Flight 19

by Grant Finnegan

  A typical Californian morning, the crisp blue air punctured by the bright morning sun, warmed Emily’s right side as it filtered through the half-open window of her father’s car. Dave’s car stereo belted out the Foo Fighters; he was a big fan.

  “I think I’ve met a very nice young man,” Emily said, grinning to Dave between songs.

  Dave narrowed his eyes and frowned slightly in a mock-serious look. She laughed as she spotted him trying to keep the frown from becoming a smile, and realized he was joking.

  “Well, come on, then, who’s this lucky guy?” he said.

  “His name is Todd.” Emily looked through the front windscreen, picturing her crush pulling alongside the car at 60 miles per hour on his highway-patrol motorbike, and then grinned from ear to ear. “Todd—Roberts,” she said dreamily. “He was on the plane, sitting one seat away.” She turned to Dave and blinked. “You could say we got to know each other while we were stuck at Vandenberg.”

  Dave’s heart sank.

  And it had nothing to do with a young man making his daughter swoon.

  He turned to her, trying to mask his feelings.

  Emily caught the tail end of his original expression before he covered it over with a half-assed smile.

  “What is it?” She leaned toward her father without realizing. “What’s wrong?”

  Dave drove for close to half a mile before he knew he couldn’t get away with staying silent any longer.

  He turned to Emily for a moment before regaining his view of the road ahead.

  “Todd Roberts? Did he mention his father, Andrew, by any chance?”

  Emily didn’t take her eyes off him.

  “Yes, that’s his father’s name. What’s wrong?”

  Dave shook his head. It was almost 30 seconds before he finally answered.

  “Sorry honey, Todd’s going to be in a world of pain today.” Dave swore under his breath at what in a few weeks’ time would become known as “the curse of Flight 19.”

  The luxury SUV sped through the traffic on the James Lick Freeway, en route to its destination at LAX. The two-and-a-half-hour drive was, to Charles, nothing but a pain in the ass. He made no secret of how much he loathed LA and pretty much most of California.

  He had requested profusely that he be allowed to land his private jet behind the fences at Vandenberg.

  The authorities had, equally profusely, told him to buzz off.

  So the jet would have to land at LAX and he would have to make his way there from Vandenberg. He wasn’t even allowed to land a measly helicopter at Vandenberg. Suffice to say, Charley was a little bit on edge.

  Melanie, sitting on the right-hand side of the SUV, found the silence in the car slightly unusual, considering it had been so long since she had seen him.

  It wasn’t entirely surprising, though: Charles had a habit of clamming up for extended periods for no apparent reason at all.

  Finally, he spoke. “What was it like?” he muttered in Melanie’s direction. His tone was cold and distant. She caught her reflection in the tinted glass as she thought about how the counselors had said that loved ones could easily struggle on multiple levels with their return.

  So she reminded herself that Charles could be very distant at the best of times. He had this knack of seemingly switching off his emotions. On those rare occasions when it was completely acceptable for him to be a warm, loving man, Charles was somewhere else; it was the main reason for her first fling so long ago. Though the later times had been more about the white powder and the expensive wine, the first came out of her need to feel just a little bit special. For all his money and a head full of gold fillings and fucking porcelain, Charles had never understood how to make her feel like she was worth something.

  Looking him up and down, staring for a moment at his Berluti shoes, and ending back on a set of Dolce Gabbana sunglasses she thought were a little too feminine, she was unsure how to take his offhand question. She regained her inner composure before pulling out a fleeting smile.

  “What was what like, Charles?” she said quietly.

  From behind his girly glasses, Charles turned and looked Melanie over.

  Fucking that stupid little fuck Kevin Brewster, you fucking whore, he thought.

  “Going through the time warp, or whatever it was?” he said.

  Melanie shrugged her shoulders as if she knew he had been thinking something entirely different.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.” She tried to penetrate his sunglasses with her gaze, though she had no chance of seeing his eyes. “Whatever happened to us—it felt as if it were just another flight.”

  In a rare show of anything remotely like physical affection, Charles moved his right hand from the armrest in the center of the rear seat of the SUV and lightly patted the top of Melanie’s left hand, which was sitting in her lap.

  “It’s okay, Mel.” He only ever called her this when he was going to launch marital World War III. “We have plenty of time to talk about this on the flight home.” He lifted his hand off hers and returned it to the armrest.

  Melanie Lewinson would not board Charles’s private jet, currently on standby at LAX.

  She wouldn’t even make it to the tarmac.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Todd felt as if his Adam’s apple had grown to the size of a cantaloupe. He was struggling to keep his nerves in check, and his mouth felt dry no matter how much water he drank.

  All the passengers of Flight 19 shared a collective sense of dread. It was contagious—and well warranted. Only a handful of them would walk back into their lives unscathed. Their fear of what lay outside was all they talked about in the days before their release from Vandenberg. Some would later wish that they never left at all, finding the idea of spending the rest of their lives behind the barbed wire of a Californian air-force base, more palatable than returning to “the nothingness.”

