As Sal stands up, he sweeps the dust off his dress trousers. Sal slowly walks back through the parking lot to retrieve his shoes and then toward the front entrance of the airport lobby. On the walk back toward the entrance, he absorbs the surroundings, the people, the flight crews, and the now active security guards as they drift by. Next, he moves to his left toward the array of ticket counters looking for it, SouthEast’s Airlines Ticket counter—and locates it. It is at the far end, the east side of the building.
Behind the counter is a large sign which reads Your Link to the South. Underneath the sign is a large map of the United States showing all the cities serviced by SouthEast Airlines.
Right in front of him on the back wall are all cities serviced by the airline.
Although they are closed for the night, on the counter are their little flight schedules booklets, and Sal picks up one. He then turns the small booklet over and printed on the back, is an answer—Sal is convinced this is his final answer. A rather detailed map of the United States is printed on the rear cover. It maps out all the cities that their planes fly into and out of. It lists Lexington, Jackson, Midland, along with all the other cities old SouthEast flies to.
Speaking softly to his inner self, Sal is satisfied now that he has figured it out, “Got you. I’ve got you boys . . . now. Lexington, Ft. Smith, Jackson, the cities are all right here boys. Damn near every city that’s been hit has your airline service—ol’ SouthEast Airlines here,” as he taps the map.
Later in the night, back at his condo, with the TV droning in the background, Salvatore is at his computer writing out an e-mail to Vince, about to tell him the good news. All of a sudden, he pauses as it dawns on him somehow that he might be screwing himself out of the big reward money. Something is not quite correct or completely right with Vince. Yeah, sure he may be an ex-cop, but he seems like a pencil pushing bureaucrat, a sort of in the rear with the gear kind of guy, not an out there on the front line kind of Officer. He sits back from the computer, thinks everything over, and after that wonders whether or not to send the email message poised on his monitor.
Sal’s mind remembers a famous quote, although, he cannot recall who said it. “In life some men run toward the sounds of gunfire—the sounds of battle and others run the other way.” It takes a special breed of man to run in the direction of the battle in police work or in combat. He saw it; he lived it in Vietnam and on the streets of Houston, too.
He kicks the little dilemma about with his alter ego. “If I do this, I mean solve the case while working for the insurance company, am I still eligible for all the rewards that are still posted? If I send this now and tell old Vince here what I’ve figured out . . . if, uh . . . what?” He ponders deep within his gut. “What, what, oh well, I’m tired, I’ll simply send the info anyway.”
Sort of having a live chat again with his computer he contemplates what to do . . . send it or wait? “Uh, what about, uh . . . what if I clear this thing up—will I still get the reward money?” Finally making his decision . . .” No, no he basically seemed like an honorable man, a little weird, but OK. He should keep his word . . . I hope, but something about him still bugs me.” Salvatore finally hits the well-worn enter key with his right index finger and launches the fresh email off into hyper space.
Content with his recent findings on the case and pleased with catching two more punk amateur hijackers, he kicks off his shoes and picks up the remote to turn off the TV. Slowly moving towards his bedroom, he ditches his dress shirt and tosses the cotton fabric on a nearby chair. Next comes the dress slacks which end up in the same chair as the shirt. Staring into the darkness, he crawls into his big empty bed and closes his eyes for the long lonely night of more restless sleep.
Chapter 8
Current Weather or current METAR: KATL
10013KT 8SM OVC08028/23 A29.89 or in plain language:
Winds are 10 degrees at 13KTS, 8 SM of visibility, overcast sky at only 800 feet, temperature is 28C, dew point 23 and the area altimeter setting is 29.89
Atlanta, Georgia
A new dawn appears as the sun rises in the eastern sky. Sal is once again asleep on the couch. Sometime during the night, he moved back to the comfort zone of the well-worn sofa after a brief stop in the head. Right in the middle of a deep REM sleep cycle, an awful ring impolitely interrupts his slumber. As soon as his brain processes the loud noise, Sal realizes the source is simply the telephone ringing. The sound is a mere electronic bell, the one which has crudely retrieved him from his slumber at only 8:01 am local time. Without looking out from under the covers, he digs around for the phone. Past the pistol, past yesterday’s coffee cup, uhh . . . past the second pistol, next to the empty beer can, his hand finds the receiver and answers the device—an awfully groggy Sal answers with, “This better be good . . . hello.”
