The Whisper Box

by Olivieri, Roger

  “Actually, I'd prefer it. Cups or glasses ruin the beer. Thanks.” He extended his hand.

  Timmerman smiled at Grant and spoke, “Sir, we are about to take off now. I do have to ask you to pack up your computer for take off. Once we reach a safe altitude you are more than welcome to work, but right now we just cannot allow it. I'm sorry.”

  Grant was frustrated, but he understood the pilot's reasoning. He began reaching for the cords in the back of his computer explaining, “That's OK, I understand. When we get to a safe altitude would you come back here and tell me? Oh yeah, and could you grab another when that time comes?”

  “Sure thing Mr. Winchester. Please buckle up sir, the weather is a little bumpy just south of here,” said the pilot who disappeared into the cabin again.

  Grant fastened his seatbelt. He stretched his arms and opened the sliding plastic cover to reveal the window. When he would fly to California to stay with his grandparents as a child, he would be glued to the window so that he could watch the takeoff. He would then use the bathroom and return to observe the earth below. It was like a ritual. The entire country seemed to look like a big farm from so high up. He could understand his home state of Alabama looking like a big farm, but more urban states would seem that way as well. He loved the view, even to this day.

  After about twenty minutes of what seemed like a rougher than normal takeoff Grant could feel the plane even out. He knew his friend, the pilot, Mr. Timmerman, would emerge from the cockpit soon with another beer and permission to resume his work on the computer.

  Sure enough, John Timmerman appeared. Again, he reached in his sport coat and revealed another ice cold Budweiser. Grant did not like his beer having been so close to another man's armpit. It was definitely unusual, but this guy was a pilot, not a steward. He gladly accepted the cold beer.

  “OK sir, you can plug that computer back in again and do whatever you need to do. We should be arriving in Columbia, South Carolina within an hour and twenty minutes. Normally we could do this in one hour, but the weather is stormy. Also, sir, please remain buckled in, for your safety as we travel through the storm.”

  “OK, will do. Thanks again.” Grant took two long swigs from his beer and sat it down on the tray next to him.

  He popped open the laptop again and made all the connections necessary. His computer simply would not click on. He checked the power switch; it was on. He checked the ports in the rear of the computer casing, which were all secure and correctly connected. This just was not Grant's day. After another long swig off his beer, he moved to the seat adjacent to him. Maybe that power supply would work. As he began unfolding and untangling wires again, he realized that the floor lights were not on either. He clicked the light and fan switch above his head. Again there was nothing. There was no power in the cabin. His initial feeling was fear. No power in the cabin was a bad sign for the aircraft. The ride was getting bumpy, but they were not dropping or slowing down, so everything must be fine. Still, Grant was ready to scream.

  Timmerman was a gracious host, though. He would simply ask John to look into this problem, as it was integral to his flight. Grant got up from his chair and tried to walk towards the cockpit to alert the pilots of the problem in the cabin. His body weight shifted from side to side as the plane jerked. He could not place his foot firmly as the aircraft rocked, jumped, and swayed. He grabbed the headrest of the seat across from him. He braced himself and began to slowly move towards the cockpit.

  When he entered the cockpit both men seemed somewhat surprised. John Timmerman asked if he needed anything, possibly another beer?

  “Actually, my beer is fine, but I guess I was wondering if we are going to be fine?” Grant looked genuinely concerned now.

  “Yes sir, just a bit of turbulence. I was just coming back there to let you know that I had to cut the power in the cabin off for about ten minutes. When you are flying through turbulence such as this it is much easier to maintain the aircraft when there is less to worry about. Let us get through this, then I'll notify you when we can get up and running again.”

  Grant was furious, but tried to conceal his frustration and anger. The explanation seemed logical to him. “OK fellas, I trust you. I'll be back here.”

  He shut the door and walked back to his original seat the same way he walked to the cockpit, bracing himself the whole way. He sat down and began to feel sick to his stomach. Each bump on this ride kicked his stomach in another direction. He lay his head back and began to take long, slow breaths. Grant Winchester had flown over five hundred times, but this was the worst flight he could remember.

