by Robyn Carr
“Can I have a copy of this?” she said, holding the report written by F.O. Darnell.
“It’s yours.”
“Thanks. See you in a month, I guess.”
A significant break from men? she asked herself as she left the Aries employee parking lot. Oh, yeah.
The flying time from Phoenix to Las Vegas was just under an hour. Nikki got a cockpit jump seat on Aries in the busy early-morning bank. She saw the captain in dispatch and he brought her on the airplane from the ramp rather than through the gate. She boarded right behind two air marshals who would ride in first class from Phoenix to Las Vegas to D.C.
Nikki was greeted by flight attendants she had worked with before. They gave her a freshly brewed cup of coffee and informed her there was plenty of room left in first class if she preferred that to the tight squeeze in the cockpit jump seat. Even though it was a short flight, the choice was an easy one. She let some of the passengers get settled before taking an aisle seat across from one of the marshals. These guys were not known to be chatty—she could probably count on a quiet ride—so she settled herself with a crossword puzzle from the inflight magazine and her coffee.
Not long before they pushed off the gate, a latecomer dashed into the cabin, stowed his bag overhead and squished past Nikki to take the window seat beside her, even though there were several empty seats to choose from. She knew immediately that he wasn’t going to be a quiet seatmate. He might be having trouble slowing down after a mad rush to the airport…or else he had a lot of nervous energy. When he turned to her, he looked her over, and his smile had the hint of a leer to it. “How you doin’?” he asked with an accent laced heavily with Brooklyn Italian.
“Great,” she said, going back to the crossword puzzle.
The flight attendant approached him. “We have just a few minutes, sir, but if you—”
“Yeah. Bloody Mary. Thanks.” Then to Nikki he added, “Long night. Whoa, know what I mean. Name’s Rocky.”
Nikki just smiled briefly, then turned her head back to the puzzle. She wasn’t going to ask about the long night.
“You got a name?” he asked her.
“Joan,” she lied.
“Well, how do you do, Joan.” He held out his hand to her and she gave it a brief shake. “You fly much?”
Apparently he wasn’t going to make it easy to ignore him. “Pretty much, actually,” she said.
“Me, too. Just part of the job.” His drink arrived and he made fast work of it. “So, what do you do?” he asked her.
“I’m just going up to Las Vegas to spend the day with a friend who’s starting a new business there. I haven’t seen him in quite a while, so we have a lot of catching up to do.” She was well aware that she hadn’t answered his question. “And you?” she asked, turning his attention away from her. “What do you do?”
He gave a low and provocative chuckle and glanced around for eavesdroppers. “I fly for a living.” He chuckled again, as though he’d let some cat out of the bag. “You’re not married?”
“Ah, no. Not yet, anyway.”
“And this guy in Las Vegas…?”
“We go way back,” she said, already very annoyed. This one-hour flight was going to feel like a week.
The flight attendant came by to pick up glasses and cups as the jetway pulled back, the door was closed and the 767 jerked into motion. Mr. Chatterbox, aka Rocky, instructed the flight attendant to bring him another drink when they were airborne, then rattled on about the runway traffic, how long it was going to take to get clearance, the inefficiency of Air Traffic Control. Then he was on to different carriers and how they processed passengers, luggage and food.
The plane lifted off and rose, and once his second drink arrived, he went on to extol Aries Airline, which was one of his favorites. They were still young enough, he said, not to have old, jaded flight attendants who had forgotten how to smile. And they kept to their schedule more than some of the older and larger carriers.
Breakfast was a simple affair on a one-hour flight—a beverage, bagel, fruit and yogurt—but Rocky just drank his breakfast. Drank and talked. Finally she asked him, “Who do you fly for, then?”
He got that smirk again and glanced around before replying. “Well, I’m not supposed to mention this, but you seem pretty trustworthy. I fly for the government.”
“Military?” she asked.
“TSA—that’s Transportation Security Administration,” he answered. “I’m…ah…an air marshal.” He looked around furtively again.
“I see,” she said. “How interesting. Do you have to carry a weapon at all times, then?”
“Well, that’s the idea. But I’m not officially on duty at the moment.”
“So that means you’re not armed now?” she asked.
“Well, not officially. But believe me, if I were needed in some official capacity, I wouldn’t let you down.” He patted her hand and she wanted to go wash it. Then he laughed. “Know what I mean, babe?”
Babe? Oh, he was going to so regret this behavior. “You must have a badge or something. Huh?”
“I wouldn’t want to get that out…draw attention to myself…Y’know? Because I’m not working at the moment.”
