by David Faxon
“Go ahead, Global Air.”
“We have an emergency- request instructions to land. We need the closest runway that can take something this size. We are heavy. Repeat, we are heavy. I need to dump fuel.”
“We have you, Global. One minute, please.”
He was uneasy, yet knew he could fly with only one engine. Years of reliability statistical analysis confirmed double engine failure during flight as highly improbable. They would make it, but he had 225 frightened, angry passengers to pacify. For the second time within an hour, he turned on the intercom. The first announcement was merely one of those travel aggravations; a weather problem at Brasilia, flight diversion, delayed arrival. This one had far more serious implications that would test all his skills. He made the announcement in a composed voice, choosing his words carefully and downplaying the severity.
“Well… this flight hasn’t been among our best. What happened back there was a mechanical problem with the left engine. If you are on that side, you noticed a small amount of flame and smoke. I've shut it down, but we’re quite capable of flying safely with only one engine until we reach the nearest airport. Once I receive clearance, we'll be landing at an alternate site, and you'll be assigned another flight. I apologize again for the inconvenience.”
The passengers were nervous. He hoped his measured words calmed them. Mechanical problem? ‘It was a goddamned engine failure, not a mere mechanical problem. Wasn’t this plane just checked out?’ He expressed his feelings succinctly to the only person within earshot, his first officer. Indeed, the passengers had calmed when the flames were extinguished, and the plane continued in flight. It almost appeared as if nothing was amiss. Despite a brief adjustment to maintain altitude, pitch and control, the captain, with many hours of flight simulator training, adapted quickly. But there was something else. He changed course with the diversion to Sao Paulo. That was a while back. He was flying over the deep Amazon. What was available in the vicinity that could take a plane that size? Impatiently, he awaited the response from air traffic control
“C’mon. C’mon. You’re taking forever!”
“Global 302 you are cleared for emergency landing on runway 27 at Porto Velho. You have priority. Turn to a heading of…”
This time he barked at the traffic controller to make sure he fully understood the urgency of the situation.
“ATC this is Global 302. Porto Velho is too far! Get something closer!”
The words and tone were completely out of character, but he was a seasoned pilot who communicated effectively. In an emergency, no one would misunderstand his situation or intended actions. Not the air traffic controller, not the people at Global Air, and certainly not the head flight attendant he now summoned to the flight deck for a briefing. They were past the worst. More could have gone wrong, but didn’t. Maybe they were lucky. He just needed instructions on where to proceed and what to do about excess fuel.
CHAPTER THREE
Flight deck- Global Air 302
What he thought would be a ‘piece of cake’ flight had turned into a nightmare since departing Lima. First the diversion because of weather around Brasilia, followed by the worst in- flight event he had ever experienced. Sure, in twenty-three years as a commercial pilot there were things that stuck in his mind, but never the loss of an engine. What else could go wrong? He began his turn south toward an airport he was unfamiliar with. It took all he had to keep the aircraft steady on one engine. Just then, he noticed the first officer reaching overhead, turning one switch on, another off, looking closely at the instrument gages. The fatal words were conveyed in a matter of fact way. “We're losing oil pressure on No.2 or this gauge is screwy.”
The captain listened with disbelief. Loss of one engine was recoverable; loss of two, catastrophic.
“Are you sure? Check again.”
“I’m sure.”
He reached for the satellite phone.
“This is Global 302. Mayday! Mayday! Our situation is changing rapidly. Possibility of losing the second engine. Confirm coordinates…”
As he spoke, the attendant summoned to the flight deck earlier heard the international distress call.
“What's happening? It’s a mess back there. What’s going on?”
“Listen carefully! There isn’t much time.”
His instructions to her were minimal;
“Prepare the passengers for emergency landing. Make sure everyone braces for impact, especially you and the other attendants. You will need every bit of your training in crash procedures.”
Shaken, she re-entered the cabin, trying to exhibit a calm smile, but her composure betrayed a tenseness read by nearly everyone.
Their suspicions were confirmed when the plane began an unusually rapid descent. There was nothing to suggest a controlled glide path. The mechanical problem mentioned earlier, had apparently ignited something more severe. Below, they saw only varied shades of green broken by the glint of sun flashing off a winding river.
Then the chilling last words.
“Attendants, prepare for emergency landing!”
The hope there was anything that could come close to a landing was blatantly false, and he knew it. There was nothing but jungle below. Both pilots watched the pressure gauge decline toward zero. Then, with no oil supply, the right engine seized. Their most optimistic expectations were not to be realized. The unthinkable, the occurrence that never could happen, happened. Both engines had failed, disavowing all statistical analysis. The first officer flipped pages of a manual looking for information that could right the situation, or at least provide a little more time. He searched for a solution he doubted existed.
