previously used the “train” to rid themselves of problem orphans.