Flying Too Close to the Sun Read online

  “He was the one who screwed up, but O’Brien’s apparently got it in for the new second officer. I told him to leave the kid alone and if he wants to do something, then go after Montgomery. But he didn’t want to hear that, so I might have to put something in writing?”

  “All these management scumbags are nothing but selfish money-grubbers,” David replied. “Speaking of money, did you leave me a check for my next term’s tuition?”

  “Like you requested I wrote a check for four grand and made it out to you, instead of the school. It’s in an envelope on the kitchen table.”

  “Thanks. I also have my eye on a really nice Bose surround sound stereo system. It would look out of this world on the empty shelf in the living room and the TV would sound great,” a smiling David told her.

  “Don’t you care about my career? What’s this latest stuff going to cost?”

  “I don’t remember the exact amount, but not that much.”

  “Just like the giant screen Sony television you bought over the internet on my credit card? Either you don’t understand or just refuse to accept it, but I need money to pay your bills and keep my head above water. I’ve got lots of other expenses and you pile on even more. And now with this epilepsy crap…” her voice grew faint.

  “But you are an airline captain.”

  “Don’t give me that. I’ve got child support and alimony payments. Plus, we Shuttle Air pilots haven’t had a raise in almost three years. It’s difficult to make ends meet and getting tougher each month. I need to come up with money, quickly and I don’t know how much time I have left if the FAA somehow finds out about the epilepsy? I only have a few months of sick time and then I’d go on disability, which is only half pay for a maximum of three years.”

  After a moment a pensive David replied, “I have an idea on how we just might get out hands on some dough.”

  “Do what?” Christina warily asked.

  David paused, seemingly deep in thought, which Christina believed would be a first. He finally replied. “Get some cash. It might be possible for me to rifle through some passenger bags. Even though all the checked bags go through x-ray machines, there are still some idiots who put money in their luggage. If I did come up with something the first suspects would be the TSA people x-raying the bags. I read where some TSA workers at JFK airport were arrested for making off with eighty grand from some Pakistani asshole who stashed it in his suitcase.”

  “I don’t know?” Christina replied, shaking her head. “There were some United Airlines baggage handlers like you in Los Angeles who were nailed for stealing items from peoples’ luggage. It wasn’t cash but other junk they fenced for pennies on the dollar. That’s a lot of risk for some nickel and dime stuff.”

  “I could do it quickly because the bags can’t be locked,” David added, ignoring her comment, “but I’d need a secure location.”

  “I don’t like your idea, at all,” Christina whispered, shaking her head.

  “I could do it in the one dark corner under the terminal near where you park on the last flight. It’s in the deep shadows and as far as I can tell there are no video cameras. You could act as my lookout. Wait ‘til the other pilots leave, stay in the cockpit and act like you’re checking something. You can see me, but no one else can. If someone approaches, sound the wheel well warning horn. Three toots then two, then one. I can just throw the bag back onto the cart and drive off, with no one the wiser. I can look for an expensive Gucci piece of luggage. Who knows..? I can do a test run tomorrow night.”

  Christina relented. “All right, but don’t take any petty-ante stuff; only twenty-five grand in cash, or more.”

  “Sure.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Erik entered the austere flight operations office where the emphasis was strictly on functionality and greeted Woody, saying nothing about his tense meeting with O’Brien. A few moments later, another captain named Jason Schmidt introduced himself, stating he was filling in for Christina. All the flights came off without a hitch and nothing was mentioned about the previous evening’s events.

  . . .

  Christina returned the following day, another dreary one with low ceilings and restricted visibility. As she was filling out the flight paperwork, with just the two of them present, Erik asked, “Where were you yesterday? Did you speak with O’Brien?”

  “I called him and he gave me the day off. Why do you ask?”

  “There was a voice message on my home phone directing me to come to his office and when we met I got the distinct impression he was attempting to pin the Boston problem on me. Did you say anything?”

  “No. But remember what I said. You need to study and be better prepared.”

  “You bring up anything with him about Woody?”

  “Whatever I said stays between O’Brien and me.”

  “I felt threatened and I don’t know why he acted like that,” Erik added.

  “He is not a nice person, so take some advice and steer clear of him. I got the impression he doesn’t care for you.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just my gut feeling.”

