Retribution

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “Are you in the business?” she said. The “business” in Hollywood, is code for the movie industry.

  “Sort of.”

  “What do you mean

  sort of?”

  “I’m a doctor. A plastic surgeon.”

  She tossed her head back and laughed. “Yeah, I guess you’re sort of in the business.” Her eyes narrowed as she paused and tilted her head. Her tongue traced over the hot pink lipstick covering her upper lip and she stuck out her hand. “I’m Nikki.”

  Edwards shook her hand. “David.” Typical. He could spot one a mile away.

  She took a sip of her drink then bit her lower lip. “Okay, if you’re a plastic surgeon, let me ask you something.”

  “Okay,” he said setting his drink on the bar.

  Nikki turned on her stool to face him. “What would you do to make these better?” She sat upright and pulled her shoulders back, her breasts sticking out majestically.

  Edwards glanced down briefly, and his eyes locked on hers.

  “Not a thing,” he said with a confident grin. “You’re absolutely perfect.”

  Her eyes grew wide and her cheeks flushed. She reached over and slapped his forearm.

  “That’s a great line,” she said with a big smile.

  “Trust me. I’m a professional.”

  Two more drinks, followed by an exaggerated version of his life greatly embellished by Scotch, and she was hooked. He made promises of elegant dinners and weekends on his sailboat; she made promises of evenings in his hot tub. They flirted for a while longer then made plans for a rendezvous next week. After her friends arrived, Edwards collected her phone number, paid his bill, and left.

  Outside, staring at her through the window, he was still captivated. But his focus shifted from Nikki to the stranger who had just approached him outside the bar. He sized up the man. Vaguely familiar, early to mid-twenties. Blue jeans, too big and too long, dragged beneath his Reeboks. He wore an oversized hockey jersey with an Anaheim Ducks ball cap backwards on his head.

  “I thought I recognized you,” the young man said. “I wanted to say hello.” As he turned to leave, he said over his shoulder, “By the way, you do good work.”

  Edwards’ eyes followed him as he rounded the corner. He felt like he knew him from somewhere . . . odd.

  Unable to place him, however, he turned back to the window and waved to Nikki. She waved back enthusiastically, her tight frame bouncing in the formfitting dress. The doctor lingered for a moment, then strutted toward the parking lot, his grin wider.

  As he rounded the corner, Edwards left the bright lights of Sunset Boulevard. The street lay dark and the overcast evening sky blocked out any moonlight. Despite the mantra that it never rains in L.A., the weatherman had forecast rain showers for earlier this afternoon. He missed his mark by several hours.

  A cool breeze started to pick up on the quiet street; the air felt moist. It would rain any second now. The streets were deserted. Several drops of rain hit his Italian-made sport coat, and Edwards started walking faster.

  The silence broke with a loud crack. Edwards jumped, then realized he was the source of the noise. Broken glass. He looked up. The lamppost he stood next to was broken.

  Damn kids . . . Oh no, my car! If they’ve done anything to my car . . .

  Scanning the vehicles in the immediate vicinity, none of them appeared to have been vandalized or robbed. Several BMWs, Mercedes, Saabs, Cadillacs, and a Jaguar XJ-6 convertible all untouched. Edwards increased his pace to a jog, his mind spinning between thoughts of the girl and fear for his car.

  At the next intersection, Edwards saw his car across the lot through the darkness. Slowing to a walk, his breath came in large gasps. He ran his hands through the slightly graying hair matted against his head, and grinned. The effects of the Scotch he’d had in The Void made him oblivious to the impending storm as the rain started to drizzle.

  Twenty yards from his Porsche, he pulled out his keys and triggered the alarm. Two loud blips pierced the increasing rhythm of the rain, and the parking lights flashed as his car alarm deactivated. The rain fell heavier now, and he picked up his pace to a brisk walk.