  Todd was nervously excited about being reunited with his parents; he felt inexpressibly relieved that they would be there to meet him. He had what could best be described as a triple-A-grade relationship with his parents. They all got along; he loved them, respected them, and had become the sort of son parents would cherish for their entire lives. They shared the ups and downs, including the few moments when Todd had tested the boundaries of what was expected from the son of a decorated law-enforcement officer, and even when the ties between them became frayed, they had always come back together.

  If the California Highway Patrol had ever decided to license a figurine, they would have chosen to model it on Andrew Roberts. He was one of their best-known officers, based in the Southern Division, central Los Angeles. A career CHiP, he’d risen through the ranks through tenacity and loyalty to his job, his co-workers, and the people of California.

  But back to the figurine: in sandals for his daily walk along the beach in his hometown of Santa Monica, he rose to around six foot four, packing 240 pounds. Like his son, he appeared to have a body chiseled from stone, like the figure of a Greek god. His salt-and-pepper brown hair bore little likeness to Todd’s red hair, which the family often thought might have come from Andrew’s father, who bore that same orangutan tinge. Andrew’s highway-patrol shirts were specially made: his wife had to alter the 2XL shirts to fit his powerful upper body. Andrew might have been Jeremy Clarkson’s twin brother, going by his face—similarly longish, with big brown eyes and full lips itching to slide into a devilish grin at the drop of a hat. Minus the largish ears, and with whiter and far straighter teeth, he was even slightly better-looking (no offense, Mr. Clarkson).

  Even at 53, it was easy to see why Andrew’s wife, Kylie, had been the prom queen—crowned in 1981—of her beloved high school. She still “had it,” as they say in trashy magazines all over the world. Her figure was still curvy and taut, her skin a healthy shade of sandy light brown that she’d sworn never to let graduate to dark and leathery, as so many women in her age bracket did. Kylie had almond-shaped, jade-colored eyes, a nose straight from
the house of Jennifer Anniston, which is to say—perfect, and a smile that could melt the polar ice caps.

  Her hair was still walnut-colored and shoulder length, just as it had been for the past ten years. Only the faint whisper of creases around the corners of her eyes and lips gave away her age, but that was hidden beneath just as much makeup as she needed and no more.

  When Todd’s plane had disappeared in early 2019, Andrew and Kylie Roberts welded their marriage into an airtight cocoon. It was the only way, they believed, to get through those early stages of losing their only child. Andrew had seen plenty of death in his job and had seen firsthand how people dealt with it. He took his cues from the ones who seemed to weather the storm. But no instruction manual can adequately prepare you for the sudden loss of someone you love.

  It’s as if someone turns the light off in your soul.

  That’s how Andrew had described it to one of his friends at work—how he’d felt when Flight 19 never made it to LAX on that Thursday morning in 2019. He said that in those first few days and weeks, he’d felt as if darkness had engulfed him, and that only time, probably a long time, would dissipate the feeling. But eventually, it had.

  Then Kylie had to face the same thing again when she lost Andrew, only this time she was wholly alone. In the space of just a few years, she had lost the only two people in the world who had meant more to her than life itself.

  When news broke of Flight 19 reappearing in Californian airspace, Kylie could not believe it. She refused to, in fact, until three days later it was revealed how the A380 was sitting off limits and behind ridiculously heavy guard at Vandenberg AFB. Only then did she finally admit that it might be possible, just possible, that the plane had really returned, and Todd with it.

  Naturally, once it was confirmed that the passengers of Flight 19 were all alive and well, her feelings tumbled into the emotional clothes dryer on full spin. Then she realized her son would not be aware his father had been murdered in cold blood.

  In about 25 seconds, he would come through that nondescript door, and with him a moment of pure joy, relief, and then sadness. She had never felt anything so insurmountably contradictory.

  Finally.

  The door opened.

  “Mom!”

  Todd lunged at Kylie, nearly knocking her off her feet. They held each other for what seemed like an eternity. The three counselors inched just a little closer, drawn toward the impending trauma which was about to unfold before their very eyes.

  It only took another five seconds.

  Todd stood back and looked into his mother’s eyes.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  The head counselor stepped forward and silently placed her hand on Todd’s elbow; the other two quickly positioned themselves behind Kylie.

  “Let’s talk in the office over here,” the lead counselor whispered as they quickly ushered the surviving members of the Roberts family into the corner office.

  They sat Todd down with Kylie directly across from him. She raised her hands to show she wanted to hold her son’s massive hands in hers. Kylie began the speech she had rehearsed a dozen times that morning in the same office.

  Todd could feel something was amiss.

  His mother’s eyes had given him the first real genuine stab of fear.

  She could not hold his gaze.

  “Mom, where’s Dad?” Todd leaned closer, almost demanding his mother look him square in the eyes rather than at all four corners of the small office.

  “Andrew…”

  Kylie suddenly pulled her hands away from Todd’s, trying to hold back the storm of tears that was already flowing from her eyes.

  “Jesus.” Todd rose to his feet. His first thought—he wished Emily were there.

  When Kylie continued to cry, Todd turned his eyes to the first counselor.