  Woody arrived a short time later and the first three trips came off without a hitch. Prior to the final leg, however, the gate agent again announced there would be a delay awaiting a passenger. Christina was once again handed a paper stating they were waiting for a sky marshal who would be seated in 3D. While trying to make sense of this mystery, she noticed a set of approaching headlights on the ramp loading area. Any activity like this past departure time was unusual and she assumed it might somehow be connected to the delay. She stood and glanced out through the rain-distorted right rear cockpit window, allowing her to observe a section of the ramp neither Woody nor Erik could see. The window was cold to the touch because unlike the front ones, it wasn’t heated. She could make out a dark panel truck pulling up planeside, when a lanky young man in a raincoat with a shiny badge affixed hopped out, trying to shield his head from the light rain with a newspaper. She recognized him as the sky marshal. Was this some sort of government business? A couple of airline baggage loaders appeared out of nowhere but the fellow with the badge shooed them away with a simple hand motion. They ambled off, waited until the guy’s back was turned and one returned a simple hand motion, the middle-finger salute. The young policeman or whatever he was, finally uttered something into a small microphone affixed to his raincoat collar and several unformed guards immediately exited the van and began unloading large, dark satchels onto a belt loader going directly into the forward cargo bin. They seemed to handle each with extra care, like something precious might be inside. Christina used her sleeve to wipe off the mist her breath was leaving on the window to get a better view of this puzzling scene. Through the drifting low cloud cover she caught quick glimpses of the brightly lit downtown Boston skyline off in the distance. A moment later the uniformed workers got back into the truck and drove off, while the fellow with the badge walked briskly toward the front of the plane. Her attention turned to the cabin, where he carefully folded his coat, placed it in the overhead compartment and took window seat, 3-D on the right side. There was no sign of his previously-visible badge. Just then the agent said they were ready to depart.

  After returning to her seat, Christina wondered what could be in those sacks. If it’s money I sure could use some. But how could money or anything of value be connected with the sky marshal program?

  . . .

  US Treasury Agent Christopher Norton took his assigned seat and heard the familiar high-pitched whine of the jet engines starting, which meant approximately four million dollars of Uncle Sam’s cash would again make it to its final New York City resting place.

  . . .

 
As she carefully maneuvered the big tri-jet into the gate after landing at LaGuardia, Christina recalled David might be attempting his scam, tonight. She saw him at the wheel of his tug and glancing in her direction. She also saw what appeared to be an armored vehicle off in the distance, waiting. Should she sound the warning? She held her breath, knowing this was not worth the risk. Only seconds remained. Would he get caught? If apprehended would he implicate her? After reaching up to sound the horn she had second thoughts and stopped.

  As the sky marshal hurriedly disembarked onto the Jetway, the umbilical cord that attached the 727 to the passenger terminal she saw David pull into a murky corner under the terminal building where his movements were concealed by the shadows cast by the concentrated lighting illuminating the outside ramp. He jumped off his tug with a piece of baggage in each hand, unzipped one and stuffed something into his pocket. As he went to open the second he glanced up, then quickly returned it to the cart and drove off. An instant later the sky marshal was standing next to the belt loader while an armored truck pulled up planeside and men in uniforms unloaded the large bags into it. She immediately got out of there.

  At home, Christina found David clad in checkered boxers and his usual muscleman tank, nursing a lite beer while lying on the dilapidated couch, watching a Mets game on TV. She plopped down alongside him and took a slug of his brew.

  “You see me tonight?” he asked.

  “Yes. But I’m very uncomfortable with this whole thing.”

  He reached into his top pocket and pulled out a ring. “Oh yeah? Take a look at this baby. It ought to bring us an easy five hundred, maybe even more?”

  She picked up a ring with what appeared to be an emerald setting and gave it a quick once-over. “I thought we agreed there would be no cheap shit like this?”

  Ignoring her he said, “I was about to open another fancy-looking suitcase, but some guy came down the steps and walked right in front of your plane. Did you see him?”

  “He was listed on my flight paperwork as a sky marshal. But he also—”

  “A sky marshal? Holy shit! Those guys carry guns. I could have been shot! Why didn’t you—?”

  “He’s been on board before.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you warn me?” a fuming David demanded.

  Christina heatedly replied, “Warn you? I thought we agreed it would be twenty-five grand or better, in cash? If you didn’t heist this cheap piece of garbage you wouldn’t be worrying.” Quickly cooling down, she changed the subject. “I think he also acts as some kind of guard?”

  “The sky marshal? For what?” a now-composed David asked.

  “I don’t know. The guy’s listed on the paperwork only as a marshal.”

  “If I didn’t see him in time I might’ve been caught. And if I get nailed, you also—”

  “I figured he would be busy supervising the unloading of some bags,” she answered, taking note David would implicate her if caught. Pointing to the ring she repeated through gritted teeth. “I told you I do not want to run a risk for something petty like this.”

  As if ignoring her comment, David took another slug of beer and belched. “Any idea what’s in those bags?”

  Placing her anger on the back burner once again, Christina told him, “No. Have you heard anything?”

  “Not a word. It must be some hush-hush deal. Let me see if I can find out anything.”

  She took another slug from his bottle. “I’ve got to get my hands on money. Fast. Not something like that,” she again repeated pointing to the ring. “I do not like living with this epilepsy hanging over my head and never knowing if or when I might have a seizure. And you have got to stop buying all this pricey stuff and putting it on my credit card.”

  “But I needed those things,” he whined trying to engage her with his dark eyes, like she was the most important person in the world. But the ploy didn’t work.

  “Just like this goddamned television? The expensive laptop computer, bedroom set and high-priced membership at the pricey PUMP health club in New York City?” she said waving her arms. “All those things went on my credit card.”

  “C’mon. You like the TV. And I need the laptop for my college courses. And don’t you want me to work out so I keep my sexy actor’s physique?” a smiling David asked, standing up and flexing his biceps.