  When he approached his car, someone grabbed him from behind, gripped his forehead, and jerked him back. Edwards’ arms struggled to loosen the grip holding his head. Flailing helplessly, his strong attacker had no difficulty sending Edwards off-balance. He saw a screwdriver in the attacker’s hand. He struggled in vain, franticly attempting to free himself. Unable to do so, frustration and fear rapidly took over his thought process. Edwards felt the tip of the screwdriver against his flesh where the skull joins the vertebrae. Visions of this nightmare raced through his consciousness as the dull tip pushed its way through his skin at the base of his skull. Edwards screamed as his face twisted in pain. The screams went unheard.

  * * *

  * * *

  * * *

  WITHOUT PAUSE, THE MAKO thrust the thin metal tool through the base of Edwards’ neck into his brain. The screwdriver pierced the meninges and thrust into his brain. A few quick rotations of the crude weapon and it was done. Death came quickly. Edwards’ body went limp and fell to the ground. Blood trickled out of the small but fatal wound in the back of Edwards’ skull, mixed on the ground with rainwater, and washed away in seconds. The Mako briefly stared at the lifeless form on the ground before him. Kneeling next to his victim, he dropped the screwdriver by the body.

  “I do good work, too,” he said as he stood up, turned, and walked away, his job here complete. He had a plane to catch.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  * * *

  August 10, 1995

  * * *

  JASON CONRAD WAITED IN THE second row for class to start. Seats in the rear filled up first, forcing the latecomers to sit in the first few rows. He didn’t mind. In college, he always sat up front. It showed the instructors he was interested, and it exposed him to fewer distractions. The habit followed him to pilot training at Vance Air Force Base (AFB).

  The base was located south of Enid, a small town in Northwest Oklahoma with a population around 40,000. Vance AFB was an integral part of the community, and Jason Conrad found himself following the path of thousands of pilot hopefuls before him.

  A stack of books covered the edge of his desk. Perspiration rolled down the sides of his face and his heartbeat increased. Tapping his pencil on the notebook, Jason shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The olive-green flight suit fit him a bit too snuggly. He grabbed his workbook and skimmed through it. His eyes wandered from the book and darted around the room. A small percentage of the armed forces had the opportunity to attend pilot training, and he was lucky. In an era of cutbacks and reduced funding, his timing was perfect.

  There was a variety of students in the room. To an outsider, they would appear as a room full of clones, in olive drab flight suits. But to the insider, every person was unique; with his own ability, his own past, and his own secrets.

  The room was about twenty by thirty feet with an elevated platform at the far end. On the platform stood a wooden podium and a metal pushcart that contained a television and VCR. A four-paneled dry-erase board covered the wall behind him. It was arranged so the panels slid to the side and a projector could be used from behind the screen.

  This class worried him. Although he wasn’t an engineer, he managed to acquire his private pilot’s license in college. Jason struggled during his first few weeks in Undergraduate Pilot Training (UPT). Aircraft Systems class had been hard enough for him. The only hydraulics he knew about were X-rated videos. AC and DC weren’t electrical currents—they were an old, heavy-metal rock band. The course on weather proved a challenge, too.

  “ROOM TENCH HUT!”

  A few chairs tumbled to the floor, as the students snapped to attention. Jason bolted up from his seat. His legs hit the edge of his desk and sent his books flying off the other side. The large black notebooks fell with a dull thud on the carpeted floor.


  A short, stocky captain strode along the off-white wall adorned with pictures of various aircraft. When he reached the front, the class’ Senior Ranking Officer (SRO), Captain Gus McTaggart saluted sharply. “Sir, all students present and/or accounted for,” McTaggart said. A tall, lean fellow, McTaggart flew in the backseat of the F-15 Strike Eagle as a Weapons Systems Officer. Captain McTaggart was one of the few officers allowed to crossover to pilot training.

  The instructor returned the salute in a slow, methodical manner, along the outer edge of his black, horn-rimmed glasses, that rested on the bridge of his flat nose. This guy appeared to be straight out of a 1950’s training film. His close-cropped flattop haircut and menacing scowl suggested the next forty-five minutes would not be fun.