On the other end of the wire is Vince. An excited Vince blurts out, “I knew this was a good idea . . . all that was money well spent; tell me what you got.”
“Oh, sorry, morning . . .” Slowly sitting up, Sal gathers himself. “Yea, I kept keying on locating the tie, the link, but never thought of airline pilots, but somehow it makes sense now,” replies Salvatore in a deep groggy morning voice.
“What? Huh? OK. Sounds somewhat plausible to me, I can’t wait to tell the Feds,” replies Vince.
“No. No, we can’t do that,” comes back Sal’s quick response. “They’ll just fuck the case up and these guys will disappear for awhile . . . or forever.”
“Yea, but . . . we’ve got to . . .”
Sal, trying to wake up, scratches his head, yawns, and, a bit more serious now, adds a stern twist to his voice. ”Understand, I enjoyed working with many good Field Agents over the past twenty-five years. Damn, some of my beer and poker buddies work for the Bureau. But for every decent one in the field, at hand there are five jokers out in the field nearby screwing things up. Let’s not tell the Feds yet. Hell, I only figured the case all out last night. Let me polish all this up a bit . . .” He continues his line of reasoning on the case. “Listen, I produced overall . . . damn well thus far. Give me a little more time . . . OK?”
“Yea, sure . . . OK, you’re right. What’s your next move?”
“Uh, a hot shower, a bit more sleep . . . was up till five a.m.”
A concerned Vince, offers back, “Sleep?”
Sal adds, “Look, the Feds have been working on these cases for a couple of years. I’ve only been them for a week or so. Need I say more?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .”
Sal finishes out with, “It’s OK Lieutenant.”
Vince, now a bit puzzled, asks, “How’d you discern I retired as a Lieutenant?” He quickly realizes what he said was a mistake . . . and how stupid it sounds. Now wishing somehow he could take the words back, he sucks up his pride, knowing full well that veteran detectives understand how to do their job and how to pace themselves appropriately. Vince recognizes enough good traits . . . sometimes a good detective can be a bit off center or a bit weird, but they somehow possess a knack for figuring out even the most bizarre of crime scenes. “Never mind, I understand. Call me, you bum.”
Sal has to offer one more come back, jokingly, “Aye, Aye, sir!” Seriously now, “I will.”
Setting the phone down on the coffee table, Sal pulls the covers back over his head and tries to drift off to never-never land. Tossing and turning, Salvatore knows it is a futile effort because his mind is awake and processing the day’s activities that he needs to tend to. “I have to do this, then that, and I need to go over here, and so on. AHHHH! I can’t sleep now,” he murmurs, twisting and turning on the couch, then sitting up.
“Shit, I may as well get up and make some coffee . . . damn I can’t friggin’ sleep now. Oh well, damn,” he says as he strolls toward the kitchen and coffee pot.
An hour or two later, Sal is driving b
ack up toward Houston’s William P. Hobby Airport. Traffic is a mess or simply the norm for Houston’s daytime traffic. As Sal takes the Monroe exit off of the Gulf Freeway, he again enters the circle drive entrance to Hobby Airport. Parking just a mere six inches from the faded and chipped red curb he grabs his Police parking sign from the overhead sun visor and, placing his Official Police Business sign up on the dashboard, he slowly makes his way into the lobby. Checking out the people, the rhythm of those coming and going, he scans the overall area.
As he moves about, the entire buzz of people scurrying to get to their destinations, Sal moves over to grab a seat in the fast food area after he buys a bit of coffee and lunch and watches the mass of pilots, workers, and people go by. He is still reading a copy of SouthEast’s in-flight magazine, Freedom Wings, flipping through the pages, looking for a clue. When the time is right, Sal gets up and goes over to the SouthEast Airlines ticket counter.