  Christina didn’t smile back, only removed her shoes and asked, “Did you get the check for four grand I left for your tuition?”

  “Yeah, and thanks for making it out to me. The last time you wrote it out to the school and it created a whole shitload of problems. The names didn’t match and the records were screwed up because they thought I never paid. This time everything will match up.” A smiling David quickly added, “I went to the gym and worked on these babies for an hour. Look at the size,” he said, flexing his huge biceps. “But I didn’t work out my love muscle,” David said scratching his crotch as he dragged her into the bedroom.

  As usual, David fell asleep immediately after having sex, so Christina got out of bed feeling totally empty and went into the kitchen where she poured herself a glass of Evian water. In the bathroom she opened an unmarked small vial of pills and removed one 30-milligram capsule of a powerful sleeping tablet. As if having epilepsy continually on her mind wasn’t enough, she saw the ring lying on the table and it frightened her. A few hundred lousy bucks—maybe? But was there was something worth taking a big chance for in those mysterious sacks?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The weather was bright and sunny on Saturday, perfect for Erik’s weekend flight instructing job at Republic Airport, located near his home on Long Island. He needed extra money and the flight school required an instructor, so by mutual agreement he was paid off the books. He and his heavyset student Joseph Jones, or JJ as he was called had just completed an hour of dual instruction in a single-engine Cessna 152. As JJ secured the plane Erik ambled back to the operations office adorned with black and white, framed photos of many military aircraft produced by the airport’s previous owner, Republic Aviation. Formerly called the Seversky Aircraft Company it was responsible for the design and production of many important US military planes of a bygone era, including the World War II P-47, and the F-105 Thunderchief fighter jet used in the Korean conflict. The company was long gone, along with thousands of jobs.

  Erik went to the vending machine, put in four quarters, got a bottle of water and rechecked his appointments for the rest of the day. A first-timer named Sal Rodriguez was listed for the 4 PM session. It was just before two, so he had time for the quick ten-minute drive to his parent’s home where he was living until he finished his airline probationary period in just under a year. It was a hot day and the small planes weren’t air conditioned so a cooling shower was in order.

  “I’ll be back for my four o’clock appointment,” he informed Andrea, the school desk clerk with so much dyed jet black hair piled on the top of her head she looked as though she was in danger of tipping over.

  While driving, he passed neatly manicured lawns and row upon row of maple trees bordering the streets in the middle-class Farmingdale, Long Island community. The homes here were quickly put in place in the sixties and all the houses on the street were pretty much cut from the same mold, but a generation of additions and landscaping changed that with the community now mainly comprised of blue collar workers. The neighborhood almost screamed out, middle income only. No wealthy individuals allowed. People like his parents who couldn’t be classified as affluent, but perhaps comfortable. Only a short time ago this area, bordered roughly on the north by the Long Island Expressway, better known as the world’s largest parking lot and the Southern State Parkway to the south, was wall to wall potato farms. The roadways brought the people and as a result of the urban migration, F
armingdale was now a suburb of the suburbs, waiting while one caught up with the other, creating the same urban environment most had moved here to escape.

  Pulling into the driveway Erik stepped back in time, his childhood all around him. But the memories going along with this starched tidiness weren’t pleasant. He knew every floorboard, just as he knew the incendiary feelings of hurt and anger toward his parents conveniently tucked away in a remote corner of his brain, only to ignite sporadically. Although he detested living with them this would be the best he could do until next year when he would make enough to begin paying off his debts and get his own place. There might be a quicker way to earn extra cash other than flight instructing, but flying was his only livelihood. Recalling how much money he owed, his stomach did flips and Erik felt like he was in a plane and spinning out of control.

  Entering the house he shouted in German, “Guten Tag, Mutter. Ich bin hier,” but only stark silence returned his greeting. This wasn’t one of those massive ten-thousand square foot mansions dotting Long Island’s Gold Coast on the money drenched North Shore abutting Long Island Sound. Rather, the homes here were more in the neighborhood of two-thousand square feet or slightly smaller where you could hear someone drop a kitchen utensil from just about anywhere. Formerly called starter homes, they used to be occupied by newly married couples on their way up in the world or retirees on their way out, but many like this had morphed into lifelong residences.

  Erik padded to the kitchen with the scrubbed white walls and shiny green ceramic tile floor, removed the sweating orange juice container from the refrigerator and took a long slug, careful not to spill any. Although this place was outwardly pristine and full of Old World antiques, he knew this amounted to shining fiction as the unspoiled interior was permanently stained by the angst running throughout, with distrust everywhere. His mother could buff the floor continually but never wash away her acts or the venomous words that came from his father’s mouth. He could still smell the cigarettes and booze on the old man’s foul breath and feel the pain from the wounding words. A place where senseless rage was Joe Preis’ answers for an unfaithful spouse; a time which turned what should have been a period of love into a hardened heart. To this day it remained cold and ugly, stripped of affection and joy, with an abundant supply of alcohol to temporarily wash away the sins of the past and present.