  “Take your seats. I’m Captain Ralph Harrison. Welcome to Aerodynamics for Pilots.” The instructor approached the dry-erase board and began to write.

  Jason recovered his books from the floor. Most of the students watched the instructor for a moment, then realized they should start writing or they might not catch up with the instructor’s furious pace.

  Jason recognized the first formula, the equation of lift, from civilian flying. Harrison broke down each segment of the formula and wrote out multiple equations on lift, air density, and velocity in excruciating detail. After what felt like an eternity of writing equations on the board, Captain Harrison turned to the class.

  “Are there any aero majors in here?” It was the first thing he said since he began writing more than five minutes ago. Samantha Williams, the black female student in the rear of the classroom, shyly raised her hand. A graduate of the Air Force Academy with a degree in Aeronautical Engineering, she was one of the smartest students in the class.

  “Who are you?” Harrison asked.

  “Lieutenant Williams, sir,” she said.

  “Well, Lieutenant Williams, are these formulas correct?”

  “Yes, sir, they are.” She answered slowly, but deliberately.

  “And is it not true, to understand the theory of lift, one must understand each of the forces that compose the components of lift and how each of the parts affect the whole?” Captain Harrison leaned against his podium at the end of his question. “Lieutenant?”

  “It’s true, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Harrison went back to his writing.

  Jason sighed. A tough academic instructor was the last thing a student pilot needed in the high-pressure environment of pilot training; the flight-line training would be hard enough. The squatty captain continued to write. Jason’s pulse increased, and his stomach tightened. He may have known the formula for lift, but it went downhill after that.

  Laying his pencil down, he wiped his sweaty palms on his legs. He was defeated without ever having a chance to fly the jet. As he scanned the cramped classroom of twenty students, Jason gained little comfort in the fact that others seemed just as lost.

  Harrison stopped and glared at the class. “Are you getting this?” His voice deepened. “Do I need to slow down, or are you all able to keep up?” Many students nodded their heads, yes, while some shook their heads, no. It would have been a comical sight under different circumstances. To the stocky academic instructor, it added fuel to a fire that raged inside him. This nightmare of an instructor grew into an ominous beast about to unleash his anger.

  “Do you people think this information is important to you as a pilot?” The students remained silent as Captain Harrison’s voice increased in volume and tempo. “Do you agree this information will be beneficial for you to memorize so well that you can recite it in your sleep?” He yelled now; his face flushed crimson, as if he were about to explode. Heads nodded, and a sense of doom overcame enveloped the room. What happened? What did they do to set this guy off?

  “Take a look at this board people . . . a good, hard look. Some of you will never see this information again,” Harrison said loudly. He ripped off his glasses and threw them at the dry-erase board. The glasses impacted with a loud “SMACK” and fell to the floor. No one uttered a sound. He stared at the class for a moment; his words sank into their psyche. The hopelessness evident on everyone’s face.

  He singled out a student in the front row. “Lieutenant Bailey, what is the name of this course?”

  Bud Bailey’s glasses and flattop almost matched the instructor’s. “A-Aerodynamics . . . for Pilots.”

  “That’s right.” Harrison’s voice calmer now. He leaned against his podium again. “Aerodynamics for Pilots. Gentlemen and ladies, I am a pilot. I am not an engineer, nor a scientist. I am a pilot. I fly jets. Therefore, I don’t give a hoot ‘n’ holler about these damn formulas on the board here.”

  A smile formed on his face. “Hell, I was a business major in college. I couldn’t tell you what half this stuff means.” The students exchanged puzzled glances. A sigh of relief overcame everyone as Jason’s classmates exploded into laughter, the victims of a cruel, but harmless, joke.

  “Folks, this is Aerodynamics for Pilots. Sure, we’ll talk about lift a little, as well as a few other things, but the concepts in this course are simple. Push the stick forward, houses get big. Pull the stick back, houses get small. It’s not much tougher than that.”

