by Peter Parkin
Mike opened the front office door to Skyspace, and held it for his friends. He approached the reception desk. The office looked professional and luxury-adorned. The large waiting area had leather chairs, module pods equipped with computers, a large buffet counter with appetizers and coffee, along with a well-stocked complimentary bar. Skyspace clearly catered to a wealthy and exclusive clientele.
The well-dressed girl at reception looked up as he approached. "Hello, sir. How can I help you?" Mike could see her eyes drop to the badge clipped to his jacket.
"Hi. I'm Paul Burnett from Transport Canada. These two gentlemen are my colleagues. We're here at the airport doing a review and assessment of the facilities. We may possibly revive the subject of subsidization of costs for this airport, but we need to update ourselves on the capabilities of public and private facilities here first."
She smiled and put her hand over the heart area of her chest. "Oh, that's wonderful. We've all been so worried that the airport would close. What can I do to help you? Just ask."
Mike had gotten the reaction he'd wanted. He knew the possible airport closure would be a sore point with the people that worked there. The residential development now being in limbo left the airport vulnerable to early closure. And with the recession still in full swing, there weren't many jobs around, particularly airport jobs.
"That's very nice of you. All we'd like to do is take a look at your hangar and examine the condition of it, do an assessment of the current state of your taxiways, and take a look at the type of planes that make use of your services. We'll try not to disturb anyone."
"Oh, that's easy, then. Just go through that door behind me. That will lead you down the hall past several offices, turn right at the end, then down that hall and go through the far door. That will take you into the hangar. And from there, you can simply walk out to the taxiways. We have three jets stored in the hangar right now, so that will give you a good idea. Oh, and we also have a large Gulfstream out on the taxiway. It's scheduled for takeoff in less than an hour. Feel free to walk out and talk to the pilots. Ask them how they like our services. The stairway is extended already—you can just mosey on in and chat until it has to take off."
Mike smiled through his official sunglasses. This was going to be easier than he thought. "That's wonderful. Thanks so much for your help. I'll make sure your name gets positive mention in our report. Great cooperation. What's your name, please?" Mike took a pad of paper and pen out of his pocket.
Her face was beaming. "Marilyn, and if anyone stops you just tell them you have my approval. I'm the office manager here."
"Okay, Marilyn. Nice chatting with you."
Mike nodded to his friends and they quickly made their way through the door and down the long hallway, following Marilyn's directions the rest of the way. Once in the hangar, as they had rehearsed beforehand, they walked around and pretended to study the facilities. Some workers looked up as they snooped around the jets, but just nodded when they saw the badges with the Canadian maple leaf. They were convincing. No one stopped them. No one seemed concerned.
After their faux inspection of the hangar, Mike led the way out onto the taxiway. They tried to look officious, like they knew what they were doing— looking back at the hangar, bending over to examine the asphalt surfaces of the taxiway. All the while subtly moving closer and closer to the majestic Gulfstream jet that was almost ready for takeoff.
When they were within several yards of the jet, Mike whispered to Troy and Jim. "It's time, guys. Follow me, and stay alert."
Mike led the way to the extended stairway of the private jet and started up, his two comrades following. He entered the plane and waited in the galley for his friends to join him, putting his finger to his lips to signal silence. He motioned to Troy to pull out his pellet gun.
Suddenly they heard a whirring noise and the stairway started rising, forcing Jim and Troy to leap forward into the galley. It closed with a solid 'thunk.' They were stranded, locked inside a plane that was about to take off for Panama.
Mike saw the panic in his friends' eyes. He quickly waved it off and signaled them to follow him around the corner of the galley into the main cabin. First he glanced left towards the cockpit—the door was closed and probably locked. He could hear a rustling noise inside. He ignored it and led his friends slowly down into the main cabin to see if there was anyone in the rear of the jet. If not, he knew they would have no choice but to try to storm the cockpit. He looked back. Troy had his gun in hand safely pointed up at the ceiling.
