by JT Kalnay
“Dr. Rutkowski here. Who is this?”
“This is Jean Bennett. I am head of security for AirCom in Seattle. The man who just gave you the phone, a man I know very well, is in shock. He was on the plane that crashed yesterday, and so was his girlfriend, and he feels responsible. I will contact her family. But you’ve got to keep him there until I can get there. He has absolutely no-one else in the entire world, and if you let him out of that hospital, I’m afraid he’ll hurt himself.”
“Miss Bennett was it? I am a doctor. I do not take orders from people purporting to be clairvoyant about the medical state of someone in my hospital. Good day.”
The line went dead.
“Fucking doctors,” Jean muttered into the dead air. She instantly flipped into her rolodex, found a listing for an old Bureau friend in Charlotte, and got him moving to the hospital. Then, in the next instant, she dialed the internal number to the president and CEO of AirCom.
“Murtoch,” came the gravelly voice of the CEO.
“Sir? It’s Jean Bennett. We need to ground our entire fleet immediately.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
There was a discernible intake of breath at the CEO’s end.
“Bennett?”
“Yes?”
“Make it happen. Then get the hell up here and tell me what the hell is going on!”
July 4, 1994
Charlotte, Virginia
Assembled From Wire News Reports
NTSB officials report wind shear as the official cause of the crash of US Air Flight 1016 here on July 2. Investigators report that data from the recovered black box flight record clearly indicates a wind shear condition existed on the glide path to the runway. Sources at the U.S. Weather Service report that records indicate that thunderstorms typically associated with wind shear and micro downburst conditions were present in the area at the time of the crash. Memorial services for many of the victims are planned for later this week in and around Charlotte.
July 4, 1994
Seattle, Washington
Assembled From Wire News Reports
AirCom officials today denied rumors that they had requested custody of the black box flight recorder from the downed DC-9 in Charlotte. An AirCom official reported that the company was “offering every assistance” to the NTSB to help determine the cause of the crash. AirCom’s entire fleet remains grounded, for unspecified reasons.
Chapter
July 5, 1994
Charlotte, Virginia
"Stacey? Can you hear me? Stacey?" Craig gently held her bandaged hand in his. He leaned closer to her and whispered again. "Stacey?"
Her eyes fluttered, then slowly came open.
"Craig?"
"I'm here," he said.
"I love you," she breathed.
"I love you too," he answered.
"Do something for me," she said.
"Do you need something? A drink? Do you need the doctor?"
"Craig stop. Just listen."
He kept her hand in his and leaned against the bed.
"Craig. I need you to do something for me. Remember when we climbed Ptarmigan? In Colorado?"
"Yes."
"I want you to take my ashes up there. Then wait for a good breeze, and then let them go."
"Stacey what are you talking about? You're going to be fine."
"Craig I'm not strong enough to argue with you. Just tell me you'll do it." Her voice drifted off.
Craig took a deep breath, and lifted her hand and kissed it gently.
"Ptarmigan Peak. A breeze. Of course."
"Thank you," she said weakly. Her eyes closed briefly, then fluttered open one last time.
"Kiss me and say good-bye," she said.
Craig blinked back a tear, thought about arguing, about trying to tell her she was going to be fine, but he could see her slipping ever more quickly away. He leaned over and kissed her, and felt her last breath.
"Good-bye," he said.
She lay completely still.
Gone.
July 6, 1994
Seattle, Washington
Assembled From Wire News Reports
AirCom officials today confirmed that their entire fleet of 737s will remain grounded for an unspecified time. Nationwide, carriers are scrambling to replace the capacity lost to the grounded 737s. AirCom officials continued to refuse to confirm or deny that the groundings were in any way related to the July 2 crash of flight 1016 in Charlotte. Flight 1016 was not a 737, it was a DC-9. In a related story, Stacey Horner of San Francisco, California became the latest victim of the crash, succumbing to injuries sustained during the crash. Her passing brings to fifty three the total number of victims of flight 1016.
Chapter
July 6, 1994
Charlotte, Virginia
A weak bulb in a solitary lamp beside a narrow bed was the only light in the antiseptic hospital room. The curtains were pulled tightly shut. Jean Bennett put her arm around Craig’s stooped shoulder. His head hung limply between his slumped shoulders. A tray of uneaten hospital food products sat on a blue plastic tray that rested across the arms of the old gray wheelchair in which he was seated. An IV dripped mindlessly into his left arm.
“I got here as soon as I could,” Jean said.
“They won’t let me leave,” Craig responded weakly.
“I know.”
“They say I have shock.”
“You do. You’ve been in an accident. Stacey is dead. You feel responsible, even though you can’t possibly be. You are in shock.”
“I did it,” Craig mumbled.
“Did what? You didn’t kill her. There was an accident. There was nothing you could do.”
“But it’s my fault. I killed her.”
“How. How did you kill her?” Jean asked.
“The Marauder. Somehow I infected our auto pilot software with the game software. I don’t know how. I told Stan. He said he was going to look after it. I told him to get rid of all our software. I told him I was sorry. I’m, so, sorry…” Craig said.
