The captain switched on the intercom. “Pilot to ground, anyone there?”
“We got all doors closed, area clear, walkaround complete. Ready when you are.”
“Stand by. We’ll get clearance.”
Danny switched on the radio. “Ramp control, this is Atlantica 1945, ready for pushback, gate thirty-seven.”
“Atlantica 1945, cleared to push. Watch out for the aircraft in the alley.”
“Roger. Cleared to push.”
“Roger that,” the captain said. She released the brakes. “Ground, we’re ready to go. Brakes off, cleared to push.”
“Roger that, starting to push back.”
The craft slowly rolled backward. Danny put his full concentration into the task at hand and tried to ignore James, who was humming, albeit softly. Danny recognized an Audioslave song, out of key and never meant to be hummed.
Pretending to fiddle with his headset, Danny glanced at the ACI, wondering if he noticed. He was busy digging through his bag, pulling out folders, clipboards, and some plastic ties for who knew what. Aggravation built in Danny. He cleared his throat a couple of times, but James kept humming like an old man on a stroll.
Anything but Audioslave. That was Maya’s favorite band. She had all their records, knew every lyric, the name of every band member, every useless fact about them. She would travel two days to see their concerts, dole out hundreds of dollars for tickets, but couldn’t stay with him through a pay cut.
The ground crewman said, “Everything looks good from down here. Have a good flight.”
“Thanks. Cleared to disconnect,” the captain said.
Disconnect. James hummed, creating the background music for the memory that played through Danny’s mind in high definition. She’d actually used that word.
“I feel like we’re disconnecting.”
“Disconnecting? We spend every hour that I’m home together.”
“Maybe what I mean is that I’m disconnecting.”
It took three more months for Danny to discover that it wasn’t a lack of affection or time or energy or communication, but a lack of resources that caused Maya’s disconnect. Namely, membership at the country club, dinners at the fanciest restaurants, and his decision to downsize to a Camry.
“Atlanta ground control, Atlantica 1945. Taxi from gate thirty-seven,” James said.
“Atlantica 1945, Atlanta ground. Taxi runway sixteen right via taxiway November Charlie. Give way to American 357 on November Charlie.”
“Roger that. Taxi runway sixteen right via taxiway November Charlie, giving way to American 357 on November Charlie.”
“All right,” the captain said. “I need the taxi checklist.”
Danny nodded, pushing the pig, the prisoner, James, and Maya out of his head. Time to do what he’d trained for his whole life, and do it with precision.
“You’ve confirmed the passengers in the emergency rows are capable?” GiGi asked Kim.
“Two are guys on their way to backpack across Europe.” Kim smiled. “Capable and cute.”
GiGi counted liquor bottles and kept quiet. No amount of lecturing would do her younger counterparts any good. GiGi had been married three times, twice to pilots, once to a passenger she’d met. All ended disastrously.
She’d hoped to find contentment completely alone, but that hadn’t worked out well either. Furthermore, she’d never really wanted to be a flight attendant.
Her mother was a flight attendant back when they had to be registered nurses, had to dye their blond hair brown, and were called stewardesses. They wore girdles, gloves, and two-inch heels and padded their backsides if that’s what it took to look their personal best. Before 1965 they couldn’t even be married, so her mother, along with many FAs, lied about her marital status. She had to quit flying when she became pregnant with GiGi.
When GiGi began working, it was still a glamorous job, and people dressed up to come onboard an airplane. GiGi was named after a passenger who flew once a week on the airline that her mother worked for. Her mother described the passenger as polished, poised, and always dressed to the nines. She said she never could figure out how she flew so much without a single wrinkle appearing on her clothes. She always ordered seltzer water.
GiGi hated seltzer water. She preferred Dr Pepper and, thanks to the preference, would never have to pad her butt.
When she began working international flights, she was one of the youngsters. She’d got on because she could speak Dutch and German, thanks to her mother, who’d insisted she would get ahead at the airline if she could speak other languages. She had been right.
She remembered watching the older flight attendants, ankles swollen, hair wiry and gray, wondering what it felt like to be at the end of a lifelong career. Now, here she was, at the end of a career she never really wanted, all because Mom thought that’s all she could do.
Admittedly, in her younger days, it had been more fun. Men would flirt. She hung out with the girls and stayed out late. When she’d been picked to move to international, it was a highlight of her career.
But as the years went on, it ceased to be as exciting, and now the wear and tear on her body was getting to her. Her ankles swelled. Her lower back ached every time she pushed the cart and stretched to hand over drinks and meals. Patience these days wore thin.
Thin. Once, her navy blazer and midlength skirt hugged her body in perfect proportion. Now, four sizes larger, she left the blazer unbuttoned and wore a slimmer, which started to cut off circulation about midflight. At least nobody could see her cellulite through the polyester blend.
She used to wonder why the older flight attendants couldn’t manage more subtle lipstick, but as she aged, she understood now why bright, bloody red was the way to go. It distracted everyone from the gray roots, the varicose veins, and the blouses that tugged open at the buttonholes.