Terrence Connery, the talk of Wall Street, owner of a top-flight hedge fund, rich beyond the dreams of most, followed instructions from outwardly calm attendants. He hadn’t experienced a rapid loss of altitude quite like it. So acute, vomit rose in his throat. This was far more than severe turbulence. The first incident had shaken him, but the captain followed it with reassurance that calmed many aboard. Clearly, the situation now was desperate and the final words, dire. A feeling of helplessness washed over him. They would crash. Nothing he or any of the others could do would change that. What worried him only a short while ago was no longer of significance. His mind focused instead on the last few minutes left in his life. The fast approaching terrain sealed the fate of Flight 302. Rivers and tributaries, threads of glistening sunlight at high altitude, changed to turbid brown as the ground came closer. Critical flight maneuvers slowed the plane's descent, only to delay the inevitable. Too low to be picked up by radar, they leveled out, but that was small consolation. The 200 ton jet would pancake into towering trees at over 200 miles an hour, far from the last coordinates given. His life would end in the middle of nowhere. But who would care? Not his estranged wife, not his so called friends, and certainly not his clients who would soon learn their investments with Hawthorne Capital no longer existed.
He bent forward and grabbed his knees. Was it too late to ask forgiveness for his selfish mistakes? Others may have been thinking similar thoughts. Few sounds came from the packed cabin as initial panic turned into acceptance of imminent death. The plane plunged downward, no whine from the turbines, no hopeful thump of wheels preparing to touch an imagined runway. The attendant uttered last minute instructions to the terrified passengers, no sign of despondence in her voice. The steep pitch prevented her from walking the aisle for a final inspection, but certain everything possible had been done, she strapped into her jump seat, placed her hands on her lap and closed her eyes.
The sea of green came closer. Five hundred feet, two hundred, one hundred, then violent impact as the plane hit the tallest trees, cutting a wide swath in an explosion of metal against wood. Century old mahoganies snapped like twigs. Flames and debris shot skyward. Connery’s head slammed into the seat in front, his body whipped violently as the plane tore apart. A glimpse of blue sky, then the person beside him disappeared, seat and all.
CHA
PTER FOUR
He came from a small town in Indiana where grain silos defined the horizon and holiday parades followed the same script year after year; fire truck, ambulance, boy scouts, cub scouts, then brownies. The few majorettes in short skirts twirled flashing batons. These he knew well, some intimately. They competed for his attention and considered him top jock, first choice. Just behind them, town officials waved mechanically from an aging yellow Cadillac convertible. Down Main Street, twice around the town green and it was over in a half hour.
The title “class prankster” fit him perfectly, but he was also one of its smartest members and best athletes. His father owned the local hardware and feed store where he worked after school and on Saturdays. Someday it would be his. But by his junior year, he knew he wanted more.
Two things intrigued him- girls and money. Both became a problem during his senior year, but his girl liked nice things. Her expensive tastes went beyond the bounds of his earning power. As class treasurer, his responsibilities included the safekeeping of funds saved for their senior trip. The plan was for a weekend in Indianapolis, complete with hotel, show and football game. The fund reached $900 when he decided to try his hand at investing. What was the harm? The “loan” would be repaid with interest on guaranteed profit.
He opened an account with a stockbroker in the next town, and with money borrowed from the fund, bought a hundred shares of a stock that was supposed to double in a month. Three months later, the stock tanked and the company ultimately filed for bankruptcy. He kept the whole thing secret until payments for the class trip could no longer be avoided. Connery’s father agreed to make restitution to avoid his son’s prosecution and keep his record clean. Word around town got out quickly but despite the embarrassment, it fueled his desire to learn more about finance and the intricacies of markets.
He needed a college education, preferably Ivy League, to achieve his dreams. But there were obstacles he had to overcome.
“You’re askin’ for somethin’ we can’t do, Terry. I know you got your mind set- don’t see a way around it; at least for a while. Maybe that small college over in Dayton we looked at.”
The pained expression on his father’s face said it all. Connery didn’t pursue it out of respect. Instead, he wrote his congressional representative requesting an appointment to the Air Force Academy. A long shot for sure, but he had grades well above average along with stellar performance in varsity football and baseball. Moreover, he had helped organize and publish the first school newspaper.
The letter was timely since the congressman happened to be losing votes in that particular part of his district. He thought selecting a kid from there made good political sense. Local papers ate those things up, he reasoned. Connery received his official acceptance with elation. His long shot had paid off, securing him a free education at a prestigious military academy and a chance to escape the dull confines of his hometown.
With his degree and military service behind him, he began a meteoric rise in the world of finance and investing. His knack for calculated risk taking, along with a sense for picking the right stocks, could often double or triple an investment. It wasn’t long before word of his success got to the right people. Few could match what he achieved in such a brief time. In a seamless transition, he rose from ham and cheese to caviar and Dom Perignon, complete with mansions, yachts, and nannies, all by the time he was thirty two. He moved with ease in an elite crowd that sought his presence at their most elegant gatherings. Initially, some of the more prestigious in his circle wondered if he wasn't one of those 'big hat, no cattle’ guys who dazzled for a while then faded in the stretch. In truth, most couldn't match his balance sheet, even then.
