Blue Skies (35 page)

A
fter two weeks of operating a drastically downsized airline by using management personnel as pilots and flight attendants, Aries Airlines announced it was suspending operations. The management blamed the unions, insisting they had absolutely nothing more to give in such a bleak economy and airline environment, and the unions complained of a management so inept it couldn't bring their employees above poverty-level wages.

Aries bought a page in the Monday business newspaper listing average wages by employee group. Unions bought a half page in the Tuesday paper with an entirely different set of numbers, considerably lower.

Passengers stood in long lines that moved slower than bureaucracy, looking for transportation on any carrier that would take them. Despite the fact that nearly every commercial airline was willing to honor Aries tickets, this was Thanksgiving week, and there were very few available seats.

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, which this year was the last Wednesday of the month, was traditionally the busiest travel day of the year. The airport was standing room only and Security was backed up with at least a couple hours' wait. The management of New Century Air had chosen this time of year, this month as their kickoff, for precisely this reason—they were almost
guaranteed good passenger loads even as a new and virtually unknown entrant. For a brand-new airline, good loads were better than half-full planes. Under current circumstances, the planes were filled to capacity.

For most of the New Century employees, the strain of this flood of humanity was too much. There were the inevitable delays and oversights. Not the kind of problems that would cause an airline disaster, but the kind that created havoc and pissed people off.

Knowing the potential for such problems, management was very much in evidence around the airport, pitching in, offering advice. The day started under control. Nikki donned a New Century ramp jumpsuit and steel-toed shoes to help throw bags, as did Joe Riordan, the Wrench, customer service and In-flight management, and even Bob Riddle. Predictably, when the demands of Joe Riordan's office called him from the airport, Riddle disappeared. The first couple of flights left the gate on time and were uneventful. Both were going to West Coast cities and would be back by early afternoon. By noon the crush of passengers had at least doubled, as had the impatience of travelers.

And then that phenomenon well known to airline people occurred: when it starts getting crazy, the crazies come out in spades.

It started when a hassled and harried gate agent in Los Angeles boarded a man who was rambling about his mission in Las Vegas to get even with casino bosses. Everyone ignored him. He was a perfect example of a passenger who was going to be more trouble to detain than to turn over to the aircraft crew and let them deal with him.

His rambling became more precise and threatening above ten thousand feet when he asked to use a crew
member's cell phone to call Scotland Yard to speak to the bureau chief and turn himself in for the soon-to-be-committed murder of a major casino CEO. He claimed to have weapons and sufficient ammunition in his checked bags to do impressive damage.

It was highly doubtful he had weapons and ammunition in his luggage—unless the security equipment was faulty or some bags had been missed in the wackiness of the busiest travel day of the year.

“Why in God's name did they board him?” Nikki asked.

“What? And give up his revenue?” the dispatcher said with a shrug.

Las Vegas Metro was there to pick him up when he arrived, along with a couple of dogs to do some sniffing around the baggage area, on the off chance.

But a similar thing happened on the inbound from San Francisco. A young gentleman in the gate area was very excited about his Thanksgiving holiday in the gaming city and had had quite a few cocktails. Again, the harried gate agent thought if he could just get him out of the gate area and onto the plane, there wouldn't be a delay. Taking a delay was always a problem, and one that was pursued until fault could be found. The agent figured once the guy was buckled in and under way, very likely he would settle down…or pass out.

He didn't.

Or rather, he settled down until the flight attendants started serving drinks. He was given one, and when his demands for a second were not immediately acted upon, it brought a string of profane insults from his lips. He was warned by the pretty young flight attendant, then by the largest male attendant onboard, after which he slipped into the lav, took off all his clothes and sprinted
up and down the aisle of the plane until someone finally tripped him.
Splat—
flat on his face, unconscious and completely naked.

Las Vegas Metro came to get another one, no dogs necessary this time.

The problems weren't limited to NCA by any means. There were fisticuffs on United, and some out-of-control peanut tossing on American, and a flight attendant on US Airways had a drink thrown on her before a little old blue-hair was subdued with the Tuff-Cuffs.

It wasn't always the fault of a gate agent foisting his or her troublemakers onto the aircraft crew. There were problems aplenty at ticket counters, gates and baggage areas everywhere across the United States. A seeing-eye dog expired on a flight, a woman gave birth while waiting in line to check bags, and three unaccompanied minors got on the wrong plane.

But by the end of the day, New Century Air won the prize for the biggest caper of them all.

“Well, Nikki, your number's up,” the dispatcher told her over her cell phone. “We have a no-show on the 4:00 p.m. departure to Chicago. It lays over there and comes back tomorrow afternoon at 3:00 p.m.”

“Who's the no-show?”

“Jeff Hayden.”

“No way. He's so dependable.”

“Maybe he'll make it, but it's time to preflight and board.”

What the hell, she thought. At least there was no way they could call her to fly on Thanksgiving Day—she'd already be flying. There wouldn't be any flights left after her return the next day.

“I'll call my kids and sitter if you'll have someone
with a ramp vehicle go to the office and pick up my uniform and overnight bag,” she instructed.

“Done,” said the dispatcher.

“Oh, and who's my first officer?”

“That would be Captain Landon. He's already on the plane.”

A warm flush passed through her as she thought about a layover in the same city with Sam. It wasn't going to be a sex circus; she just wasn't in that place yet. But it would be fine with her if they managed a quiet dinner together.

“Captain Burgess?”

“Hmm?”