Suddenly Mike heard laughter, a mocking kind of laughter. He whirled around and saw that the cockpit door was now open and two men were exiting, doubled over chuckling.
The man whose face alone gave Mike nightmares abruptly stopped laughing. "Hello, Michael. And your two friends must be Troy and Jim. It is so nice of you all to join us. You must have heard that Panama is lovely this time of the year, no? We were watching you and wondered when you would finally find the courage to actually board the plane. Now you are here, and we are all together. Wonderful. It will be a smooth flight to Panama. Well, at least for me it will be smooth." He started laughing again.
Mike stared back in barely-masked rage at David Samson. And behind him the Clint Eastwood character; the one who had wreaked absolute havoc upon the city of Toronto. And indeed, upon Mike's very existence.
Chapter 44
The three friends stood frozen as Samson turned around and yelled into the cockpit. "Get this thing off the ground! Now!"
The smooth Rolls Royce engines began to whir, and they could hear the steady whoosh of the air system start to circulate within the cabin. Out of the corner of his eye, Mike could see Troy slide the pellet gun back into his belt underneath his jacket. Jim had been blocking a clear view of Troy, so hopefully Samson and Eastwood hadn't seen the weapon yet.
The jet began to taxi, and Samson motioned with his hand. "You know the drill. Please, you will sit down and fasten your seatbelts. Or maybe you will choose not to. I do not care either way."
Mike sat down on one of the couches and pulled his seatbelt around his waist, followed by his forlorn friends who plopped down on the couch opposite him. They exchanged glances; glances that were now empty of any optimism. Their plan had failed. How could they have been so stupid as to think they would have been able to take on these international terrorists? A plan born out of desperation—Mike's desperation. And his two friends were now into this up to their necks. Samson had always been a couple of steps ahead of them right from the beginning. And now, what kind of ending did he have planned for them? Mike shuddered at the thought. They had no control now over the outcome.
The jet reached the main runway and turned in a 180 degree spin, ready for takeoff. Samson sat down in the plush leather seat perpendicular to Mike's couch. He smiled, in his own crazy confident way. He was always in control; had been in control throughout this entire ordeal. Today was no different.
Mike felt the thrust of the plane as it rose into the sky. They were now on their way to Panama whether they liked it or not. What was going to happen down there, he didn't have a clue.
Samson unfastened his seat belt, stretched his long legs out and sighed. "Michael, you can get comfortable now. And relax. You are flying in one of the most technologically advanced aircraft in the entire world."
Mike turned his head and stared into Samson's black eyes. "Why would you think I could relax? What do you intend to do with us?"
Samson smiled. "By now you have figured out who I am, yes? You remember our wonderful high school years, yes? I never forgot you, Michael. You made quite the impression on me." He chuckled. "Yes, without you, I would never have become the man I am today. Perhaps I should actually thank you?" Another chuckle.
"That was decades ago, Samson. That's an awful long time to hold a grudge."
In the blink of an eye Samson jumped to his feet and slapped Mike hard across the face. "You and your football friends created my life, Michael. You created
a Frankenstein. You are proud of your creation, no? Did you think I would live a normal life after what you put me through?"
Mike rubbed the side of his face. He could feel it burning—that was no normal slap. He could also feel a rage beginning to burn within his gut. He struggled to control it, knowing full well that fighting back now would lead to no good. Not at 35,000 feet in the air, and having to depend on these maniacs to get them back on the ground safely.
The cockpit door opened, and out walked an Arab man dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. One of the pilots. One of theirs. He walked back to where they were sitting and said something in Arabic to Samson. Samson nodded and the man walked back to the cockpit, leaving the door open this time. He obviously wasn't concerned.
Samson got up from his seat and called to Eastwood sitting near the front. "Omar, watch these three while I use the washroom." Omar nodded and walked back to them, taking a seat next to Troy.
