“The cabin is advised...weather radar and anti-ice are off.”
They finished their checks and Bowden grasped the two thrust levers.
“Charter 104 rolling...” Gostini reported into the microphone as Bowden slowly advanced the thrust levers forward into the take-off detent.
The aircraft engines increased in pitch and the A320 began lumbering down the runway. The speed built and the runway stripes, illuminated by the powerful landing lights, disappeared under the nose with increasing speed.
Bowden and Gostini both kept their eyes on the airspeed indicator as they rapidly ate up the runway length. The needle crept towards V-1 the go, no-go decision speed. They knew that before V-1 they could reject the take-off, put the engines in reverse and slam on the brakes to avoid plummeting off the end of the runway. Once they hit V-1, they were committed to flight.
“One hundred” Gostini called out, cross checking airspeeds for accuracy.
The airspeed indicator speed was passing one hundred and thirty knots...one hundred and thirty five knots...one hundred and forty five....
“V1...rotate,” Gostini said, a moment later.
Bowden eased back on the joystick and the nose of the aircraft rose into the air. His eyes probed the vertical speed indicator watching for evidence they were beginning to climb. The needle started moving upwards.
No matter how many times he flew, Bowden always felt that tiny bit of relief at this moment. Though many pilots would maintain that they commanded their airplanes with the nonchalance of a drive to the corner milk store, medical tests monitoring their blood pressures at the moment of takeoff told a different story. Once the thrust levers were advanced to the TOGA position, their blood pressures surged right up there with the engine thrusts.
“Gear up,” Bowden said, as he felt the craft kick free of earth’s gravity and slowly pull itself skyward.
The jet climbed at a 20-degree pitch angle as Gostini reached forward to the instrument panel and pulled a black lever up.
The soft whine of the wheels retracting was followed by a muffled thump as they settled into the wheel wells. They could hear the nose wheel still spinning in its well as the doors closed. The vertical speed indicator reacted sharply to the decreased drag and the aircraft leaped upward as though suddenly lighter.
“Gear up,” Gostini confirmed, seeing three amber indicators.
Bowden eased the joystick to the left in a climbing left turn as the jet soared upwards. “Flaps one....” Then: “Flaps zero.”
Gostini complied and grinned at him for no particular reason other than to pass an unspoken message that he was happy to be in the air again. Bowden understood and returned his grin.
“Next stop London,” Gostini said.
“Yeah...and then Rome. Where, if I weren’t married, I’d be looking for Roman maidens.”
They had the luxury of a straight climb to their assigned altitude to intercept their High Altitude Jet Airway already dialed into their navigational system.
“Wayne...what’s going on back there?” Gostini inclined his head towards the passenger compartment.
Bowden shook his own head. “No idea...but whoever they brought aboard looked in pretty rocky shape. I got a quick look in the sick bay before they closed the curtain. Dr. Butler and the new nurse were working on him.”
“I bet their patient didn’t go through channels neither. Sooner or later...big trouble.”
Bowden grinned at the co-pilot. “Hell, he can’t get in any trouble...he’s got the power of the Roman Catholic Church back there. They can grant him absolution for just about anything.”
“Even ducking immigration?”
Bowden just grinned at him. “Even ducking immigration.”
Gostini shook his head and did a reasonable impersonation of Sergeant Schultz from Hogan’s Heroes: “I see nuutttinnn...!”
Bowden chuckled as he watched the altimeter. With their route already programmed in the computer, once they left the Terminal Radar Service Area (TRSA) zone and passed into Class A airspace above flight level one eight zero, and attained altitude, it would be time to let the automatic pilot take over and fly them to London’s Gatwick Airport.
After some sleep, the second leg would take them from London to Rome. Though the A320 had been fitted with auxiliary tanks that gave it direct flight capability, the pilots still needed to rest. The Vatican hadn’t sprung for a relief crew; Bowden and Gostini were it.
