The Devil's Vial

by Brumbaugh,Byron

  “Do you want me to make any calls for him?”

  “No, we’re all set. We’ll have the FBO call when we get close. He really wants to keep a low profile about this.”

  “Well, okay. Stand-by one while I run the numbers.”

  Numbers? What numbers?

  After a short pause, she said, “Okay. Your landing distance is sixty-five hundred feet. You’ll be fine using the long runway, 29/11, at Worcester. Give us a call when you can after you get down.”

  “Will do.” He hung up the phone.

  “What the hell was that all about?” asked Emily.

  “That was a NetJets dispatcher. I guess corporate, as well as ATC, has to clear changes in destination.”

  “We okay?” Emily asked. “Will the people Todd works with know something has happened even before we get on the ground?”

  “I don’t think that’s likely at all. NetJets is like a private airline. They know nothing about the passengers other than they have to be picked up at a certain time and taken to a certain place. I’m told passengers change their destination at the last minute, while still in the air, all the time.”

  “God,” said Emily, “I sure as hell hope you’re right, or we’re screwed.”

  It was a good thing the conversation with Patty ended when it did. They were getting close to Worcester and Alex was about to get very busy. Watching the airspeed indicator, he throttled back even more than when he started the descent; the plane was slick and didn’t lose airspeed very quickly. They had to be under two hundred and thirty knots when they got to ten thousand feet and they were still going about three hundred and fifty. He looked over at the throttle console. There were two levers labeled ‘air brakes’. They seemed to be just what was called for, so he pulled the levers back. There was an increase in vibration and he noticed the airspeed was decreasing a little more rapidly. As the airspeed dropped into the gear operating range, he threw the switch that lowered the landing gear. That should slow them down even more. As they slowed further, to the flap operating range, he put down one notch of flaps. An alarm screamed in his ear. He lifted the flaps and the alarm went off. “Emily, look in the pilot manual and see if there’s a restriction to the use of the air brakes.”

  “Are we okay?” There was a definite tone of fear in her voice.

  Another quick scan of the flight instruments. “We’re fine. I just need to know when I can use the air brakes.” He was pretty sure that was the problem. It made no sense to restrict the use of the flaps and the landing gear - they would need to be used together for landing. But the air brakes, well, he wasn’t sure.

  The autopilot took them to Putnam, then turned them onto a heading for Worcester. By reducing the throttle even further, he was able to slow the plane below the prescribed speed without the flaps. “Here it is,” said Emily. “‘Use of the air brakes and flaps together is not recommended.’”

  Alex grunted. It was nice when things made sense. He released the air brakes and added one notch of flaps. No alarm.

  “Four five kilo golf, Boston Center. Do you have the airport in sight?”

  “Affirmative, airport in sight.” Off in the distance, Alex could see a large field with crossed runways.

  “Four five kilo golf is cleared for the visual approach. Change to tower frequency, one two zero point five. Good day.”

  Alex twisted some dials to the radio and called the tower.

  “Four five kilo golf is cleared to land, runway 29,” said Worcester Tower.

  Reaching over to the autopilot, Alex pushed a button and turned it off. From here on, he would have to fly manually. He swallowed hard. “Emily, pull out the Approach to Landing checklist. Quickly, we don’t have much time.”

  Emily found the right checklist and they hurriedly went through the items as Alex lined the speeding jet up with the centerline of the runway that stretched out in front of them. They were still too far away for him to make out what it said at the closest end, but he knew it was the numbers 29. He could see the city of Worcester flash beneath them as they got closer and closer to the airport. He aimed the nose of the plane for the numbers and slowed to the approach speed by adding more flaps and reducing the throttle even further. The checklist done, there was nothing more to do than fly the plane. Just like all the other planes he had ever flown. But he had never approached the ground so fast!

  His heart was pounding, his hands were clammy, his grip on the controls tendon-bulging. The runway got wider and wider, the ground closer and closer. The number 29 became clear and obvious. He took a deep breath and reminded himself, again, that it was just like any other plane. The approach speed was a little higher than he was used to, but it was what was prescribed and he had lots of runway. He forced himself to relax. Breathe, Alex. Breathe.

  They passed over the fence and he pulled back gradually on the stick, lessening, then stopping the rate of descent. The ground was now close beneath them and soon, the runway was racing past them. He purposefully flared a little high. He wasn’t sure just how far the ground was below him. He reduced the throttle a little more so the ground rose slowly, slowly to meet them. There was a screech of rubber hitting asphalt and the plane settled gently onto terra firma. Alex let the nose float onto the runway, then lifted the flaps. He reached over and applied the air brakes. The far end of the runway was still a ways off, but it was coming fast. He grabbed the throttles and pulled them back to the reverse thruster position. Throughout, he guided the nose of the plane with the rudder pedals. The plane slowed nicely - they were dropping below eighty knots.