  After about five minutes of the plane rocking and swaying again, it began to level out. The ride became smoother, and Grant's stomach began to loosen. He shook his head and laughed about how close he had just come to throwing up all over the small, chartered jet. Just then the lights in the cabin came on and John Timmerman came out from the cockpit. He reached back into his armpit.

  Grant gave him a half smile, “After the last five minutes, the last thing I need is a beer. Is it OK to try this computer again?”

  This time John Timmerman retrieved a gun from his jacket. He pointed it at Grant who pushed himself up and back on his hands on the arm rests. “What the hell is going on here? Who are you?” he asked.

  “Grant, if it were up to me, I'd kill you. I have, however, been ordered not kill you because certain people like you. I think it would make everything a whole lot easier to just shoot you in the head right now, dump you off while we are flying over the ocean, and just forget about you, but my orders are nothing of the sort, unfortunately.”

  “I still don't understand. What the hell is going on?” Grant asked, feeling scared and angry at the same time.

  “Shut up Grant. You know what's going on. You were not flying to Columbia, South Carolina to go golfing. You were flying there against the orders of CNN to try to break some bullshit story. I am here to prevent you from breaking any such story.” Timmerman was now sticking the gun into Grant's temple.

  “This is the way Barry Stienham keeps me from working? Don't you think this is a little forceful?” Grant was now down on one knee. “Listen man, if you are not supposed to kill me, could you at least take the gun away from my temple? I mean one air pocket, your finger slips, and I'm gone. I'll do whatever you want, just please get the gun away from my head. Please.”

  “I'll take the gun away from your head, Grant, but I swear, if you make one false move, I will blow you away. All I need is one reason to shoot you. Do not try me.”

  Timmerman, who still would not reveal his real identity, moved back towards the cockpit, never taking his eyes off Grant. He opened the door to the cockpit and stood halfway in and halfway out, still keeping the gun on Grant. He swung the closet door inside the cockpit open. Grant was getting confused. All of a sudden two men wearing nothing but underwear fell out of the closet and into the cabin.

  “You.” Timmerman selected the pilot closest to him. “Go up there and fly the plane.”

  He motioned towards the cockpit with the gun. The real John Timmerman jumped up and did exactly what was asked of him. The other pilot just sat there, waiting for his instructions. One hit man would remain in the cockpit with the real pilot to ensure that no one radioed ground control. The other, known to Grant as John Timmerman, started taking his clothes off as his partner threw him his original set from up front.

  “So where are we headed?” Grant asked his kidnapper.

  “Oh, we are going to Columbia, South Carolina all right. We are going to pick up your friend, too. When we get him on the plane, we are going to blow his brains out. Then CNN is going to offer you the most money you could ever imagine to keep your mouth shut and continue working. You'll receive four million dollars each year for the rest of your life. You will be, far and away, the highest paid reporter ever in the field. You'll have enough money for anything you could ever want. Oh yeah, we will also blow away this jackass and his buddy up front flying the plane.
” He stuck his chin in the direction of the naked pilot sitting in the seat next to him.

  Grant let out a long, loud breath. He was actually considering becoming one of the bad guys. He would like very much to be able to afford anything he wanted, but he refused to sell his soul to the Devil. His desire to take down Farnsworth was greater than that of fame and fortune. He told Timmerman that he would not cause any trouble for the duration of the flight. He needed time to think about what had just been proposed to him.

  “Good boy, Grant,” Timmerman replied, reassuring Grant that this was a win-win situation for him.

  Grant could hear the real Timmerman begin to cry from his seat in the front. Grant felt terrible for the naked pilot. The bounty hunter had just told the poor man that he was going to kill him soon. The thought of dying when you know you are going to die must be tough to deal with. He had committed no crime and was probably a good man. Hell, he probably would rather get an unsuspected bullet in the back of the head right now than be tortured by the anticipation.