  Captain Ralph Harrison beamed–like someone who pulled off the con of the century. For several minutes, he had. After an overview of the course, he described how long it would last, what the test would be like, and what they would cover the rest of the class.

  Jason’s nervousness slipped away, like an inmate reprieved on his walk to the chair. With a quick glance at the ceiling again, he mumbled, “Thank you, God.”

  The class went smoothly, and when he returned to his dorm room, Jason collapsed on the sofa. UPT took its toll on him. Successful at most things he’d done in his life, he usually made them appear easy. This time was different. It was a new and unusual environment. Pilot training compared to taking a sip of water from a fire hydrant.

  UPT lasted fifty-two weeks. One full year of concentrated studying and flying. The course was designed to take any pedestrian off the street and turn them into a jet pilot. While this was true to some degree, the difficulty was doing it within the required timeframe.

  The first part of the program was loaded with the basic academics that applied throughout the course. Then the students went to the flight line to fly the initial jet trainer, the T-37. This phase was around six months.

  Many students came here with aspirations of being the next Tom Cruise. Maverick. Joe Fighter Jock. Everyone wants a fighter, whether they admit it or not. Students that wanted a fighter, had to finish at the top of the class. They had to be the best, not because the best had the skills to fly a fighter, but because the best got first pick, and that was where the fighters were.

  Jason’s flying instructor told him on the first day, “UPT will give you the highest highs and the lowest lows of your life.” So far, Jason had experienced the low side of this spectrum. The T-37 phase was humbling. Everything came hard and fast. Some students did very well in the T-37 phase—usually navigators fortunate enough to earn a pilot’s slot. They had experience in military-style flying, possessed some airmanship, and were not intimidated by the instructors. Those with prior flight time also did quite well.

  The second phase of training was faster paced; students moved on to either the T-38 or the T-1. Advanced jet training for the fighter track was done in the supersonic jet trainer, the Northrop T-38 Talon. This jet was the great equalizer. All previous flight time no longer mattered. It was a different realm.

  Those slotted for the tanker/transport track moved to the Beechcraft T-1. It was a little more forgiving. A newer jet, it had the most current avionics and systems. Jason wondered if he would make it that far.

  The clock showed nine-thirty in the evening. Jason had studied his Dash One, the T-37 flight manual, since five o’clock that afternoon. He had to wake up in another six hours for a 0500-brief time. The early morning show times were the least desirable aspects of UPT. E
verybody hated them, instructors and students alike. Jason ran his fingers through his hair as he stared at the ceiling. He was supposed to meet the guys in Lenny Banks’ room. Lenny was a sharp guy, who, more importantly, had a lot of flying experience. As Jason contemplated whether to study with his classmates that night, the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Jason? It’s me,” a woman’s voice said. His skin went cold, and his muscles tensed. He glanced at the gold band on a small wooden box on top of his dresser. His heart sank, as a wave of depression fell over him.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  August 10, 1995

  * * *

  JASON GRIT HIS TEETH and took a deep breath. “Bethany, why are you calling me?”

  Bethany. Jason’s ex-wife. The divorce occurred six months ago, but his emotions still lingered.

  “I-I’ve just been wondering how you’re doing. I’ve been thinking about us a lot. Wondering where things went wrong.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . and . . . maybe if we communicated more in the beginning, this whole thing could have been avoided.”

  He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation.

  “I feel so bad. I know I let you down. I miss you so much, and I’ve thought about calling you so many times.”

  “So, why didn’t you?”

  “I was afraid, I guess. Afraid you wouldn’t want to talk to me. Afraid I didn’t deserve to talk to you. I-I hurt you, and if there were any way to take it back, I would. But it’s done, and I can’t change it. I know I did some things wrong . . . we did some things wrong, but if we both tried harder, I think we could make it work.”

  “Make what work?”

  “Us, Jason . . . you, me, our relationship. We could still make it work.”