The polite, well dressed, female ticket counter clerk greets him with a smile and offers an extremely professional, “May I help you, Sir?” with a smile. She is dressed in the standard issue company blue pants suit, complete with her company issued red and white tie around her neck. Her drugstore quality 1.75 power reading glasses are tucked into her left front shirt pocket.
“Yes, you may. I was told on the phone that I could pick up an employment application here,” replies Sal.
Her response is a simple, “Pilot or non-pilot app, sir?”
Sal, comes right back with, “Oh, pilot ma’am, thank you.”
He receives the application and starts to walk about the lobby, looking over the forms, and reading the content. Surveying the people as they drift in the lobby area, Sal’s eyes watch the mass of humans move about as he mingles with the crowd. He is thinking, contemplating his next move, and which way to take the investigation.
Not being one to pass up a good bar, our investigator grabs a seat at the far end and orders up a beer. Hell, the day is getting long . . . actually a bit after lunchtime anyway. Sitting down, Sal is going over the employment material from SouthEast Airlines. In a slight whisper, Sal converses with his inner self, “Uh, started in 1991 . . . thank you for considering a career with us. As of this printing, SouthEast has over 125 pilots, 250 flight attendants and . . . (takes a drink) . . . 401K, blah, blah, blah.”
He sets down the application and again picks up the in-flight magazine and goes back to the map with their route structure on it, as he gently taps the paper with his silver ink pen. Sal formulates his plan, gets up, and disappears into the large mixed crowd of busy travelers.
Sometime later, back at the condo, seated at his desk, Sal is working on the computer and dialing the telephone. A voice, a secretary’s voice answers, “First Century Insurance Co., may I help you?”
Sal, clearing his throat, speaks into the mouth piece, “Vince Kelleher’s office please.”
“Yes sir, right away,” she replies.
Vince comes on the line. “This is Vince and may I help you?”
“Are you ready to cut the check?”
“Hot, damn! Talk to me, young man.”
“Well, actually I’m on my way to Atlanta. I need to go and do some research over at the home office.”
Vince asks, “At SouthEast’s Airline’s home office?”
“Well,” says Sal, “I’m not sure if I am ready to talk to them yet, but I want to witness their day to day operations in person.”
“OK, uh . . . when, simply say when and I’ll be on my way,” continues Vince.
“Well, I can get a flight at four this afternoon . . . if you want, you can merely meet me in the morning.”
An excited and frustrated Vince objects. “No, no, I’ll be at hand as soon as I can. There’s a Hilton near the airport; I’ll arrange for a couple of rooms for us. So I’ll meet you a little later today.”
A brief, “OK, well OK; this is great,” is Sal’s answer. “Hey,” questions Vince, “Uh, I don’t mean to act like a rookie lieutenant, but I’ve got to ask . . . when you are gonna’ tell me all about what you’ve found or figured out?
Salvatore offers, “Not yet, not right yet . . . and I know I shouldn’t need to remind you to be discrete. Do not tell a soul what you’re up to or where you are headed. I need a bit more time to break the damn thing wide open.”
“Roger, roger,” comes back his excited response.
A few hours later, Sal is seated on another SouthEast Airlines DC-9-30 airliner headed east, northeast bound toward the Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. He is in a coach seat because the old plane is too small to offer a first class section today. Like many of the new start-up economy airlines, they buy or lease some of the older retired airplanes the major airlines have long since discarded as useless junk. Understand now, these old birds drink jet fuel like crazy, and they tend break down all the time. However, they can be picked up for a rather cheap price, way less than a million dollars these days, and although they may appear the same to the flying public, the airplanes may be way different on the inside cabin layout.
Some came from the old, now gone TWA (Trans World Airlines), a few from the early Continental stable, and still a few go all the way back to the early Northwest Airlines herd. This one was, to a great degree, worn out when it was parked. These eager beaver start up airlines merely slap a fancy coat of new paint on the outside and the flying public is none the wiser. If she looks like an airliner, then by golly . . . it must be an airliner.