  Timmerman, the pilot, spoke silently through his tears, “Sir, now that you've taken my clothes off, can I have them back?”

  “Didn't I tell you there were no questions before we took off? Do you need me to kill you right here?” the hijacker spoke in a bullying tone.

  Grant interrupted, “Hey, man, so if that's Timmerman up there crying, what's your real name?”

  “Don’t worry about my real name. Just call me Larry.”

  “OK Larry, why don't you at least let the guy put his clothes on, for Christ's sake. You already told him you were going to kill him, at least have the decency of letting him get dressed.”

  Larry turned to Timmerman, the naked pilot. “Go ahead, put your clothes on, and stop your damn crying!”

  Grant felt better for the pilot. “Thanks Larry, I'm sure he'll feel a little better.”

  John Timmerman was slipping a leg into his pants when the airplane hit another air pocket. The plane was jarred up, then down at lightening speed. The tension was beginning to mount and a turbulent flight was the last Grant needed.

  Little John Timmerman spoke up. “Sir, I could fly the plane better than anyone else on this aircraft. Why not let me go up there? The weather doesn't call for this kind of turbulence. That is just faulty flying, sir.”

  “He's got a point, Larry, this ain't the smoothest ride I've ever been on,” Grant chimed in.

  Larry stared into the distance. The skinny little man from Miami, Florida had made a good point. John Timmerman was caressing his thick mustache with his bitten fingernails, waiting for Larry to answer.

  “OK, your buddy has to come back here, though. Only one of you can be up there at a time.” Larry kept the gun on his hostages while he slowly walked towards the cockpit again. The door was still open.

  “You, whatever your name is, do you actually have a pilot's license? Get the hell outta' there. It's your buddy’s turn.” He motioned for the exchange with his gun hand.

  The second pilot jumped up and ran to a seat in the cabin. John Timmerman picked up his weak frame and briskly walked up front to the pilot's chair. Grant felt better already. He also thought Larry was easing up. Larry did not have to be told this time. He offered the other pilot, Charles Eidson, his clothes almost immediately. He was showing some compassion, which made Grant feel like his subtle negotiating scheme was working. That's when the plane took a drastic dive towards the earth. Larry, Charles Eidson and Grant went flying over seats to the front of the cabin. Grant could hear screams coming from the cockpit.

  John Timmerman, the pilot who had been sentenced to die just fifteen minutes before, must have lost his mind. Grant could hear the man scream from the cockpit, “If I’m gonna’ die, it’s gonna be on my terms!” He was intentionally trying to crash the plane.

  Grant watched Larry to regain his balance and run to the cockpit. The plane was almost at a ninety-degree angle at this point and it was almost impossible to move. The gravity towards one end of the plane was intense. Grant could see Larry reaching for his gun while struggling over seats and bouncing off the ceiling. The plane was not only diving now, but taking on a gradual spin as well. Larry lost his grip on the handle on his gun. It fell towards the cockpit.

  Grant's only chance was to reach for the parachutes in the back of the plane. Amidst all the confusion, screaming, and spinning, Grant was crawling backwards unnoticed. John Timmerman, the now psychotic, madman crashing the plane had everyone’s attention. Grant was very close to the parachutes. He would climb over one seat at a time, pausing between each one to make sure his grip was secure as he moved closer. If he fell now, there was no getting back to this point.

  Grant's hands were beginning to sweat, and he could feel himself slipping. He swung his right arm up over the back of the seat above him and hung on for life. The airplane was in a complete spin now and sight was almost impossible at this point. Two seats away, he decided to lunge for the closet. He was going towards the back of the aircraft, which was the highest point of this diving plane. Physics would help him get there. He lunged forward with all his might. His left hand caught the handle of the cabinet perfectly. In one swift motion he unhinged the door, where he found three parachute packs still neatly hung on the wall. He ripped one off and clutched it to his chest.