She wasn’t sure if he was an idiot or a criminal. First of all, a person with a firearm was never served alcohol on a commercial flight, and this guy was getting loaded. Second, on duty or off, an undercover federal cop never identified himself to passengers—not even women he was trying to pick up.
This guy could be a fed doing things he shouldn’t be doing, or he could be an impostor with fake ID. If the latter were true, he might have a weapon with him. And if he had a weapon, he might have plans for it.
So she made small talk. About how much flying he must do. About all the cities he must visit regularly. Did he have a family? Did he get tired of living out of a suitcase? Did he know the answer to one of her crossword clues? Would he like a magazine? Until finally she said, “You’ll have to excuse me—all that coffee, you know.”
“Sure thing, babe.”
Babe again. Oh, he was going to be sorry.
She found the flight attendant cleaning up in the galley, whispered in her ear, then stepped into the bathroom. The flight attendant wrote notes on two napkins and took them with glasses of water to two men in the first-class cabin.
The flight was only about fifteen minutes out of Las Vegas. One marshal was across the aisle from where Nikki had been seated and the other was a couple of rows up.
Nikki stepped out of the bathroom just as one of the marshals, an innocuous-looking middle-aged man with thinning gray hair and a cardigan sweater in a terrible pattern moved back to where Rocky sat. The one across the aisle was about thirty-five, had a ponytail and a leather vest, obviously playing the part of yuppie trash. But their choreography was delightful, and she ducked quickly into the galley, out of sight, to watch from behind the drawn curtain.
“Excuse me,” the older marshal said to Rocky. “Could I impose on you for just one second?” He smiled engagingly, like a favorite uncle or harmless neighbor.
“Huh?”
“We’re going to be going over Lake Mead in a second and I’ve never seen it. Mind if I look out that window there? You could sit here by the aisle while—”
“Someone’s sitting there, man.”
“I know. While she’s in the lav, can I just look out that window? Just for a sec? Then when she comes back, I’ll just get out of your hair and you two can have your seats back, before we land. Thanks, buddy. I’d sure appreciate it.”
Rocky looked perturbed, but nonetheless hoisted himself up and moved into the aisle so the marshal could take the window seat. As the marshal lowered himself into the seat, eyes fixed on the window, he reached into his pocket. As soon as Rocky sat down again, he found his wrists clamped roughly to the armrests on either side of him. The marshals held him pinioned with one hand each, while with the other they produced badges.
“Federal air marshals,” the
older man said. “Are you carrying a weapon, sir?”
Rocky was stunned speechless for the first time this trip. He finally said, “No! What the hell!”
“Did you tell your seat partner you were a federal marshal, armed and flying off duty?”
“No!” he insisted, shaking his head. “She’s lying! Why would she lie like that?”
Plastic restraints mysteriously appeared, and Rocky was lashed in place, while the marshals carefully patted him down in search of weapons. All the while he protested loudly that this was a mistake. He worked for a hotel chain, he traveled a lot, she must have misunderstood. The marshals repeatedly told him to shut up or there would be duct tape involved in quieting him down.
“I haven’t got any gun, you can see that. Just untie me right now—I haven’t done anything. What have I done?”
“You’re going to see the federal judge, pal. And I bet you’ll get some time to cool down and work on some new pickup lines.”
“What makes you think she’s telling the truth? She could just be lying!” He stretched his neck to see where Nikki had gone and found her across from the forward galley, sitting next to the flight attendant on the jump seat and talking on the interphone. What he didn’t realize was that she was talking to the captain in the cockpit.
“She’s telling the truth, pal,” the marshal said. “She works for this airline. She’s a 767 captain.”
Rocky’s face went dark. His eyes narrowed to slits as he glared in her direction. He’d been betrayed. “She could have told me,” he said quietly. Angrily. “That was a cheap play.”
“Oh, yeah? It had nothing to do with you, huh?” And then they both laughed at him.
Six
For someone raised around airplanes, Nikki was surprised by the impact the newly painted jet had on her. It was more than the jet, it was the image it presented, the symbolism. New Century Air was painted across the fuselage, and NCA up the tail, underscored in black, gold and silver lines. A three-year-old Boeing 757, virtually new by aircraft standards, it was parked all the way across the runway. Behind the plane rose the pyramid-shaped Luxor hotel with its enormous replica of the Sphinx in front. It looked like New Century Air had been cleared for landing in Egypt.
The plane had snap and class. As did the plane’s daddy, Joe Riordan.
That was why she was here, of course. Riordan. Pilots didn’t follow planes or even airlines, but the men who built them. Joe Riordan was one of a kind. He was a young fifty and had been around airlines for almost thirty years. He had helped set up two, worked in senior management for one more, consulted for a few years, and now here he was—like a glutton for punishment—starting up again.