  The nose veered off to the right a little. He applied left rudder, smoothly increasing it to full rudder, but nothing happened! Soon they would go off the edge if he didn’t get it under control. Oh shit! Now what? Suddenly, as if hit in the head with a hammer, he remembered. That damned little wheel! He let go of the control stick and grabbed the wheel at his left elbow. Turning it to the left, he eased the plane back onto the runway center line. They passed the last taxiway, but slowed to a nice taxi speed.

  “Hawker four five kilo golf is cleared to taxi-back to taxiway delta and then to the ramp. Monitor ground point seven.” The controller’s voice sounded bored.

  Alex relaxed in his seat as he turned the plane around and headed for the taxiway. He hadn’t realized he’d been sitting bolt upright. Sweat was running into his eyes and soaked his shirt. He had to rub his palms on his pant legs so he could get a good grip on the controls. Turning to look at Todd, Alex saw his head was leaning back on the seat, mouth open. He looked like he was snoring, though Alex couldn’t hear anything over the noise of the plane. Alex stole a glance at Emily.

  Emily looked at him with a broad smile. “Why did I ever doubt you?” she asked. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ve been in airliners that landed harder!”

  Alex smiled weakly. “Pull out the Shut Down checklist and let’s park this thing!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Richard lay back on the single bed in his room, looking at the ceiling. The atmosphere changed since he gave up the pen. Martin was reserved, but forthcoming with the creature comforts Richard asked for – a bed to sleep in, clothes more substantial than scrubs, soap, warm running water, a shower, and so on. It seemed Martin did so grudgingly, almost as if he were biting his tongue. But, he did produce them. At least Oscar was getting the care he needed. Richard squirmed on the bed. Of course, that could all change once Todd found out all he had was water.

  But what the hell was he supposed to do? He had to try to help Oscar; that was clear. And he couldn’t give up the real vial. That was obvious too. But he was being deceptive and although he was not overtly lying, he was encouraging a misconception he knew Martin and Todd held. It was a passive lie, not an active one; yet it was still a lie. And he didn’t think Todd and Martin would make any distinction when they found out. It would piss them off and make things worse than they had been. Richard merely traded a little time for a situation that was going to be
even more dangerous. Lying was one of the ten “Negative Actions to Be Avoided” he learned in his studies at the monastery. The other actions included killing, stealing, sexual misconduct and so on; the list was very reminiscent of the Ten Commandments. They were actions to be avoided for good reason – in the long run, all they do is make your situation worse - they create bad karma. But what could he do? And when Todd found out all he had was water, it would be an overt lie to claim that's all they had. Richard really wanted to avoid that.

  All he wanted was to be a good Buddhist. Why was he thrown in these situations? Again. He’d spent over three years studying and meditating; slowly, slowly making meager progress along the path to enlightenment. Enlightenment, that state of mind from which one could intuitively see the best course of action. A deep insight into the nature of reality that wasn’t confused with right or wrong, good or bad, or stupid or clever. If he were enlightened, he would know the right choices to make and not make mistakes like he had with Gary in that awful basement.

  His feelings of impotence didn’t start with Gary. Growing up, he often ran into conflicts he couldn’t understand. Nature of the human condition, he supposed. For most of them, he was able to muddle through, somehow. But, not infrequently, he ended up being embarrassed after unfortunate choices were made. Or, worse yet, not being able to interpret the meaning of what the hell happened at all.

  One day, as a boy around twelve, Richard was walking home from school, thinking about how hard it was to make good choices. It was a chill autumn day and as he walked along, he kicked idly at the occasional loose pebble, making it bounce over the ground, sending it on a random, lurching errand down the road. His hands were in his coat-pockets, pulling his jacket tight about him.

  Christ, the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Judy. He liked her. At recess, she told him she had to go to a wake for her grandmother. He had no idea what that meant, but he thought it sounded kinda funny. “What’s the matter, can’t she stay awake by herself?” he asked, trying to make her laugh.

  Judy’s face twisted in grief and tears streamed down her cheeks. “No, she can’t,” she sobbed as she turned her back to him and walked away, shoulders trembling gently.

  Only later did their teacher explain to him what a wake was.

  God, he hated being embarrassed. He felt like such an idiot. And it wasn’t like this was the first time this kind of thing happened. It seemed he bumped into his own ignorance a lot. Would he ever learn enough to avoid that? How can you study what you don’t even know you don’t know?

  Maybe you don’t need to know everything. No one knows everything, but still lots of people function well in life. Without doing anything really stupid. If you’re smart enough, maybe you can sniff around what you don’t know and avoid stepping in the god awful stinky stuff.

  The smartest people Richard knew of were scientists. Science allowed man to learn a lot about the world. It provided a foundation of understanding as solid as the Earth under his feet. Facts. Cold hard facts that couldn’t be denied. But, if he learned as much as he could about science, would he know enough? If not, could he apply the same methods to the nonscientific things in life – his feelings, what was right and wrong, relationships, people? They had facts too, didn’t they? It felt right. And Richard had a natural talent for math and science. Yes. He thought he could make it work.

