Stars Fell on Trieste

by M. Alan Marr

  “You both know him. That’s at least a start,” Dev says. “What’s his story?”

  “What’s her story is more like it,” Chaz jests. “I actually thought he was a flight attendant first time I met him.”

  Steve chuckles. “He is pretty girly, but he’s a nice guy.”

  “He is definitely a nice guy,” Chaz says, and looks at Dev. “He’s certainly no longshoreman.”

  “What’s a longshoreman?” Dev says.

  “Never mind,” Chaz says. “Listen, I’m not trying to sound critical of him, and I feel bad for even saying anything. I’m just letting you know what you’re in for if we hire him.”

  “But can he fly?” Steve says. “That’s the real question.”

  Dev selects and reads Matt’s training records. “Apparently so. Flawless training scores.”

  Steve points to the information under the academic icon. “Jesus, he graduated from Yale.”

  “He’s smart,” Chaz says, reading the tag. “A 4.0 GPA from an Ivy League, that’s impressive.”

  “His current billet is blank,” Dev says curiously. “That means he’s unemployed.”

  “Hang on . . . ” Chaz says, reading the work history. “The company he worked for was bought out by—oh, no way.”

  “What is it?” Dev says.

  Chaz motions toward the screen. “That name, Patriarch Angelic, is one of those ultra-conservative values companies.”

  “Oh, man,” Steve says. “I can’t even imagine what that was like for him.”

  Chaz looks at Dev. “Does it give the reason he left?”

  Dev shakes his head. “No. He must have resigned.”

  “So they wouldn’t fire him, because that would have meant a lawsuit,” Steve says. “Which means they must have made his life hell until he just quit.”

  “That really pisses me off,” Chaz says, feeling himself getting agitated.

  “Are you thinking about rescuing him?” Steve says. “Like you did with Jen?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt to at least talk to him,” Chaz suggests.

  “Dev, can that program tell us where he is?” Steve says.

  Dev enters some information on the virtual controls, and a map of Atlanta pulls up and zeros in and puts a target on a map. “He’s here in Atlanta,” Dev says. “Or rather, that’s where his cell phone is.”

  “Do you have the number?” Steve says. Dev selects the communications icon for Matt, which expands to display his phone number and his associated e-mail addresses on the screen.

  “Should I call?” Steve says.

  Neither Dev nor Chaz objects. Dev gives the nod.

  Steve dials the number and then puts his Ti-Phone on speaker. It rings twice.

  “Helloooo?”

  “Hi, may I please speak with Matt Thompson?”

  “You got her, honey. Who’s this?”

  “Matt, this is Steve Fitzgerald. I used to fly with a friend of yours, Daryl Vickers.”

  “Steve?” Matt says. “From Charter Inc?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Well, hello! I never expected to get a call from you.”

  Steve chuckles. “I’m sorry to call so late, Matt, but I took a new job. I’m chief pilot for a private outfit in Atlanta, and we’re looking to hire another first officer. I was wondering if you’d be interested in meeting with me to discuss it.”

  “Oh my God—are you serious?”

  “I am.”

  “What’s the job?”

  “It’s a privately owned aircraft. I have two other full-time pilots, and I’m looking for one more. We do worldwide travel, and the owners are . . . out of this world.”

  This earns a silent laugh from Dev.

  “Wow, that sounds exciting.”

  “Are you free tomorrow?” Steve says. “Are you in Atlanta?” He knows he is, but asks anyway.

  “I am in Atlanta!” Matt says enthusiastically. “I can meet any time you’d like.”

  “How about 10:00 am at Jet Support at Hartsfield? I can show you the airplane, and we can talk about the job.”

  “Ten o’clock is fine,” Matt says. “Steve . . . did you know I was looking for a job?”

  “I did,” Steve admits. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  On the other end of the phone, Matt sounds like he’s getting emotional. “Thank you. Thank you for calling me, Steve.”

  “See you at 10:00.” Steve ends the call.