As Gostini confirmed an altitude change with the control tower, Bowden settled back in his seat and thought about the mysterious passenger and their own curious arrangements with the Vatican.
Some time ago, both he and Gostini had been approached by Father Claude Lamontagne, a Jesuit priest with the Romana Curia. The Church had leased an A320 from United Airlines and needed two high-time, airline pilots to fly it – on an on-call basis. The caveat was they were on call 24-hours a day at half pay. Full pay when they flew.
Since he and his friend Dan Gostini had been laid off by Eastern Airlines in an expense cut, they jumped at the contracts. Bowden had a small mortgage on a house in Atlanta. He and his wife Susan also had a new baby on the way. With Susan on pregnancy leave from her nursing job, they needed the money. So what if the position was somewhat strange? He and his bachelor co-pilot saluted and gratefully signed their new and generous contracts. They were also made to sign legal, non-disclosure letters stating that anything they saw or learned, while in the employ of the Church, would remain confidential. Disclosure of information deemed confidential by the church would mean repayment of all monies delivered to them by the church from the beginning of their contract. What it all meant was anyone’s guess, but they both signed it. They could keep their mouths shut.
Since then, they had largely been on stand-by. They had to carefully monitor their flying hours to meet the Federal Aviations Agency’s 6-month minimum guidelines for carrying passengers. In short, to act as pilot in command and co-pilot, they had to make five take-offs and landings within each six month period to stay current. Generally, it wasn’t a problem as they’d fly a cardinal overseas or transport what they called the Quad-Squad, four silent, unsmiling priests – who looked more like commandoes than men of God – somewhere in the world. In the previous year, however, they were one short one take-off and landing in their six-month requirement, and so were instructed to take the A320 on a flight to Paris, via Milan, Stuttgart, and Brussels, where they landed and took off from each city before returning to Rome.
Then last year things picked up. Suddenly they were advised the plane would be undergoing modifications and the aircraft had been taken in for a retrofit.
When they signed for delivery two weeks later, both he and Gostini were surprised to find a quarter of the rear passenger cabin had been converted into a fully outfitted Medical Sick Bay, complete with an operating theatre featuring what surely must be the latest compact medical diagnostic and treatment equipment.
The rest of the aircraft was taken up with an office (complete with computers shielded so as not to interfere with their instruments) a FAX machine and multiple telephones as well as six sleeping compartments – three with double beds and three with a pair of bunk beds – and a general room with TV, a couch and two chairs, lamps and tables. A small galley with microwave, eating table and chairs bolted down completed the retrofit.
The aircraft had also been outfitted with auxiliary fuel tanks fitted into a section of the lower cargo hold extending their range to more than 2,600 nautical miles thus giving them transatlantic flight capabilities. Their two General Electric CFM56-5 engines had thrust ratings between 25,500 and 27,000 pounds giving them power to spare. In addition, however, they also had a curious set of auxiliary “LED visibility” lights inset along the fuselage and down each wing, carefully crafted so as not to interfere in any way with lift. At least, Father Lamontagne said they were for visibility.
The drill, during night flights, had been to switch them on illuminating the edges of wings
and body of the aircraft once they were aloft and at their assigned altitude. Bowden, citing his captaincy of the aircraft, demanded to know the reason for the lights and had muttered about possibly contravening international regulations. However, the Jesuit priest, Father Lamontagne merely smiled and said all navigational lighting requirements continued to be met and now they were just illuminating God’s work.
The same year, Lamontagne had been replaced by Bishop Flavius Aquila. Their new boss, an elderly man, spoke little other than to give them their flight orders. During flights he worked at his desk in one stateroom and rarely visited the flight deck.
Bowden sighed and wondered if he should flip on the “visibility” lights. He decided against it. What the priests didn’t miss, wouldn’t hurt them.
He turned control of the aircraft over to his co-pilot and took out a World Aeronautic Chart. If he had any idea about what would happen over the next seven-odd hours, he would have immediately requested a new vector and altitude to take them directly back to La Guardia where he would have happily resigned. After all, Captain Wayne Bowden wasn’t in any hurry to make Mrs. Bowden a widow.