Kim returned from attending to the Call button. “It’s the same guy.”
“What guy?”
“He keeps asking for blankets, magazines, pillows.”
“I know who you mean—Milk and Cookies. He’s becoming a nuisance. I’ll go talk to him.”
“No, that’s okay. At least he’s nice about it. I’ll tell him we’re preparing for takeoff and that we’re not a cruise line.” She smiled. “Although I do know how to make napkins look like bunnies.”
GiGi could read the signs. Kim figured GiGi wouldn’t handle it with the smile on her face they were paid to wear. And that was probably true. GiGi wasn’t in the mood for irritating passengers.
These days, GiGi wasn’t in the mood for much of anything. So why not take it out on the one guy who didn’t want to be here? GiGi headed to the back of the plane to check on the prisoner.
Agent Tasler sat erect but didn’t seem overly alert as GiGi approached. The row in front of them was empty. “Everything okay back here?” GiGi asked the agent.
The agent nodded, but GiGi couldn’t help, just out of curiosity, looking at Leendert. A strange sensation swept over her. With his hands neatly in his lap, held close by shiny silver handcuffs barely visible underneath the jacket laid across his legs, Leendert seemed captivated by her question. Awestruck.
GiGi cleared her throat and looked away. Perhaps he looked awestruck because he knew she knew where the coffeepot was. And how desperate could she get? An old Dutch con man in handcuffs?
Still, he looked harmless enough, except for those blue eyes, swimming like watercolor on a canvas.
What was wrong with her? A burst of self-consciousness warmed her skin, so she occupied herself by opening the overhead bin. She shut it and caught Leendert still studying her, like one might study a rose. Now she was thinking like a Harlequin novel.
She could live with that. She gave him a short, cautious smile.
“I miss those day when the stewardesses give the safety demonstration,” he said. His English was off, but there was no misreading his body language.
“Knock it off,” the agent said to him.
/> Leendert shrugged. “It was just more—how do you say—personal back then.” He looked at the safety demo video playing overhead.
“I’ll be back to check on you,” GiGi said, looking at the agent. She headed for the galley, remembering a passenger long ago who, after she had given the seat belt demonstration, quipped, “Baby, you can release my seat belt anytime.”
He became her second husband. Not her finest moment. Neither was this.
She pushed everything out of her head as she approached Kim. “How are we coming along?”
“We’re fine on meal count.”
“We got the ACI onboard, so make certain when you deliver the food to the cockpit, you rotate the meal and put fifteen minutes in between. Also, don’t forget to serve the ACI.”
Kim grinned. “Danny’s cute.”
GiGi took the coffee urn out of her hand and set it on the counter. “Kim, I know we don’t know each other and you have no reason to trust me, but you may need to grab an oxygen mask because your sensibilities are clearly deprived. Don’t fall for a pilot. It’s like a nurse falling for a doctor. It’s cliche and it rarely works. It seems like the perfect match, but with two different schedules and their egos, it’s very difficult to manage.”
Kim filled the ice box. “That’s what struck me about Danny, though. He doesn’t seem to have a big ego.”
“Maybe James gobbled it up.”
Kim cracked a smile. “Have you talked to the prisoner? That guy has some serious charm.”
“Maybe you should transfer to ‘Con Air.’”
“Honestly, he doesn’t look like he could harm a fly.”
“Kim, how long have you been flying internationally?”
“Just six months.”
“I see. Well, you’re still young, obviously talented, but striking me as a little naive.”
“Probably. But I want to see the world. Figured this is a great way to do it.”
“It is. I’ve been on every continent. Just don’t be another casualty of the industry, you know? Keep it impersonal with those guys in the cockpit. And when you land and everyone goes to dinner, make sure you let them pick up the tab. It helps them feel important.”
The PA system crackled to life.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome aboard Atlantica Flight 1945, service to Amsterdam. I’m First Officer Daniel McSweeney. Your captain today is C. J. Brewster-Yarley, and we also have First Officer James Lawrence. We are currently taxiing into position and will be ready for takeoff in a few minutes. There’s a bit of a line, but we’ll do our best to get you in the air as soon as possible. Weather in Amsterdam is currently pleasant, about seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, twenty-two degrees Celsius, with rain expected later. Our flight over the Atlantic looks smooth, and we don’t anticipate any major weather problems.”
GiGi scowled. “See? As if they’re God and can predict the weather.”
“On behalf of this Atlanta-based crew, welcome aboard.”
Chapter 12
The sterile cockpit light glowed, and Danny tried to stare at it and not the ACI, who was once again fumbling through his briefcase and looking very disorganized. The air rumbled with planes taking off and landing, but the only sound Danny could focus on was hiccups.
“I’m sorry,” Smilt said, glancing around. “It’s a hereditary, chronic condition. I have no control over it. It hits during allergy season.”
The sterile cockpit rule had just been broken by the man supposed to be enforcing it, but everyone kept quiet. Danny tried a polite smile, but Smilt didn’t notice. Instead, he searched for a pen while fighting off the badge that kept hitting him in the chin. His hair stuck together in a point on his forehead.