His bloodshot blue eyes filled with wetness. A huge sloppy tear splashed out onto his cheek and ran down his face, hanging then finally dripping off his jaw. Jean gently wiped at its path.
“I’m so sorry. I want her back. I’ll do anything. I want her back,” Craig said. He sniffled again. His sniff stuck in his throat. Jean was sure he was going to completely lose it any second.
“You told Stan?” Jean asked.
“What?” Craig asked.
“You told Stan about the software?”
“Yes.”
“And he did nothing?”
“He would have fired me right there but I snuck out.”
“About the software Craig. He did nothing about the software?”
“Right. He was going to visit half our clients, and Stacey was going to visit the other half, and they were going to tell everyone how to purge their systems and go back to an earlier version. They were going to give refunds.”
“When?”
“Right after we got back from this wedding.”
“Who’s wedding?”
“Scott and Susann’s.”
“I’ll get some of your friends to come over. Then maybe we can get you home,” Jean said.
A nurse came into the room and indicated it was time for Jean to go. She left the room and went straight for the phone.
Chapter
July 6, 1994
Charlotte, Virginia
A battered black hospital pay phone pressed up against Jean’s ear. Her face was red and getting redder. “What do you mean they didn’t take it seriously?” she asked incredulously. She rolled her eyes and threw her free hand to her forehead. She looked at the phone like it had just landed from another planet and sprouted horns. “I think we should take it very seriously,” Jean said into the phone. She was speaking slowly and enunciating each word clearly.
“I think that the reason that all of our planes
are grounded is because we didn’t take it seriously enough.” Jean listened for a minute. She shook her head back and forth, then shifted from foot to foot.
“No sir. I think it’s too late for that. They waited too long to tell us. So now it’s up to us to fix this thing, fix it right, take as long as it takes,” Jean said. She puckered her mouth while she listened. She shifted from foot to foot again. She held the phone away from her then pulled it back tight.
“Well sir, you asked my opinion and there it is. You’re the boss.” She listened some more.
“No sir. I’m staying here with my friend for a few days. She sat down and listened.
“Thank you. Yes. Thank you. Good-bye.”
Chapter
July 7, 1994
Charlotte, North Carolina
The scarred laminate hospital room door bumped shut behind the last of Craig’s friends from the wedding. The nurse had chased them out but allowed Jean a few extra minutes as a professional courtesy.
“That was nice of your friends to stop by,” Jean said.
“Yeah. I haven’t seen some of them in a long time,” Craig said, the slight lift from seeing his friends already fading.
Jean and Craig looked at the flowers and other gifts arranged around his hospital room. Neither knew what to say next.
“So do you want me to fly back to San Francisco with you?” Jean asked.
“A: I’m not flying anywhere and B: there’s nothing for me in San Francisco now. I can’t go back there. Everywhere I go I’ll see her, and miss, and want her, and …”
Jean slowly nodded her head and pursed her lips.
“So what are you going to do?” she asked.
v> I don’t know,” Craig said.
Again she nodded her head. “I understand,” she said.
The two friends sat quietly in his room. The last of the early summer sun poured through the hospital windows. It shone on and through the dozens of fresh blooms in the room. Craig reached out and pulled a lily from a vase.
“These were her favorite,” Craig said. A first, and then another tear dropped from his eye and Jean gathered him in her arms as wave after wave of grief wracked his battered body.
#
"I'll take some of these up the mountain with me," he said.
"Mountain?"
"In Colorado. That’s where she wants to go. She wants me to spread her ashes in Colorado. In a special place we had. Where she said she only ever really knew who she was. So I'm going to do that, and then I don't know what I'm going to do."
Chapter
July 11, 1994
San Francisco, California
The dusty blue Buick rental car came a slow halt in front of Craig’s empty house. Weeds were taking possession of the shaggy front lawn. Jean got out and started stretching every way she could.
“Craig I am never going to drive cross county again. Not with you, not alone, not no-where, not no-how,” Jean said.
“Aw come on. We’ll rent a camper, drop out for a while, see America. Just you and me. It’ll be a gas,” Craig said.
“Craig I’ve got work to do. And so do you.”
“No I don’t. You know Stan already fired me. I don’t have a job. I’m just going to close everything down and cancel everything and get everything shut off and hit the road.”
“No you’re not. You’ve got work to do,” Jean insisted.
Craig looked at his uncomprehending friend. “Jean, what part of ‘Stan fired me’ don’t you understand?”
“I didn’t say job. I said work.”
Now Craig looked confused. “I don’t get it,” Craig said.
"First there's Stacey. The mountain? We could have stopped on the way back but you said you wanted to do it yourself."
"And? You sound like there's more."
“The code. You seem to be sure it’s in the autopilot software even after we all purged and re-installed. If that's true, then God only knows where else it could be by now. You’ve got to track it down and kill it. You’ve got to tell people what happened. Who’s going to do that if you don’t? Stan? Give me a break. You know how he feels. He only cares about limiting his liability. He doesn’t care about getting rid of the thing. In fact, he’s probably in South America right now hiding his cash. And you? You still feel guilty about Stacey. You are never going to get over it until you track this thing down and kill it. So. Like I said. You’ve got work to do.”