~ 11 ~
Doctor Rennie M. Butler steadied himself on his feet as he felt the A320 lift off. As usual, the angle of climb was sharp. He and his nurse, Susan Swaga, hung onto the operating table on which Clay Montague lay strapped and naked with IVs in both arms. He’d been catheterized and she was taking his blood pressure as they climbed.
The nurse nodded in satisfaction. “BP is 100 over 60....”
Butler smiled for the first time in almost half an hour and glanced around the cabin for his penlight to check Clay’s pupil response. He still couldn’t get over the completeness of the facilities and the amazing array of medical equipment on board; the Church had spared nothing.
The Sick Bay of the A320 cabin had been paneled in stark white and contained down-sized pieces of most of the medical devices found in any modern hospital’s emergency department.
Along one wall were drug cabinets, oxygen cylinders, a portable x-ray machine, a trauma wagon complete with defibrillator, and various other and sundry pieces of medical equipment including a heart-lung machine and a resuscitator. He had been told that there were X-Ray technicians, perfusionists and anesthetists on call in various cities. If needed, they would be waiting at the nearest airport and would be at his disposal. And they had hired a nurse who told him she was also sworn to secrecy.
An operating table capped by powerful lights was bolted to the center of the cabin floor. Next to it rested a secured instrument tray now cluttered with stainless steel scalpels, retractors, scissors, empty disposable hypodermic needles and a number of bloodied cotton sponges – remnants of their efforts to stabilize Clay and repair the wounds compromised by the priests’ attempts to dig the darts out of his chest with a metal letter opener.
As a general surgeon and trauma specialist at St. Elizabeth’s Medical Center of Boston, the prior four years had seen Dr. Butler spending more time in operating rooms than out. In truth, he was burned out, and becoming less and less effective. Seeing that he needed some rest, the hospital had approached him on behalf of the Catholic Church who needed a full time surgeon who would only perform emergency work a few times a year. The Hospital Administrator had introduced him to Father Lamontagne and given his blessing to a two-year leave of absence provided Butler return to St. Elizabeth two years hence.
Doctor Butler had been placed by the Church on permanent call with a generous weekly stipend and merely had to fly with the aircraft when it went to certain locals. Since he was single, this was no great hardship. He had comfortable quarters on board, plenty of reading material and an extensive DVD collection to choose from. The only condition of employment was that he never disclosed anything he witnessed during his tenure. Also, when he was away from the aircraft, he had to respond to his pager or a cell call immediately. Failure to comply, said Father Lamontagne, would result in instant dismissal and a very forceful complaint registered with the American Medical Association that would cause him no end of grief. He was amused at how the Church seemed to work: extend the carrot and then show him one freaking big stick with a nail in the end of it. Butler mulled it over for a day and asked himself if it was worth it. When he expressed doubts, they simply doubled his salary.
Since then he’d been to Rome, London, and Paris more times than he could count, Berlin twice, various South and Central American cities including Bogotá, Panama City and Santiago. He’d also flown to LA, Boston, Las Vegas and New York more times than he could remember. And they’d flown to Burlington, Vermont, and stayed there for a week the previous year. It was there he had his first and only patient – till now. One of the four priests they typically flew with had been brought to the aircraft in Burlington VSA – Vital Signs Absent. There was nothing he could do – the man had been almost torn to shreds as though he’d been attacked by a berserk animal. He had told Bishop Aquila that they required the county coroner in Vermont but he’d been ignored. They simply shut the aircraft doors and took off for Rome. It was then the Bishop had unlocked a locker along the fuselage near the bathroom that turned out to be a small refrigerated “morgue” with two compartments. Whatever the dead man’s function had been, he wasn’t replaced. No grieving, no regrets and no explanations.