Take an American citizen traveling abroad. The average Joe-public flyer will hop on a third world airliner thinking or believing . . . again, that an airline overseas is exactly like an airline at home in America. Nothing could be father from the truth. All around are numerous third world airlines that are not up to the basic or minimum industry standards for safety, maintenance, and training specs for their pilots or other flight crew members. Some third world airlines are so bad, they’re not even allowed to land in the United States at all. There are some flying outfits out there that are so dangerous they can’t even haul freight . . . to haul cargo into the United States.
Once the airplane is established at their cruising altitude, the captain gets up and walks through the cabin, greeting everyone on his way to the aft galley for a cup of coffee; it’s Captain John, who just wanted to stretch his legs and walk a bit. John makes his way back up to the cockpit door. Using his company issued brass key, he unlocks the door and takes a quick glance back into the cabin . . . something is bugging him. His well tuned little United States Air Force trained voice inside his head is telling him to be cautious. He does not know why, but his gut is trying to tell him something.
Up front in their semi high-tech airplane cockpit, John and Tom are flying along, talking and, even to the untrained eye, not doing their job exceptionally well. The proper power setting is dialed in and the trim is set precisely as can be, and these two seasoned aviators are keyed into the sounds and feel, the simple vibrations of their plane can tell them if something is not quite right. But Tom is once again reading a morning newspaper. After settling into his seat, John leans forward and places the tiny piece of silver duct tape over the CVR. Thank God for locked cockpit doors.
The conversation starts out with John saying, “Look, something isn’t right. I’m starting to get the weird uneasy fee again about all of this.”
“OK, OK, you want to talk about it, tell me what is on your mind?”
“Uh, drat . . . I don’t know what it is . . . maybe it is all the press, you know the media coverage we’ve been getting, uh . . . heck fire, we’ve made a truck load of cash, more than we need to buy anything and everything we want . . . Hell, I paid damn near 200,000 grand for my latest toy. The darn thing is . . . it’s supposed to be ready in a few weeks and I certainly want to be able to enjoy it.”
“Yea, yea, I hear you.”
With a quick jab, Tom fires off a quick tease, part of an ongoing inside joke, “Yeah, but back in the good old days, my big old F-4 Phantom II could have beat up your high-tech F-15 Eagle. I could have run circles around your high-tech second rate plastic, composite, fiberglass glued together fighter you flew in Iraq.” Whew! What a mouthful.
“Bullshit!” snaps back John with a smile on his face. “The F-15 Fighting Eagle is still today the State of the Art when it comes to modern fighter jets old man. If your F-4 was so damn good, why are they all parked or stuck in museums, huh?”
“Huh?”
“And she was not plastic.”
“Pops!”
They both laugh and relax for a moment.
A serious Tom continues, “Yeah, I understand. There’s no doubt that the heat is on. Here in this paper is still another article telling about the bank robberies. Tell me what you want to do. If you want to stop now, just say it and we will.
“Hell, by golly . . . tell me to return all the money and I’ll give it back to ’em.”
John then adds, “Look, let’s recon Midland again and then maybe hop over to good old Las Vegas for some gambling fun. Perhaps if we can both make around 25,000 to 50,000 or even better, we can scrub this little side job for awhile.
Tom’s answer was a brief, “Sure, sure, I’m in. No problem.”
Looking toward the busy Atlanta Hartsville Airport, at about 600 or 700 feet above the ground, another airliner pops out of the cloudy overcast sky, glides down to the runway and lands. Behind this one, spaced exactly 5 miles on final approach is another plane, followed by yet another and another, all spaced five miles apart by Air Traffic Control. SouthEastern Flight 41 is in the mix of landing planes, six planes back, thirty nautical miles back down the line.
Inside this airport, again a damn busy one, people are moving about everywhere, some running this way and others headed that way. All the passengers have de-planed and like cattle or sheep, they’re headed toward the baggage claim area, riding down the biggest, longest escalators ever built and installed anywhere in the world. Like always, the Atlanta airport is a zoo with people and flight crews going in all different directions . . . tonight is no different. Tomorrow and next week it will be the same.
Con Trails/200 Sky Obscured Page 13