by Peter Parkin
It was starting to become clear to Mike. Gerry had been a fighter pilot in the military. He had also been a commercial pilot for one of the large national airlines. He had flown most things that had wings. This knowledge that was now entering his brain under these stressful and fearful circumstances was Gerry's knowledge. It was appearing at the right time, and fear seemed to be the trigger for this particular skill. Bob Teskey had been right—other skills might emerge from other emotions. The fear of being trapped in an airplane that was clearly going to tear apart if it didn't reduce speed, was dragging out Gerry's knowledge of flying aircraft from the deep recesses of Mike's brain. Mike realized in astonishment that he had the advantage of two emotions happening simultaneously right now: anger bringing out the boxer, and fear bringing out the pilot. The more often this weird stuff happened to him, the easier he was finding it to understand, accept, and rationalize.
"Mr. Baxter—I said sit down! Now!"
Mike snapped out of his trance, but stood his ground. "Omar, or whatever the fuck your real name is, the pilot has to reduce speed. Now! There is far too much turbulence for the airframe to handle at the speed he's flying. It could start to tear apart."
Mike's two buddies, sitting behind where Omar was standing, looked up at him in astonishment; mouths open, eyes wide.
Omar didn't budge. "We do not care what you think. We do not need your advice. Our pilots know what they are doing. Now sit down!"
Mike reluctantly obeyed, but began wringing his hands in frustration. He knew what would happen if the jet continued at this speed in this turbulence. Almost as if in answer to his concern, the plane dropped suddenly, a violent force that Mike could feel from his feet right up to his stomach. He was airborne for just a moment, rising quickly towards the ceiling. Quick instincts saved his head from being smashed; he managed to grab onto the rail on top of the couch holding his body from rising more than the length of his arms. Omar wasn't as lucky. He hadn't had the chance to sit down and buckle up before the sudden drop came. He flew straight up like a rocket, head impacting with the floor when he came down.
This was their chance—perhaps the only one they'd get. Mike pounced on top of the giant body, and started pummeling the killer's face with his fists. Rapid punches, one after the other, drawing blood from the nose and each eye. Suddenly he felt the cold shock of steel against his temple. "I have a hard head, Mr. Baxter. Get off me before I kill you."
Mike rose slowly to his feet and watched the giant struggle to get up, gun still trained at his head. Once Omar was up, he took one step forward and smashed the butt of the pistol into Mike's temple, knocking him backwards against the bulkhead. Then he stepped forward and positioned the barrel of the gun up against Mike's forehead, just above his nose. "I think I will just kill you anyway."
Mike heard the unmistakable click of a seatbelt being unfastened, and caught a simultaneous blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. Troy was on the move, and his replica 357 Magnum pellet gun suddenly violated the airspace between Mike and the terrorist. Troy rammed the barrel of the gun into Omar's right eye, hammer cocked, hammer slamming—twice. A bloodcurdling scream and a burst of blood, as two steel pellets in quick succession tore through Omar's eyeball. Mike ducked to get out of the way of Omar's gun, then spun around and wrenched the pistol from his hand. The killer went down but Troy wasn't finished. He jumped on top of the squirming man, shoved the gun up against his left eyeball and pulled the trigger again, twice.
Mike marveled at Troy's smarts as he watched him pull himself back off the now useless threat. Troy had known that the pellet gun was basically impotent unless it was used on the right part of the body. The eyes were the best part to target—soft and fleshy, guaranteed to be blind after being hit. Omar was basically now out of commission.
Jim was out of his seat as well. He grabbed a nearby meal cart and led the way toward the cockpit, pushing it in front of him. "C'mon guys, we don't have much time. I'll ram, you guys shoot. Just don't shoot me!"
The three friends made a mad dash toward the now closed cockpit. Samson had to be in there, or in the washroom. Since he hadn't been seen for quite a while now, Mike guessed he was in with the pilots.
Jim rammed the meal cart into the door and it opened instantly. It hadn't been locked. The three friends stared at what at first glance seemed like an empty cockpit. Mike smelled a trap. "Jim, get back! Quick, get..."