  She took her deep breath and raised her left hand to his right shoulder, holding it there firmly. She had agreed that if Kylie broke down before telling Todd the news, she would step in to deliver the news.

  The longer the delay, the worse the damage would become.

  “Kylie, Kylie,” she said firmly, though still gently. “You know what we agreed; you know what I need to do.”

  Todd’s mother nodded weakly between her sobs.

  The counselor spoke quietly.

  “Todd, I have some grave news about your father.”

  He stumbled back down to his seat, feeling numb. He knew what was coming.

  What made it so heartbreaking was the depth of the relationship he’d had with his father. Andrew had been his mentor in life, and also one of his best friends.

  Todd reached out to his mother. Her face was wet with tears as she looked up. They stood; Todd pulled her in and hugged her. As her sobs began to quieten, he showed the counselors the sheer strength of his character. Like his father, Todd had learnt the true art of stoicism—they had it in spades.

  “When did we lose him, Mom?” His voice hadn’t quavered in the slightest.

  The three counselors all took a tiny step back and shared each other’s startled expressions. They just couldn’t believe how stoic Todd was seconds after learning of his father’s death.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  People who have personal fortunes in the billions of dollars tend to walk in a style of their very own. For men it might be a swagger; for women, a sway of the hips.

  That’s all very well, but when fortunes get mixed up with egos, it can be a nigh-lethal mix. Some such people walk the earth pissing off everyday people with such relentlessness you’d think they had nothing better to do.

  Michael E. Darcy was one such billionaire.

  At that moment, he was taking his swagger through what the passengers would end up calling the DONR: the doors of no return.

  Once they passed through them, the passengers of Flight 19 would no longer be able to hold onto their image of what life was like back in 2019. Those five years would be gone for good and they would have to make their peace with 2024.

  Darcy was ready.

  By far the wealthiest man on the A380, he sat at his final debriefing as if he was being lectured on how to run his multinational, multibillion-dollar business by a 17-year-old economics student. He rolled his eyes so many times while the first counselor told him what might lie ahead of him in the next few days and weeks, that at one point the guy abruptly stopped the conversation and told him to pull his overinflated ego out of his fat little ass. Michael’s attitude stemmed from his distorted perspective on life itself: as long as he had his billions, nothing else mattered, not even this little five-year fuck-up, as he had described it to a few other passengers. To him, it was an inconvenience and nothing more.

  As far as Darcy was concerned, he would walk out of Vandenberg and return to his life as it had been five years earlier.

  He was the managing director, the majority shareholder, owner, and head fucking honcho, for Christ’s sake. That’s what his ego was telling him in those moments before he went through the DONR.

  First, he planned to call an old friend and organize a few beers at his luxury townhouse on the beach at Malibu. Then he’d maybe call up a couple of lady friends who lived and worked locally (mostly at night).

  Who the fuck did he think he was, Charlie Sheen?

  Then, he thought, he’d call into his North American headquarters, convene a meeting of his most senior staff, and find out how much more money he’d made. At some point after that, he’d call his wife and see how life was treating her back in Melbourne, Australia.

  Unless a passenger from Flight 19 had lost their spouse, a child, or another immediate family member in the last five years, the AFOAs decided they would not inform the passenger who had come to pick them up.

  M.E. Darcy never asked who was going to be there to take him from Vandenberg. He didn’t care.

  There’s no harm in oozing a little confidence, the three counselors agreed as they watched him walk through the DONR.

  But when someone appears
to have their little wiener out, pissing into the prevailing wind, such trained eyes might find it a little embarrassing, even pitiable.

  One of those counselors knew much more about the life of Michael E. Darcy in 2024 than the other two, and it had been the only reason he allowed the guy to be such a douchebag in his last few hours at Vandenberg, especially in the final debriefing.

  Of all the passengers on Flight 19, Michael E. Darcy would find his life the most changed. You think you know what karma means?

  You ain’t seen nothing yet.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tammy Hourigan watched Michael E. Darcy walk through the far-left door. She turned to her lead counselor, who had been watching her closely while also stealing surreptitious glances at the billionaire and his counseling team.

  When the counselors had last met as a group themselves the night before, with the AFOA representatives along for the ride, the consensus was that Michael E. Darcy was, without doubt, the biggest asshole on the list of passengers. And most of them agreed that they were glad they had not ended up with him.

  Tammy had grown close to her counselor, a middle-aged woman from San Francisco who was reputedly one of the best psychologists in the Bay Area. Their bond would continue to grow well after all the passengers of Flight 19 left Vandenberg for the last time.

  In addition to the three counselors, Tammy had also been assigned a gynecologist and a nurse, who would stay with her for the next few days. They transferred her to the Cedars-Sinai hospital, in West Hollywood, where she would undergo further testing to ensure her pregnancy was progressing as usual.

  Overseeing this small team of people was one of the AFOA representatives. The AFOA group would remain intact as a unit for at least another three to six months, keeping a supportive eye on all the American passengers, while continuing to investigate the overall mystery.

  The press began spreading rumors of a congressional hearing being planned on Capitol Hill.