So now Eastwood had a name—'Omar.' Mike thought that he looked more like an Igor than an Omar. The man who had murdered hundreds of people in Toronto and who was now the subject of a worldwide manhunt, was sitting just mere feet away from him.
Samson came out of the washroom and took his seat again. "You want to know something, Michael? I decided to ruin your life just like you ruined mine. And I think I have succeeded, no?" He made a flourish with his hands. "And your two stooges here, well, it looks like I may have ruined their lives too. Ha, it is their fault for being friends with an egotistical bastard like you. Big man, eh? You were always the big man. How big do you feel now, Michael?"
Mike squirmed in his seat. "Does that justify killing hundreds? Why didn't you just concentrate on me? Why kill all those people?"
"Because, Michael. You made it easy for me to hate. It was easy for me to appreciate that all of you are the same. The plight of the Palestinians is an example of how you in the West feel about people who are different than you—the downtrodden, the different colors and cultures. You want us all to look and think like you. And if we do not, you humiliate us, demean us, and imprison us. It makes us want to just slaughter you all."
Mike looked over at his friends. Jim seemed to be in a state of shock. Troy, however, was sliding his hand down slowly towards his waist. Mike gave a slight shake of his head. Troy saw it and drew his hand back.
Samson was eager to talk again. "I have tracked you for years. Deliberately sought out a job with your company. Gerry was a very nice man, nice that he hired me. But then he fired me. I was not ready to be fired. I had not yet done what I had wanted to do with you.
"So, that is when I found a way back in. Gerry's weakness for a pretty woman did him in. You probably did not know that? No? I can tell by the look of surprise on your face. Yes, it appears the two of them had been carrying on for many years already before I discovered it. Your close friend Gerry had been living a double life. The two of them loved to meet at that same café, the MetroCafe, where you and I met for lunch. You remember that day I am sure." Samson chuckled. "I had him watched, tracked, videotaped, photographed, and recorded. Then I blackmailed him. I had a lot of dirt on him. He was so afraid of his lovely wife and kids finding out, he was easy. I enlisted him for some...ah...purchases, which you already know about of course. I made a lot of money off your company thanks to poor Gerry. And I killed some of his family members to make him compliant each time he started getting...how do you say...cold feet? He was terrified that his wife and children would be next. Which of course they would have been—I was running out of more distant relatives to kill." Samson laughed.
Mike felt the rage rumbling stronger inside of him the longer that Samson talked. He was confirming everything that Mike had already figured out, but hearing it right from the horse's mouth made the rage even worse.
But he certainly hadn't known about Gerry's affair. That was a surprise. It was obvious that he really hadn't known Gerry as well as he thought he had. And this had been going on for years, according to Samson. Considering that Samson had been fired over five years ago, right after which he hatched his dirty blackmail scheme, that meant the affair could have been going on for at least seven or eight years...or even longer?
"Isn't it ironic, Michael, that you and I had lunch at the MetroCafe, the same place where Gerry used to meet with his little whore?"
Mike flinched. "Did you plan it that way?"
"Oh, yes. There is something about us dirty little Arabs that you should know—we love symbolism. We really love it."
Mike unfastened his seatbelt and stretched his own legs out, to match the length of Samson's. "People will be looking for us. You should land at the nearest airport and let us go. You want a clean escape. Having us with you doesn't allow you that."
"Oh, I have a plan, Michael. Just relax for a while. Our flight plan takes us over the continental United States and then over the Gulf of Mexico. We may adjust our plan a little bit, but by and large you should have wonderful scenery to view. Or just take a nap. I do not care one way or the other." Samson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I've been wondering how you knew about this plane, and it occurs to me that you must have found the information in my office. At the time you killed Fadiyah. Yes? Was that you?"