  The three don’t need to say it. There was something in Matt’s voice that said he desperately needs rescuing. Steve yawns, and asks where the bathroom is. Chaz directs him down the hall.

  As Steve stands in front of the toilet, he’s hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion and actually has to steady himself. Last thing he needs is to lose aim and pee all over Dev’s bathroom.

  While Steve is out of the study, Chaz notices the biologic icon associated with Matt Thompson is displayed in blue hash mark, compared to the steady blue biologic icons for the other candidates. Chaz reaches out and selects Matt’s medical information. A very long and multi-branched string of data fills the screen. Chaz glances at the information and turns to Dev with a fearful look. As Steve returns, Chaz deselects the tab. He stares at Dev for a moment, then jerks his head to Steve and speaks in a very decisive tone. “Steve?”

  “Sir?”

  “I want you to hire him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  ***

  Chaz drives Steve home in the Porsche. Along the way, he briefs Steve on compression fatigue. Steve promises he’ll go right to bed. The drive to the crew’s condos takes only a few minutes. Despite the short ride, Steve falls asleep in the car. He wakes with a start when Chaz rides over the bump on the transition to the condo building driveway. Steve seems alert and awake again, but Chaz knows it’s temporary and it won’t be long before Steve is fully down for the count.

  “What happened?” Steve says, slightly confused.

  “Told you, compression fatigue comes on fast.”

  Steve opens his door and tries to get out of the car without unbuckling his seat belt.

  “Seat belt,” he says to himself. He unbuckles and gets out, steadies himself, and looks at Chaz. “Thank you, Chaz.”

  “It’s no trouble, Steve.”

  “No, I mean . . . Thank you. Seriously.”

  Chaz looks at him for a second or two and nods. “Call if you have any questions or need anything.”

  “I will.”

  “Straight to bed, Steve.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Steve nearly walks into the glass door. He pushes and pushes, but it doesn’t open.

  From the car, Chaz yells, “Pull.”

  Steve pulls the door open and enters. Chaz shakes his head and drives away.

  In the elevator, Steve leans against the back handrail with his eyes closed. The ding of the elevator reaching his floor triggers the next few moments of alertness. The door to Steve’s condo proves a small problem, since he is trying unlock it with the key to the Beaver. Once successfully inside, he tromps to his bedroom and collapses facedown onto the mattress. Steve is out and sawing logs within seconds.

  Chaz returns to the Gillespie, where he finds Dev sound asleep on the living room couch, bottle of water still in hand, tipped down and poured all over the floor.

  chapter 9

  TWINKLE TWINKLE

  LITTLE STAR

  ☆ ☆

  Matthew ‘Skinny Merle’ Thompson arrives at the main entry doors of Jet Support at 9:45 am. He is average in height and has a complex hairstyle that looks like it is a lot of work to maintain, requiring a lot of product. He is very thin. He’s dressed in a shiny gray suit with a man-purse slung over his shoulder. Matthew Thompson looks like he should be walking the fashion runway in Milan, rather than a man on a job interview. He enters the building, looks around, puts his hands on the back of his hips, and approaches the mid-twenties receptionist. She is busy painting her fingernails and greets him after she finishes her last brushstro
ke.

  “May I”—she looks him up and down with some attitude—“help you?”

  Matt looks at her with measured contempt, purses his lips, and replies, “Hon, I’m looking for Steve. Steve Fitzgerald?”

  “Your name?”

  “Matthew Thompson.”

  The receptionist looks at him with disbelief. “You’re Matthew Thompson?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Captain?” she says with obvious dubiety.

  Matt half smiles. “That’s right, sweetie. I may look like a stewardess, and act like a stewardess, but I fly like Chuck Yeager, so why don’t you do me a favor and dial that little phone of yours and let Steve know I’m here. And be careful, I’d hate for you to mess up your nails.”

  A ramp worker drives Matt out to the flight line on a golf cart. Matt looks at all the corporate jets in the ramp, wondering which one it might be. He can’t help but look surprised upon approaching the 767. Seeing the giant airplane, his mouth gapes open. He marvels at the notion this is a personal aircraft. The golf cart stops next to another vacant cart parked near the airstairs truck. Matt stands up, takes a deep breath, gathers his courage, and walks up the stairs. At the top, he catches his breath, adjusts his man-purse, and then knocks gingerly on the fuselage before entering.