Five years later, it all went wrong. That's when Pam finally served him with divorce papers. He should have seen it coming. They had met toward the end of his sophomore year at the academy and married soon after graduation. The couple left church that day under a canopy of drawn swords and all the other accoutrements and hoopla accorded a newly commissioned officer. His career in the service was unspectacular, although he finished with the rank of captain. After military, they moved to New York where he launched a career that would turn him into a very rich man.
Their first years together were great; two kids, a marriage that seemed stable, a somewhat normal family life. Pam was beautiful, a near perfect wife who supported him in anything he wanted to do. He should have been content with the way things were but eventually began messing around with another woman, the first of many attracted to his good looks and lots of money. It wasn't long before he spent more time in their bed rooms than his own. Ego had taken command. He covered his tracks carefully, always with a ready alibi. Pam didn't catch on right away, accepting his excuses for late nights and lengthy stays away from home. When she finally discovered the truth, none of his bogus explanations and attempt to gloss things over, worked. In an explosive scene one night, she ripped his shirt and clawed at his face, leaving deep scratches he had to explain for days after.
“How could you? You bastard…!”
Their marriage never really recovered. They stayed together but the relationship grew even more strained. It was but a matter of time before it ended.
That same year, his business became successful beyond all belief. He was on a fast track to making a fortune, and wealthy clients, anxious for the steady returns his funds produced, almost begged him to take their money. To mention that you were with Hawthorne Capital became a sort of status symbol. Accounts weren’t opened with less than a million dollars. Investments under his management increased to a billion and climbed rapidly toward four billion and beyond. Money flowed, far beyond his dreams, and along with it prestige, public appearances, and meetings with people of influence. His picture appeared on the cover of several business magazines, and guest slots on CNBC followed. Everyone wanted to know what Connery thought. Where would the Dow be at year end? What sectors looked good? Would the Fed increase rates? At the top of his game: power, money, fame, and just over forty- one.
He moved a reluctant Pam and kids to a ten thousand square foot mansion in Boca Raton, spending as little time there as possible, since he kept an apartment in New York. Shortly after buying the mansion he bought another, a palatial vacation home on the southern coast of Spain near Malaga, followed by the purchase of a hundred foot yacht he kept moored at West Palm Beach; a spending orgy designed to flaunt his success. But fabulous wealth didn’t come without a price. Adding to the pressures of a failing marriage, well- heeled clients expected him to make money on their investments, no matter which direction the market turned. That's why they placed substantial amounts with his firm, Hawthorne Capital Management. If he didn't perform, they wouldn't hesitate to move it elsewhere.
For the next few years, success was non- stop; until a surprise arrived in the mail one morning. A weighty package from the Securities and Exchange Commission was ominous. The request for endless information included lists of new accounts, terminated accounts, cross transactions, stock purchases, stock sales, trade dates, and much more. They had a month to assemble it before a formal audit began.
Dumbfounded, in a fit of anger, Connery called an emergency meeting of his top officers including Dan Hewett, his second in command. The door to the conference room had hardly closed when he dropped the heavy package on the table.
“In case some of you haven’t heard, we’re about to get audited by the SEC! This didn’t arrive out of the blue. Somebody had to know about it. Why wasn’t I called? They have phones in Spain last I checked!”
He turned and pointed toward Hewett.
“I hold you responsible! You’ve known about this. Why didn’t you call? I’ll tell you why! You and Walters here! You’ve had your heads up your asses! What am I paying you for? The SEC thinks they have something big here. They want to know if the money in our client’s accounts actually exists! What the hell do they think we’re doing with it? This is a surprise, and you know I hate surprises! Do you have any clue
about what’s going on?”
He slammed his fist on the table. The more he talked, the louder he shouted. Hewett listened to the tirade and then had an opportunity to respond. He answered calmly.
“We do have a problem, and it’s been going on for several months. I tried to tell you, but you weren’t listening. Remember? You were in Spain for three weeks. That’s when we found out for sure. I made the decision not to inform you until you returned, mostly because I didn’t have any good answers. I still don’t. Walters and I thought we could get it straightened out. Then the package arrived just before you returned. Right now, the problem looks to be software related, but I can’t say for sure. There’s been significant data loss. I need time.”
The meeting turned more explosive when Connery learned they needed at least fifty million just to get by the next quarter, thus it became urgent for him to be at the meeting in Brasilia. It would be up to him to convince three men to invest in Hawthorne. At least one, maybe two, had other business commitments. They would cancel if there were any delays. The deal maker was a powerful businessman operating out of Brasilia with corporate connections in Venezuela. Connery read his business card.
Estevo Castelo Branco
Companhia do Azevedo, Limitada
1800 Playa Mendoza
Brasilia, Brazil
No other information, except for a telephone number written on the back; no indication of the man's title or the business of his company.
Their initial meeting began with a call to Connery’s offices. Cindy, his secretary, answered, thought it important enough to ring his office. She possessed a sixth sense about things that could be of importance, and he trusted her completely.
“I have this call on hold. I think you should take it.”
He remembered the conversation moving quickly. An accented voice spoke with authority.