Too late. From out of view of the open door, a rope lasso swung out and over Jim's head, unseen hands pulled it tight around his neck. Jim's body was yanked over the cart, and slammed hard against the back of the empty captain's chair. Now three figures appeared from the sides of the cockpit. Samson himself held the lasso and pulled the semi-conscious Jim up to a standing position. Then he began to tighten the noose as he smiled in that evil way that only Samson could smile. Jim's face was red, his breathing labored and his eyes were bulging. His glasses had fallen off his face in the tussle, making him seem even more vulnerable.
"Now, Michael. Throw Omar's gun into the cockpit please. And your friend can also throw his little spitball gun in here too. If you do not do as I say, I will tear this fool's head off right in front of your eyes. And Michael, we both know how much you enjoy watching your friends being beheaded." Samson chuckled.
On either side of Samson stood the two pilots. None of them were holding weapons. But the noose was weapon enough. Mike and Troy didn't hesitate for a second. They threw their guns forward. Mike squinted as he gazed into the cockpit and noticed that one of the screens in front of the captain's chair had a live display of the entire cabin. The screen showed Omar's body writhing on the floor. Samson and his pilots had watched the entire ordeal that had just taken place in the cabin and had done absolutely nothing to stop it. Puzzling.
The two pilots picked up the pistols and aimed them in front of them, leading the way for Samson who was brutally dragging Jim along by the neck. They waved Mike and Troy back, gesturing with their weapons, saying nothing. Mike and Troy backed up past the galley, into the cabin again.
Mike knew that the jet was now on automatic pilot, and it seemed to have leveled off. A quick glance out the window told him they were at about 6,000 feet above the threatening Gulf waters. The turbulence had mercifully stopped.
He saw one of the pilots push a button in the galley, and then heard an instantaneous whir accompanied by a cool breeze through the cabin. The exit door with the retractable stairway was now open.
Samson motioned Mike to come forward. Mike took a step. Troy grabbed him by the shoulder. "Don't go, Mikey! Don't!" Mike squeezed his shoulder in return, then turned away and completed the remaining tentative steps to the front of the plane. He was very close to Jim now. His friend's eyes were wide open, bloodshot; he was clearly scared out of his mind. His hair was mussed up from the steady breeze that was now streaming into the cabin.
Then Mike noticed something else. Samson and the pilots each had parachute packs strapped to their backs.
Samson smiled at him. "Well, Michael, it looks like for now we are at the end of our road. But I am sure we will meet up again, yes? Perhaps in hell? Yes, we will both be going there. You sooner than me. Not too long from now, this beautiful but helpless jet will run out of fuel and crash into this god-forsaken Gulf of Mexico. A body of water that you westerners have destroyed by your obsession with oil. Yes, Michael, soon you will taste the oil slicks that you and your types have created by your greed. Fitting, no?" He pulled tighter on Jim's noose. Jim gasped, and a sickening gurgling sound came up from his throat. Drool dripped around the edges of his mouth. Mike winced at the sight of his long-time friend being methodically strangled to death, one noose tug at a time.
Samson glanced at the watch on his left wrist, and then examined what looked like a small GPS unit strapped to the other wrist. He gave a subtle nod and the first pilot jumped through the open door, disappearing quickly into the darkening atmosphere. Five seconds later the second pilot followed.
Sa
mson now edged backward towards the open door, pulling Jim with him. Mike looked hard into Jim's eyes; eyes that were pleading, tears streaming down his cheeks. His hair was blown over his forehead, in a carefree way that Mike had never seen before on his straight-laced accountant buddy. At that very moment Mike had the strange ill-timed thought that it suited him much better that way.
Samson had reached the edge of the door now. "No funny business now, Michael. Or your friend comes with me."
Mike raised his hands in surrender. "Just let him go, Samson. I'm not going to stop your escape. Just let him go—please, please."