  “Uh, helloooo? Good morning . . . ”

  “Come on in.”

  Matt cautiously enters the aircraft and looks around. It takes just a moment for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight outside. The interior seems somewhat dim. Only basic white overhead lighting is on. Steve is in uniform, sitting at a table in the lounge working on some paperwork. He stands up and approaches the entry foyer.

  “Matt, Steve Fitzgerald,” Steve says, extending his hand. Relieved, Matt drops his shoulders and stiffness upon recognizing Steve. Matt extends his own hand palm down. They shake.

  “Oh my God,” Matt says with a sigh, “I was so nervous.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, I thought I was being kidnapped or something.”

  “What?”

  “You know . . . those stories of people being abducted and sold into slavery by wealthy kings.”

  “Matt,” Steve says plainly, “this is not an abduction, it’s a job interview.” He smiles and lightens the mood. “Besides, wealthy queens own this jet.” He laughs. “Are you thirsty?”

  “Yes,” Matt gushes. “I think I’m a little dehydrated.”

  Steve walks behind the upper galley bar. “Seriously? Kidnapping?”

  “Sorry. Job interview nerves. You know . . . ”

  “I do,” Steve says. “What would you like?”

  “Water’s fine.”

  “Sparkling or still?”

  Matt is feeling like himself again. “Oh, honey, you know Mattsy always sparkles.”

  Steve looks at him thoughtfully. “I remember.”

  Steve pulls two bottles of sparkling water from the chiller, along with two glasses. He doesn’t present it with the aplomb or elegance Annette would, but this isn’t about service. Steve leads Matt into the lounge and takes a club chair at the table and motions for Matt to take the seat opposite him. They both unscrew the caps to their bottles and pour water into their glasses.

  “So,” Steve says, “just to give you a little background, this is a privately-owned Boeing 767-400 series aircraft. I currently have three full-time pilots, including myself. And I’m looking for one other.” He adds, “Oh, and one of the owners is type rated as well.”

  “They have a 767 type rating?”

  “He does.”

  “Who does this belong to?”

  “For that information, I have to ask you to sign a confidentiality agreement.”

  “Really.”

  Steve opens his leather binder, turns it around, and pushes it toward Matt. “In order to proceed, the document must be signed. Otherwise, I’m afraid we’ve reached the limit of our discussion. The owners are . . . somewhat private people.”

  “Are they good people?”

  “They absolutely are,” Steve replies, sincerely. “In fact, they’re the best people I’ve ever met. And by far, the best ones I’ve ever worked for. Anyway, by signing this, you agree to not divulge any information about what you see or hear, and that includes this interview. Divulging information about the owners or the aircraft to anyone not specifically granted permission is considered a breach of confidentiality.”

  Matt reads the document. It is fairly straightforward and written on a single page.

  “We can continue the interview upon signing.”

  “And if I choose not to sign?”

  “Then I will apologize for wasting your time and take you back to the business jet terminal.”

  Matt thinks about the choices. “Well, this is far too intriguing to just walk away.” He signs.

  “Great,” Steve says, countersigning the document and sticking the page in the back of the folder. “So, this is the lounge. Going aft, there is a library, boardroom, four staterooms, and the Owner’s Suite. Forward from here there is the entry foyer, upper galley and bar, my quarters, and the flight deck. The main galley is below, along with the dining room and crew deck.”

  “Oh my.” Matt leans forward on his elbows. “I am all ears, tell me more.”

  “I believe you know one of the owners.”

  “I do? Who is it?”

  “Chaz Ronaldi.”

  Matt’s eyes light up. “Ooooh, 007? Are you kidding?”

  “Did you say 007?”

  Matt nods. “I saw him in a tuxedo once, and he looked just like 007. Oh my, yes.”