Mike didn't answer. Instead he just glared at the handsome, twisted killer. "Ah, your silence tells me so much, Michael. Well, you have earned some respect. She was one of the most highly trained assassins ever to come out of the Middle East. Or...hmm...perhaps you had some help?" Samson glanced over at Jim and Troy, who were sitting quietly across from Mike. He smiled at them. "Yes, you and your friends must have ambushed her like the cowards you are. You have just lost my respect, Michael. You had it for all of five seconds." Samson got up and walked towards the cockpit. Omar was still sitting next to Troy, eyes flitting from left to right, making sure that he didn't miss even the most miniscule of movements.
Mike sighed, laid his head back, and closed his eyes. He didn't think he was going to be able to sleep, but he needed to think. What was Samson's plan and what would his own move be and when? He knew he had to make a move, gain control somehow. Jim and Troy were waiting for him to lead, just like he always did...but Mike wasn't sure he could this time.
*****
Mike awoke with a start. There was a sudden change. It was very subtle but his senses picked up something. What was it? He glanced at his watch; they'd been in the air only three hours, so it was far too early to have reached Panama. He turned his head and looked out the window. It was still light out, and all he could see was water. They must be over the Gulf of Mexico, he thought. The timing would be about right.
He looked around. Omar was still sitting across from him, staring at him with his unblinking eyes. Jim and Troy looked stricken. He knew they had detected the change as well and were as puzzled as he was. Mike listened, raising his senses to full alert. The engines had slowed and now he could see by the angle of the plane compared to the horizon outside that it was descending. Why would they be descending over the vast Gulf of Mexico?
The airframe started shaking as they continued to descend. Mike knew this was simple turbulence that would always be experienced at lower altitudes, just potholes in the sky. As the air became warmer, it was more active as compared with the generally calm, thin, and cold air of higher altitudes. Where had that come from? What the fuck? The shaking became worse and the powerful jet began to sway from side to side. Mike knew that the pilot would need to reduce the speed quite a bit in order to mitigate the stress on the airframe; but not by too much or it would stall. And at the altitude they were now at there wouldn't be much time to recover from a stall. What? Suddenly a wind-burst came from the starboard side of the jet, and it caused it to slip sideways. Mike knew the starboard side would be affected more as they flew south over the Gulf as the winds at this height generally moved from west to east quite aggressively. Starboard?
Mike stole another glance out the window. He could clearly see the whitecaps on the water now, but he estimated they were
still about 9,000 feet above the water. Estimated?
Mike unfastened his seatbelt, and, holding onto the top of the chair frames for support, began working his way up the aisle toward the cockpit. Omar jumped up and in a flash there was a gun in his hand, a short-barreled pistol. "Sit down, Mr. Baxter. You do not need to go up there."
Mike stared at the gun pointed at his head. Omar's cold black eyes stared right back. The tall and confident terrorist's steady hand did not waver. Mike knew he would fire and knew also that at the altitude they were at, a gunshot into the frame or through the frame would not be catastrophic. At less than 10,000 feet, the cabin was depressurized. The pressure inside the plane was now the same as the outside. On the other hand, while in flight at high altitudes, the cabin of a plane would always be pressurized as if it was at an altitude of 10,000 feet, which was the altitude pressure deemed most comfortable for passengers. Now, the pressure was equal, so there would be no effect from Pressure Gradient Force, which was the behavior of air always flowing from higher pressure to lower pressure. Mike knew this was the reason that passengers had been sucked out of airplanes when holes tore open at high altitudes, or when an emergency door or baggage door broke open. Pressure Gradient Force? What the fuck is that?
Mike shook his head trying to clear the thoughts that were now racing through it. It was like a rush of knowledge, of clarity. He felt scared to the bone, but there was something else going on now. A sense of confidence and familiarity was entering his mind, and the strangest feeling of invincibility— strange for sure, especially considering the predicament they were in.
He had a sudden recall of words spoken to him during his last official psychological appointment with his now sworn enemy, Dr. Bob Teskey: 'But further study may discover that other emotions could also cause other aspects of Gerry to emerge. Right now we know that fear doesn't cause the fighting mode, but it could under the right situation cause an entirely different skill of Gerry's to emerge.'