"Oh, do not worry, my friend. I will indeed let him go." And with that Samson leaped backwards. But he didn't let go of the lasso. To Mike's eyes it was all in slow motion. First Samson disappeared into the darkening sky. When the rope went taut, Jim's head wrenched backwards followed by his obedient body. Out the door he went before Mike could even react. He heard a bang against the side of the plane, and in desperation Mike dove forward onto his chest and eased his head out over the chasm. Miraculously, Jim had managed to grab onto one of the lower steps of the retractable stairway and he was swinging precariously, hanging on by one hand. Far below Mike could see Samson's parachute floating peacefully down to the dark waters below.
Mike yelled back into the cabin. "Troy, hold onto my ankles and brace yourself!" Mike inched forward on his chest and could feel Troy's strong hands grab his ankles. He eased forward a bit more until his stomach was over the edge of the doorway. He hung his right arm down toward the swinging body of his friend.
Jim's eyes were locked onto Mike's. His one free hand reached desperately upward, the other hand hung on for dear life. Mike squirmed forward a bit more until he was almost vertical, bending at the waist. The force of the wind rushing past the airframe was becoming impossible to fight. Their fingertips touched. Jim smiled. Then he was gone.
*****
Troy was sitting in the co-pilot's seat watching Mike work the controls. They'd had no time to grieve for Jim. They were now in a mad dash to save their own lives. Grieving would have to come later. If they didn't pull off a miracle, they would soon be joining Jim in the oily Gulf waters.
Mike was sitting in the captain's chair, and had already contacted Miami International on the slick jet's voice activated dashboard radio system. He had declared a 'Mayday.'
Troy was absolutely astounded by the calm control that Mike was exerting in the cockpit. He had already ascertained that they just had enough fuel to reach Miami. He had taken the plane off autopilot and assumed skillful control, making a slick turn to the northeast. The plane was performing beautifully in his capable hands.
Then Troy had to remind himself that Mike didn't have capable hands. Mike did not know how to fly a plane. Troy knew enough about the lightning phenomenon by now and all the changes that it had wrought on Mike, that he accepted this latest skill as just another of Gerry's magic wands. Troy rubbed his aching forehead, marveling at how far he had come in accepting this mumbo-jumbo about his best friend.
He watched Mike punch more buttons while his alert eyes expertly scanned the instruments one by one. Troy didn't interrupt, didn't offer any help. He knew that Mike would call on him if he needed him for anything. At this moment though he felt strangely reassured by this amazing friend of his sitting calmly in the captain's chair.
The only bit of frustration he had heard Mike express so far was some muttering—almost under his breath—that he had never flown such a high-tech jet like the Gulfstream before. Troy didn't think it was appropriate to remind Mike that he had never flown any kind of jet before. Why take a chance on breaking the spell?
He watched in fascination as Mike's hands worked at lightning speed, sliding his hands over the controls, punching buttons, easing back on the 'whatever it was called,' easing forward on the 'whatever it was called.'
Within an hour, Miami International was in sight. Mike arranged clearance for runway number seven, and Troy sat back and enjoyed the smoothest landing he had ever experienced in his life. There wasn't an ounce of fuel to spare either. They had glided in and landed on fumes, and on Mike's incredible magical confidence.
After rolling to a stop halfway down the runway, the two friends looked at each other and smiled in relief. Then they just broke down and cried.
Chapter 45
"...and while there are plenty of temptations in the business world to cloak the truth, emphasize the positives, and downplay the negatives, you can never allow yourselves to cross that line between full disclosure and deception. Publicly traded companies are a sacred trust placed within the hands of the executives who are hired to run them. If you want secrecy, go work for a private company."
Mike gazed around the lecture hall, and he could see that the twenty-something students were all held at rapt attention. He was their celebrity of the hour, a guest lecturer who had something to say, something really important to say. They had read about him in the newspapers, googled him online, and had seen him interviewed on TV. Mike wasn't just the usual guest lecturer—he was indeed a celebrity who had a story to tell, and real lessons to teach.