He looked at Danny, who tried to avert his eyes. It was too late.
“Nice day to fly,” Smilt said, seeming more together. He straightened, clicked his pen, and turned a few pages over. “So. Here we are.”
Danny looked at the captain, who turned around in her seat.
“Why are you talking?” she asked Smilt, pointing to the light.
Danny bit his lip. He’d never heard a captain speak to an ACI like that before. Of course, he’d never seen an ACI speak during the sterile cockpit.
Smilt cleared his throat, swiping his hair off his forehead. “I’m, um, I’m sorry.” Hiccup. “I’m a little disorganized today.” Hiccup.
The captain turned around and concentrated on the task at hand. Danny studied Smilt for any signs of offense, but he mostly looked embarrassed and wired. Maybe he was new.
Whatever the case, they needed to find a way to get rid of those hiccups. Like a dripping faucet, they came every five seconds, right on cue.
And something told him James would have a heyday with it.
“Atlantica Flight 1945, you’re cleared for takeoff.”
“Roger that. Cleared for takeoff.”
Danny lived for this moment, above all else. It was by far the most dangerous and exhilarating part. The captain would take off from the States, and then Danny would fly home. James wouldn’t fly at all, which was a bummer for the “nonflying pilot.” They did the time but didn’t get to fly. It was part of the job, and all the FOs had to do it, but nobody liked it.
The captain lined the plane up on the runway. It was time to soar and leave a lot behind. Except the guy with the hiccups.
Lucy stared at the Fasten Seat Belt sign. Of course, there was no chance it would go off now that they were about to take off. She tried to think clearly, tried to reason with herself that if Jeff was onboard, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.
So why did it feel like it?
She turned to Hank, who was trying to see out a window from their center row, a large smile spread across his face.
“This is the part that just blew me away last time I flew,” he said. “We started rolling down the runway, and then it got faster and faster but never seemed fast enough to just lift into the air. But we did, like we weighed no more than a feather! I love how it pulls you back into your seat.”
Lucy tried to let it captivate her. She’d flown a lot, mostly visiting long-distance boyfriends, and she didn’t pay attention anymore to how it felt to fly. Maybe that’s what was wrong with the world. Nobody got excited about seeing a huge hunk of metal gliding through the air.
She grabbed Hank’s hand. It startled him, and he turned to her, looking first at their hands, then at her. “Are you afraid?”
Not of flying, but of what was at the back of the plane. She nodded anyway.
“We’ll be fine. I prayed before we left that God’s angels would guard us.”
Lucy tried not to think about Jeff. She pictured meadows filled with tulips, windmills hundreds of years old, cafés with umbrellas and strong coffee.
The intercom crackled. “Flight attendants, we’ve been cleared for takeoff.”
The plane rolled forward, then with a powerful thrust gained speed, pushing Lucy back into her seat. She watched Hank gaze out the window across the aisle like a child. He even let out a laugh.
Lucy smiled. That’s what she needed, to be awed again by the ordinary things in life. She closed her eyes, the blast of the engines causing the seat underneath her to vibrate and her bones to tremble. She listened to every piece of metal on the plane shudder. She felt every bump on the runway.
Then they lifted.
Hank laughed again and turned to her, his eyes wild with excitement. “Unbelievable!” he whispered.
The plane turned, and Lucy caught a glimpse of the ground—gigantic planes, hangars, even the airport shrinking by the second. There was a certain majestic power to this she’d never observed before.
They watched out the window together for a moment, then Hank turned to her. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He noticed her fiddling with her rubber, aquamarine bracelet. He peered down at it. “WWOD?” He looked up at her. “What does that stand for?”
“You don’t know?”
“I’ve only seen WWJD.”
She smiled. “It stands for What Would Oprah Do.” And, to her delight, Oprah would do just this very thing…enjoy the moment.
Then Hank hit his Call button for the flight attendant.
“This turn we’re making,” Eddie the blimp pilot said, “it’s all done by the computer.”
The fact that he couldn’t turn on any sort of electronic device yet was the only thing standing between Jake and peace and quiet. The plane climbed, and hopefully they’d reach their altitude soon so he could turn his iPod back on. Underneath him, he could hear the landing gears fold into the airplane.
Eddie leaned in. “A little known fact: they only give the plane enough fuel to get to its destination. If they fill her up, it makes the plane heavier, and it burns more fuel. So they calculate the exact amount of fuel needed to get to the destination. That’s why, if you’re circling above your airport for storms or whatever, chances are you’ll have to land elsewhere because you won’t have enough fuel to circle for any length of time.”
Jake wished Eddie would land elsewhere. At least the conversation with Eddie kept his mind off the fact that the diamonds taped to his belly were worth more than anything else on this airplane, including the fuel.
Jake pointed to the pin Eddie wore on his sweater. “Half a wing?”
“It was my grandfather’s. Few people know the important role blimp pilots played in World War II. Bet you didn’t even know they were used.”
Jake hated to admit it, but there wasn’t a whole lot he did know about World War II. He had a feeling that was about to change.
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