  The next chore would be equally as difficult. He had to make his way back to an emergency exit, which was now directly below him. If he fell past it and into the cockpit, there was no telling what would happen. He would probably have to fight four other men for the one parachute. He had no time for that. Three gunshots rang out. He had no idea who shot who, but he did not plan on sticking around to find out. He let go of his seat cushion and fell about eight feet before reaching out for the seat next to the emergency exit. His body jerked to a sudden stop as he hung on for his life.

  The red latch with the red arrow was now within his reach. Grant went for it. He was about to be sick. He had to get out of this plane. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the windows. These were the same windows he loved to look out of as a child. He did not like what he saw this time. The ground was about four hundred yards away. He swung the red handle in the direction of the arrow and was sucked out of the aircraft. The wind was so powerful that it threw him almost one hundred feet before he could regain all of his senses.

  While in college, his girlfriend at the time, Dina DeTorres, took him skydiving once. The experience paid off. He found the cord to pull and release the chute almost without even looking. He was still holding the sack. He was not strapped to it at all. The parachute blew out the side that was away from his chest and opened almost immediately. Grant knew that a sudden jerk would occur when the chute opened and it captured its first burst of air. He had to be traveling close to a hundred miles an hour. In about a half of a second, he would be traveling close to thirty miles per hour. He tightened his grasp and waited for the jerk. He was now blind from the tears that flooded his eyes. The wind felt like fire under his eyelids. With a hard snap the chute caught its air, with Grant still clinging to the sack.

  Because Grant was hanging on and not strapped in, he could not use the steering mechanism on the chute's pack. He could not pull up or down to control his speed. The chute was in control. This landing was going to be a hard one, yet definitely softer than the one the chartered flight he had been on was about to have.

  Just then, Grant heard an explosion. The jet had crashed somewhere nearby. Grant could hear it so crisply. It was so powerful he could actually feel an extra force -- a hot air burst -- in the sky for a second. He looked off to his right and saw nothing but trees. He looked off to his left and saw a small mushroom cloud. The trees were already in flames. He assumed that he was about half a mile from the explosion. He then looked down and saw the earth about fifty feet below him. Closing his eyes, gritting his teeth, and stiffening his legs, he prepared his body to absorb the blow.

  Grant hit a tree branch, which he did not expect. He felt and stinging
across his face. He could feel blood streaming across it almost immediately. The chute must have gotten caught up in the treetop. Grant just stopped hung there about twelve feet from the ground. His shirt was almost torn off his body. He was freezing from the wind whipping past him at almost a hundred miles per hour and he was exhausted. He let go of the pack and fell to the earth. He broke through a few small branches on the way down but the fall was minimal compared to what he just went through.

  Grant had no idea where he was. He was in the middle of the woods somewhere. The total flying time was not even an hour so he figured he was somewhere in North Carolina. There were a lot of mountains and woods in the state of North Carolina. He could be stranded for days for all he knew. He took a moment and thought of the two pilots that had just lost their lives. John Timmerman was driven to his death. He was driven by the words of Larry. Any man that was told he was going to be shot to death in a terrible manner by some wiseass loudmouth like Larry would lose his mind in the way John Timmerman did. Grant did not blame him at all. He died on his terms, his way. He also saved Grant's life, although his original plan had nothing to do with Grant. The aversion he caused let the young, frisky reporter sneak out the emergency exit. Grant swore to himself that he would never fly again.

  15

  Aaron went to the farthest, smokiest corner of the bar in the airport. He wanted to sit there all day away from the crowd as much as possible. He had no idea what would happen in the next few days, or even hours, for that matter. He was so tired and his bones ached so much that he truly did not know if he could go on. He was almost out of money and was afraid to use a credit card or a bankcard at the ATM machine. He feared that the people that were following him were looking for such transactions. If he used his credit card they could find him within an hour.

  A short woman in black slacks with a maroon apron approached his table. She swung her thick straw-like hair to one side and asked if he was ready to place his order. She already had her pen in hand. Aaron felt that drinking alcohol would be very irresponsible at this point but he also felt like he needed anything to calm his nerves. He ordered a gin and tonic with extra lime.