When his second patient, Clay Montague, had been brought across the La Guardia tarmac in a black Saab, and transferred on board, his pulse had been rapid and weak, his respiration shallow, blood pressure bottoming out and pupils beginning to dilate. According to Father Murphy he had been injected by six darts containing 20 mg. of Ketamine each. They’d tried to counteract the drugs by injecting him with Narcan but it hadn’t worked. His heart had temporarily stopped on the way in but now he did have a pulse. Butler saw right away the man was in hypovolemic shock.
The doctor and his nurse went to work. They immediately applied the MAST trousers, gave him oxygen and started two large bore IV lines to deliver a crystalloid solution for volume replacement.
Now he listened with satisfaction as the patient’s heartbeat grew stronger. Though, on entry to the aircraft, the patient’s chest and belly showed six wounds, all except one were now closed with antimicrobial surgical dressings. The last required stitches. The young woman, who hurriedly introduced herself as Sister Maria, told Butler that she thought there was still one dart in the man’s chest and she was right. He retrieved it. It was a stainless steel affair measuring an inch and a half long that was composed of a plastic feather over a metal ampoule with a sharpened hollow tip to administer the narcotic intramuscularly on impact. Although Butler recognized Ketamine as a general anesthetic that was considered relatively safe in the medical community, the patient had been injected by too many darts, too many times and gone into shock. With Clay’s heart resuming a normal rhythm and his BP satisfactory, he’d repaired the wounds.
Clay groaned and Butler leaned close and shouted. “Clay...wake up! Can you hear me? Wake up! Clay...can you hear me?” He continued the litany for a few more seconds as his patient fought the narcotic and struggled to regain consciousness.
Fifteen feet towards the rear of the aircraft’s Sick Bay, a chastened Father Murphy, Father Langevin and Sister Maria were visible through the half-open privacy curtain. They sat on a small, white, leather couch as Bishop Aquila paced angrily back and forth. The priests were dressed in black suits, their Roman collars gleaming under their dark shirts. Father Murphy now sported a small dressing centered at the corner of his left eye that the doctor had insisted on applying once his primary patient had been stabilized.
It was hard for Butler to believe that the pretty girl in the dark grey wool skirt and red sweater seated beside them was a nun. Unlike many clerics or nuns he’d met, and in particular those dour personalities for whom he now worked, she seemed to have a sense of life, optimism and a mischievous happiness about her.
Butler looked back and had a fleeting thought; if a man’s life hadn’t been han
ging in the balance for the last thirty minutes, the whole scene he was viewing might have been funny.
The bishop, squinting through thick glasses, thundered his rage at the two priests. Occasionally he’d lose his balance as the plane hit a mild downdraft or updraft, but then, on regaining his equilibrium he would vent his fury anew. The wounded priest would alternately argue and then retreat into passive submissiveness, argue and retreat again. He tuned them out as he worked.
“He had a revolver...he was shooting at us,” Murphy retorted once, not willing to fully accept blame.
“Were your lives more important than this mission, Father?” Bishop Aquila asked, tartly.
“No, Your Grace.”
“Are you aware of the consequences if he dies?”
Langevin and Maria remained quiet.
Murphy looked up and slowly nodded his head. “We’re in deep dung?”
“Father!”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Were you not aware of the power of the tranquilizers?”
“Your Grace, when someone is trying to blast your head off...!” Murphy left the sentence hanging.
“So your well-being was taking precedence over his...?”
“Of course not...but extracting him meant we had to stay alive.”
“We were all told the drug took 10 – 15 seconds to work....” Aquila said.
“That’s an eternity when you’re taking fire....”
“Taking fire? You sound like a pro, Father.”
Murphy’s face reddened. “You wanted him out of there. We got him out!”
“He’s no good to us if he’s dead!”
Maria could contain herself no longer. “Your Grace, we did the best we could under the circumstances. The child we told you about was not...well, it wasn’t .... human. We were under virtual siege.”
“Enough!” The bishop glared at her while motioning towards the doctor and nurse. Maria’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
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