Craig fought back a sniff. He swallowed hard.
“You’re right. I’ve got to track it down,” Craig said.
“And kill it,” Jean added.
Craig walked over to Jean and held out his hand to shake good-bye. She gathered him up in a bear hug. After a while she took him by the shoulders and held him at arm’s length.
“I’ve got to get back to Seattle. There’s a lot I have to do on my end. But you’ve got to get to work. When you’re working, when you’ve found this thing, and killed it, then you can think about moving on. But you can’t leave here, this place, your home and her home, until it is resolved. Call me every day. More if you have to. But get to work.”
“Jean?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks,” Craig said. He hugged her one last time then walked away. Across the lawn and up to the house he’d shared with Stacey. He hesitated for a moment at the door then finally slipped the key in the door. A minute later he was inside.
“Good luck,” Jean said to the closing door.
Chapter
July 12, 1994
San Francisco, California
Craig looked around the bedroom. He’d woken up disoriented and alone before, but this time it was so different. He knew Stacey wouldn’t be coming back from a run, or from a trip, or from work. He lay his head back on the pillow.
An hour later he woke up again. Only his screaming bladder moved him out of the bed. After the bathroom he ambled to the kitchen. He rooted around the fridge and settled on a glass of milk. The first sip puckered his lips.
“OOH that’s bad,” he said. He poured the chunky sour mass down the drain and rinsed the glass. He dropped the container in the trash. A swarm of fruit flies erupted from the trash bin.
“Ahh,” Craig said. He took the trash bin outside, holding it at arm’s length. His bare feet slapped on the flagstone path back to the dumpster in the lane. He dropped the fly covered bin in the dumpster.
As he turned back towards the house he noticed a Frisbee laying in the overgrown back yard. Craig stepped off the path into the long wet grass. Dew soaked the sweat pants in which he had slept. He bent down to pick up the disc. Scratched onto the disc was a valentine heart with an arrow through it and initials for Stacey & Craig scratched inside the heart. Craig flipped the disk in his hand, and a tear welled in his eye. He collapsed down in the cold, wet, thick green grass. He turned the Frisbee over and over in his hands, his fingers tracing the scratches in the plastic.
#
“Anybody home?” came from the side of the house. Craig didn’t move.
“Anybody HOME?” echoed more loudly into the back yard. A policeman stepped cautiously around the corner of the house and into Craig’s sight. His calloused right hand rode lightly on the butt of his H&K 10mm.
“Anybody home? Hey buddy. This your place?”
Craig looked at the cop. He couldn’t answer.
“Hey guy. You alright?”
“Yeah,” Craig managed.
“What are you drunk or something? Did you fall down? Are you hurt?”
“No. I’m okay. I’ll be alright,” Craig said.
“What’s the matter? How come you’re lying in the wet grass?”
“Female problems,” Craig said.
“Oh. I get it. I understand. But you better go close that door. You don’t want a rat or something just walking in.”
“Thanks officer,” Craig said. He got up off the grass. His sweat pants were entirely soaked. They walked around the front of the house together.
“Sorry ab
out the girl problems,” the cop said. “But things will look up. They always do.”
“Yeah sure,” Craig replied. He pulled the door shut behind him and slumped back against it. He slid down the back of the door. By the time he came to rest on the floor he was again awash in tears of grief. He curled up right there on the foyer rug and wept until exhaustion overcame him and he slept.
Chapter
July 13, 1994
Seattle and San Francisco
“Hello,” Craig said into the black cordless phone. He lay sprawled face down in his monumentally rumpled king size bed.
“Craig? It’s Jean. I called to let you know I got back to Seattle okay.”
“Jean? Hi.”
“How are you?” Jean asked.
“I think I’m catching a cold. I got a chill somehow yesterday.”
“Uh huh,” Jean said.
“So I just stayed in bed today,” Craig said.
“You didn’t work on the code?” Jean demanded.
“No.”
“Craig I don’t care if you’ve got double freakin’ pneumonia, you’ve got to work on that code. I’ve got friends at the FBI tracking down this Marauder Inc. that you bought the code from. When we get the last two percent of the code, you’ve got to be ready. You’re the one guy who knows the inside of both systems. The AP stuff and the Marauder stuff. So get to work God damn it.”
“Jean?”
“Yeah?”
“Was that the FBI you were in or the Marines?”
“On your feet soldier. Get your ass to the computer now. If I don’t have an email from you inside thirty minutes you’re in deep shit. Now MOVE!”
“Yessir,” Craig said.
He dragged himself from the bed and into the bathroom. After a few minutes he shuffled over to the computer room and sat down at his new computer. His fingers rose towards the keyboard but he couldn’t force himself to touch the keys. After sitting like that for a minute he rolled away from the computer. He swiveled the chair and looked at the room. On the floor, by the front door, Craig saw the Frisbee. Slowly he got up, walked over and picked it up. He flipped it once and stared at the heart and the initials inside. Again he felt remorse starting to grip him. But suddenly he flung the disc as hard as he could into the living room. It crashed into the far wall with a loud whacking sound. Craig strode purposefully back to the computer, booted it and started his email application.