“If you'll go ahead and board, your uniform and bag will be delivered to the cockpit.”

“Thanks. Did Captain Landon get the paperwork for this flight?”

“All set. He's walking around now.”

“Thanks. Tell the gate agent that a last-minute crew change might cause a slight delay, but we'll try to catch up.”

“Uh-uh. All respect, Captain, it's Ms. Pissant up there and I'm not going any more rounds with her today. After two nutballs before dinner, she's wound a little tight.”

“Fine,” Nikki laughed. “Leave her to me.” She went upstairs to the gate area. New Century used only two gates, the first two on the concourse, while a number of other airlines used a total of twenty, ten on each side of the concourse, all the way to the end. It was a coup to get the closest gates, which meant the shortest distance from parking, ticketing and security—very convenient for their passengers. She dialed her phone as she went. The answering machine came on at her house and she hated leaving them a message that she wasn't coming
home tonight. Before resorting to that, she tried Carlisle's cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Oh, I'm so glad I caught you. I just got pegged for a flight. The pilot is a no-show. He's one of the most responsible we have, so he might still turn up. But—”

“Nick,” Carlisle interrupted. “Turn around.”

She made a one-eighty and found herself face-to-face with him. “What are you doing here?” she asked into the phone.

He smiled and lowered his phone to his side, which made her realize what she'd done. “I'm picking up Ethel,” he said. “So, you're going out now?”

“Yeah, but the good news is, I'll be back at about three tomorrow and I'm on the ground for turkey. I couldn't have planned it better than that. But like I said, he might still make it. You'll keep an eye on the kids—all three of them?”

“Four. There's Ethel. And Buck called earlier. Said he'd come up this afternoon if he could escape Phoenix.”

“Aw. I don't mean to stick you with—”

He put up a hand. “I have a lot to do for tomorrow. I'm going to serve a light dinner tonight and ban everyone from the kitchen. This suits me fine.” He cocked his head to listen to an announcement. “That's her flight. You fly safely and we'll see you tomorrow.”

“Tell the kids I'll call later from Chicago.”

She then spoke to the gate agent, who, though bristly, was fine when handled with extra consideration for the pressure she was under. Nikki told her to give them an additional ten minutes before beginning boarding, and then hurried down the jetway to the plane.

She was already in the cockpit in her street clothes
when Sam finished his walk-around and joined her there. “I must be living right,” he said upon seeing her in the left seat.

“You wouldn't have any idea what happened to Jeff, would you? He's a no-show for this flight.”

“I can't believe that.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and clicked off some numbers, but all he got was voice mail.

“He might be racing toward us as we speak,” Nikki said.

“I don't wish him any bad luck, but if he doesn't make this flight, that would suit me fine.”

“Just so long as you don't get any ideas,” she warned.

“Nick, so far my ideas are all I've had to keep me warm at night,” he said. But he got into his seat like a good boy and they began running the checklist.

From that point it was business as usual. The senior flight attendant came up and introduced herself as Karen; Nikki asked Sam to do a crew briefing so she could catch up. The uniform and overnight bag arrived and she made a quick change as the passengers began boarding. The plane filled up with people, the bags were loaded, the fueling was complete.

“Well,” she said, “it looks like Jeff missed Flight 909, Sam.”

“God bless him,” Sam said.

 

Carlisle had collected Ethel from her Northwest flight out of Minneapolis and was escorting her toward the baggage area when he heard someone shout, “Stop!” Instinctively, he stopped. Holding Ethel's arm, he pulled her to the side of the concourse, which was swollen with wall-to-wall people.

There were further shouts, a few surprised screams, and then Carlisle saw a young Hispanic man in black pants and white shirt fly through the crowd at a dead run. His head was down, but he had a panicked look on his face as he shoved people of every age out of his path. Carlisle gasped as he watched an old woman who walked with a cane tumble to the floor. There, in the man's right hand, flush against his thigh, was a very large black gun.

Since there were no alarms sounding, Carlisle assumed the man had run full speed through the exit side of the security station. As long as he kept going, running inside the crush of people who couldn't see him coming from behind, he had a path to the gates.

“Dear God,” Carlisle breathed.

Close on his tail was a man in airport security livery, but he was unarmed. Behind him came the National Guard, brutally serious-looking young men with very scary M-16s, but as Carlisle knew, there would be no shooting by them; the concourse was absolutely packed.

Just as Carlisle thought this, the man darted into the New Century gate, shoved the gate agent out of his way and ran down the jetway. The jetway that led to Nikki's plane.

Now there were screams in earnest from people on the concourse who had seen the gun. A Metro police officer was speaking into his radio as he ran behind the helpless soldiers who trailed the security guard. Immediately, over the airport intercom, Carlisle heard, “Jack Woodson, Jack D. Woodson.”

He looked down the concourse. Airline employees sprang into action at the code word for a security breach. They secured the doors to jetways, while at the other end, crew members were closing and securing aircraft
doors and pulling jetways back from the planes. Gate agents were moving people out of the gates, directing them down the concourse.

Running against the flow were more Metro police officers, while in the background that tireless mantra kept repeating,
Jack Woodson, Jack D. Woodson…Jack Woodson, Jack D. Woodson.

 

The passengers were boarded and the pilots were ready to push as soon as the Ops agent brought the final weight-and-balance paperwork to the cockpit. Karen stuck her head in. “Captain and Captain,” she said, smiling. “A miracle has occurred—there are enough meals on board and you will actually be fed.”