  Years later, Richard was walking along the beach at Santa Monica. The thundering surf and the briny mildewed odor of the beach soothed his soul and his grip on the here and now loosened. Soft wet sand oozed between his toes as he walked parallel to the sea; the waves crashed a few yards offshore, then surged up to lap at his bare feet and ankles. The late afternoon sky bled from a deep orange-red on the western horizon into a darkening blue above. Richard was an undergraduate in Physics at UCLA and he was relaxing after a day of study. He was enthralled by the beauty of what he witnessed and suddenly, out of nowhere, he remembered that earlier afternoon walk home from school.

  He remembered, too, the paths he treaded since that decision. How one decision led to another, one turn led to the next, until he was there, standing on the beach. A direction was set, not a specific path, and he continued in that direction since. The start of his journey could be traced to that one decision he made as a twelve-year old. It set his karma, which he was still living out. Now, on the beach, he reexamined his earlier choice and tried to judge how it worked out for him. He put it in the context of what he learned since. Decidedly, there was a whole lot more to life and the universe than could be dreamt of in his philosophy. There were the ineffable, warm, soft, squooshy, yet beautiful, magical parts of life he’d missed out on in his pursuit of logical bedrock. He decided then and there to embark on yet another karmic path, to go in a different direction, one that led him to medical school and beyond. To a certain basement in New England. And Gary.

  That hadn’t worked out well, in some very important ways. Then he was introduced to Buddhism and a different way of making sense of the world. Nonintellectual, non-conceptual, nonjudgmental, non-dualistic. He wasn’t there yet, but he made progress. Three years in deep meditative practice gave him a taste of this alternative, and he was absolutely convinced it was the way to go. But to get there, he had to follow the precepts, the Dharma. Maybe not in this lifetime, but eventually, if he continued his efforts, he would reach enlightenment. But he was still a long way off.

  “Compassion is essential to enlightenment. But, you have to be careful you understand what compassion means,” argued an older monk on another occasion. He was dressed in monastic robes, shaved bald, and sat in meditative posture before Richard and his fellow student monks in a wood-paneled room, drenched in incense. “It does not mean idiot compassion.” The elder monk paused for effect. “It does not mean you give up all your worldly possessions in order to help the hungry and disadvantaged. It does not mean you have to be stupid and not use the intelligence you were born with. After all, if you squander your resources, you lose the power to affect change, compassionate or otherwise. It does mean a kind of enlightened self-interest; a treating the rest of creation as being at least equal in importance as yourself. After all, you and your environment are intimately interrelated. You can’t care for one without caring for the other.” Again, he paused.

  “Suppose you were to visit a poor part of the world. Let’s say Africa. You go to a small village, way off in the country, and you find people who are sick with malaria and suffering a great deal. They have no medicine, no doctor who can help. You decide you can’t bear this and swear you will stay there, live with these people and help however you can.” Several of Richard’s fellow monks nodded. “This is idiot compassion. How can you help? You will be just one more victim of malaria, one more sickly mouth to feed.” The elder monk let this sink in. “It would be more compassionate to vow, instead, to go to medical school, dedicate all your efforts to studying medicine, learning how to treat and cure malaria, then return with medical supplies to help the villagers. This would be more intelligent, more effective compassion.”

  “Then what’s the best way to be compassionate?” asked a monk.

  “Well, to be compassionate does not mean to give people everything they want. It does not mean to do whatever it takes to make them happy. Most of what we do to be happy puts us in situations that make us more unhappy. We create bad karma. The best you can do to help is to show others better choices to make. Choices that lead to their own enlightenment. But the choices will always be theirs alone.”

  Maybe one way to look at what Richard did in giving up the pen was that he gave Martin a way to be compassionate toward Oscar. He didn’t so much lie as he gave Martin a more compassionate alternative.

  No.

  He lied.

  The problem was, Todd and Martin had the power to determine what would happen to him and Oscar. And others. Richard didn’t see any way, at least at present, he could change that. Todd and Martin would do whatever they thought would be the right thing to d
o and there was little Richard could do to change it. He sure as hell was not going to be able to say a few words, change them into Buddhists and convince them there was a better way, a more compassionate way, to exercise their power. Richard had no chance of managing the situation. Maybe the best he could do was to try to engage them, discover their thinking, then question the viability of their choices and suggest more compassionate avenues to pursue their goals. Pretty lame, but what else did he have?

  Just like me. Richard remembered a story of the Dalai Lama moving through an airport somewhere. He was looking at the people around him and repeating over and over, under his breath, “Just like me. Just like me.” Someone asked him what he was doing. He said he was reminding himself all those other people, every single one, was just like him. We are all human, we all want to be happy. The difference lays in what we perceive to be happiness and how to get it.

  But this difference just might cause a whole lot of suffering in a whole lot of people, thought Richard.

  Richard sighed deeply and got up off the bed. He reached under the blankets and pulled two pillows from the mattress. He put them on the floor and sat cross-legged on them. He pursued an intellectual exercise long enough. It was time to get off the merry-go-round of ideas swirling in his head. It was time he meditated and got more firmly in touch with his essential being. It might not be the answer to what was happening, but at least it would help clear his mind so that if an opportunity presented itself, he would be more likely to recognize it.

  . . .