  Steve chuckles. “The aircraft belongs to Chaz and his partner, Dev Caelestis.”

  Matt gets a mischievous look on his face. “Dev Caelestis. Sounds very international.”

  “Oh, he’s international.”

  “So, 007 landed himself a wealthy husband.”

  “Actually, Mr. Ronaldi has considerable personal wealth as well.”

  “That, I didn’t know.”

  “Now you do.” Steve smiles. “So, please remember the terms of the confidentiality agreement. Now, I’m a nice guy. So are Dev and Chaz. But their lawyers are barracudas.”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  Later, the discussion continues. They cover Matt’s experience, education, and aircraft flown. Steve decides to test Matt’s candor. “Let’s talk about your previous position. I understand the company was bought out by new owners. Tell me about them.”

  Matt thinks a moment before answering. “It’s considered bad form to say anything negative in a job interview.”

  Steve takes a sip of water. “This isn’t really a . . . conventional interview.”

  Matt pauses. “That being said . . . They’re fascist pigs. They have abject hatred of the LGBT community, and though they couch their prejudice in religious conservatism and family values, they’re really only about the money. The don’t like me, not because I’m a screaming queen, but because I know how transparent they are. They know I’m aware of all the drunken debauchery that occurs on those flights, and they hate me because, unlike them, I’m not a hypocrite.” Matt takes a deep breath and lets out a long sigh. He knows he just blew the interview. He instantly regrets everything that just came out of his mouth.

  Steve digests Matt’s words and doesn’t respond for several more seconds. “Fascist pigs,” he says evenly.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Steve begins writing something in his notes. “Don’t be. I happen to agree with you.” He finishes writing and looks squarely at Matt. “First Officer pay is two hundred fifty thousand dollars a year with a five-year contract. Full medical and dental, retirement package, company car, expense account, and lodging, if needed, in Atlanta.”

  Matt looks at Steve with confusion. “Are you . . . hiring me?”

  “I am.” Steve closes his notebook and adds, nonchalantly, “If you’re interested.”

  Matt starts
to speak and then stops. He wonders how this is at all possible, given his far-left diatribe. He nearly becomes emotional and softly says, “I am.”

  “Wait,” Steve says. “Before you accept, there are a couple of things. For one, we often go out for weeks on end. The other thing is, we’re looking for a permanent home for . . . the owners, the aircraft, and by virtue of that, the crew.”

  “Outside of Atlanta? Perfect. I am so over this place.”

  “When are you available to start?”

  “Right now,” Matt says with confidence. “Captain.”

  Chaz and Dev are waiting at home. Chaz’s Ti-Phone receives a text from Steve, and he reads it aloud: “He’s in.”

  “Let’s get everyone up flying tomorrow,” Dev says.

  “Yes.” Chaz nods. “What are the next three places on your list?”

  Dev thinks. “Uh, Wyoming and a couple of places in Canada.”

  “All right.” Chaz begins texting a reply message to Steve.

  Steve drives Matt to the business jet terminal on his golf cart. Steve holds the door open for Matt to enter first. They walk together to the reception desk near the front.

  “I wonder what that snot at the desk will think now?”

  “Tina? Was she rude to you?” Steve says.

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  Steve receives Chaz’s inbound text. He stops to read it. “Your employment is approved. We fly tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait!”

  They stop at the desk, where the snot is still working on her nails.

  “Tina, I need you to issue Mr. Thompson a gate code and parking pass.”

  She doesn’t say anything, but her expression reads like a cheap paperback. She hands a parking pass and card with a numeric gate code to Matt, and a piece of paperwork for Steve to sign.

  Steve continues with Matt. “I’ll e-mail you copies of the aircraft manuals. The limitations chapter would be helpful to know, as well as the normal checklists. We’ll get you scheduled for type training up in Seattle as soon as possible. Plan on two weeks of hell.”

  “Just like my last relationship.”

  “This one will be better.”

  “Thanks, Steve. Good meeting you. Again.”

  “I’ll give you a call later with the itinerary, but plan to be here tomorrow at 0830.”