It had been six months since Mike had glided the Gulfstream jet down onto the runway at Miami International Airport, ending an ordeal that seemed for a while like it would never have an end, at least not one that left Mike alive. The plane landed on fumes, and over the last six months Mike himself had been running on fumes. He was now known internationally as the man who captured the world's most wanted man, did what the FBI, RCMP, CIA, MI5 and countless other acronyms had been incapable of doing.
Mike was an accidental celebrity. And now an unemployed accidental celebrity.
"What I did was wrong, and I'd love to be able to tell you that I did it to protect my family but that wasn't entirely the case. At the time I started the deception, I really had no idea that my family might be in danger or that this man Samson's intentions were as dangerous as they eventually turned out to be. I only discovered his true intent when I got more deeply embroiled in his diabolical scheme.
"I lied to our board of directors and to the shareholders because I wanted to buy time. I had been framed in an embezzlement scheme and I wanted to buy time to clear my name and figure it all out. I was confident enough in myself that I had no doubt I would be able to find a way out of the dilemma if I had more time. But it snowballed out of control. I underestimated the skill and brutality of the people I was dealing with. I was, quite simply, in over my head. And I wasn't accustomed to being in over my head. I was always invincible, a legend in my own mind. And I endangered every single person I cared about. The death of my friend, Gerry Upton, started this whole incredible story— but only as it involved me. His death sped things up. I would have eventually had to deal with the danger that was coming my way. But the danger came earlier because of his death. And my silence with the authorities, my lies to the board and shareholders, led directly or indirectly to the deaths of two more close friends—Steve Purcell and Jim Belton. Could their lives have been spared if I hadn't kept everything I knew so close to the vest? I don't know. Possibly. That question will haunt me the rest of my life."
Mike paused to look around the audience again. The lecture hall was full, standing room only. There had to be at least 1,000 students in the auditorium, most of them second and third year Business students. Mike reflected that it was nice to have been invited by the University of Toronto, his old alma mater, where he had obtained his engineering degree so many years ago, to come and speak to their students. They didn't care about the controversy, didn't care that he had been fired by his board of directors, didn't care that he had been disgraced as a liar within the Toronto business community. All they cared about was that he had a message their students could learn from—a powerful message of corporate responsibility in an era of deception, fraud and greed.
Sure, Mike was now a disgraced executive, fired from the company that carried his name. But he was also in a different league than the Enro
n criminals, the Wall Street bullies, the Madoffs, and the Bay Street assholes. He had a reason for what he had done that had nothing to do with greed. He hadn't been trying to personally profit by lying. Sure, he had been trying to hang on and survive, to buy time. But his story was clear—he had been trying to solve it on his own and clear his name. He wasn't trying to steal money from shareholders. And that was a message that the venerable institution known as the University of Toronto wanted its students to hear. And many other institutions wanted people to hear it too. Over the last six months Mike had given speeches at the Chamber of Commerce, three community colleges, two other Ontario universities, business groups, and a criminology symposium. And the one that he found particularly intriguing was a speech he had been asked to give at Kingston Penitentiary.
So, while unemployed now, Mike was very busy. He charged fees for his speeches, but donated all of the money to charities—primarily charities that helped troubled youth, and also those that dedicated themselves to abused women.
"In closing, I would use three simple words, words that if put into practice would probably single-handedly save the global economy. Those three simple words are: "Tell the truth." One lie leads to another, and the hole becomes deeper and more desperate as each new lie mounts on top of the previous ones. Even if somehow you're able to justify in your brain, like I did, that your reasons for lying are honorable, don't listen to that part of your brain. Just don't listen to it."
*****
Mike was cruising south on University Avenue, heading toward a lunch date with Troy. They were meeting today at, of all places, the MetroCafe. They saw each other several times a week—Troy was now unemployed as well. Their furious Board of Directors promptly fired both of them after the details of their lies and cover-ups became public.
Funny, neither of them cared. Being worth hundreds of millions of dollars apiece made it easier of course, but there had been far too much water under the bridge for either of them to be able to pour their hearts back into the company again. And they would never be trusted again.