Riordan was a good-looking guy, tanned and fit, with a definite twinkle in his eyes. He was sexy, and his bad-boy charm caught the attention of the ladies, especially the impressionable young flight attendants who really went gaga over him. And he was a terrible flirt. Nikki liked getting a good banter going with him. He had a caustic wit and didn’t like people who walked on eggshells—he preferred a woman with a spine, and a mouth.
What Nikki sometimes thought she saw in him was a younger version of Buck, polished up and on the make. Riordan was only about five-ten, but he had a real tall voice and a sharp tongue. Divorced three times—one child per marriage and what he called the meanest ex-wives in America—he was now being followed from company to company by a leggy blond named Jewel who worked as his assistant and had a reputation for iciness. The Gatekeeper, she was dubbed.
Riordan had two traits that most CEOs didn’t. He was willing to take chances, not just in business, but on the people he chose to work with, and he valued people above money. Also, he had a gift for finding money when he needed it. In fact, you could spend ten minutes with the man and feel like giving him your life savings.
A small, loyal group had followed him wherever he went—a CPA named Paul DeLeon, who took charge of the finance department; LaVerne Peavy, an expert in the magic of fares and yield management; Gary Ray, marketing man and genius scheduler; and Mark Shows, whom Riordan called the Wrench, the VP of Maintenance. There were others, including pilots and flight attendants, who would love to work for Riordan again just because of his reputation. The fact that he’d left two airlines and closed down a third would not discourage his diehard fans, of whom Nikki was one.
There were three things that had brought her to Las Vegas to see him. A drastic need for change. An opportunity to take a position in the management of an airline from its first day of operation—a chance that might never come again. And the desire to work near someone as edgy and visionary as Riordan.
“In ten years you won’t recognize this industry,” Riordan had been quoted as saying in a national newspaper right after the 9/11 tragedy turned the airlines upside down. Since it was very clear the old system wasn’t going to work, Nikki wanted to be around the people who were going to shape the new era of aviation.
She took a cab to the offices of New Century Air, just six miles off airport property, and eight or so miles from the Las Vegas strip. The freeway wound up a small hill so that the new office building sat slightly above the sparkling city. The airline occupied the entire second floor. Despite the fact that deliverymen in mint-green, tan and navy blue jumpsuits were everywhere, moving boxes and furniture on dollies into elevators, she was stopped by the security guard. After she produced ID and signed in, she was told to wait for an escort.
It was probably ten minutes before Jewel James appeared. Nikki had not had the pleasure before, but she’d certainly heard enough about this gorgeous but cold woman. There was speculation as to whether Riordan had finally found the perfect administrative assistant or simply given his lover a job.
“You’re late,” she said.
“Sorry. I had to have a man arrested,” Nikki replied.
Anyone else would have asked what that was all about, or at least inquired about her flight, but not Jewel. She lifted one finely arched blond brow, looked down at the much shorter and unfortunately thicker Nikki, and allowed the slightest hint of curiosity to drift across her porcelain features. Nikki found herself looking right into the Gatekeeper’s breasts. “Follow me,” Jewel said, and instead of walking beside Nikki, led the way.
The elevators opened on the second floor to the chaos of moving. Furniture and boxes were pushed up against hallway walls and into the middle of offices, while techs with toolboxes hooked up computers, phones, printers, copiers and other miscellaneous equipment. It was hard to tell the employees from the movers and handymen—everyone was dressed casually, in jeans, khakis and sweats.
Nikki passed a conference room in which six men were conferring around a table covered with laptops, stacks of papers, manuals and coffee cups. Very likely this was the FAA meeting with employees working on the airline’s certification. There would be more than thirty required manuals, ranging from flight operations and safety to weight and balance, fueling and emergency response. By the time this process was complete, four thousand man hours would have been invested to get a flying certificate worth roughly thirty million dollars. That FAA certificate would be New Century Air’s greatest asset. In addition, there would be a veritable library of support manuals—all created by its founders and original staff, all approved by the feds.
The hall finally opened into a reception area, the only room completely decorated so far. There was a sofa and several chairs, a coffee table with potted plants, and art on the walls. The double doors to Riordan’s office stood open, but outside was an expansive L-shaped desk with computer and printer—the Gatekeeper’s post.
Jewel stopped at her desk, and with one long, slender arm, bedecked with gold bracelets, indicated the double doors. “He’s waiting” was all she said.
Whew, Nikki thought. If Riordan is boinking her, he must be awful chilly below the belt by now.
She stood for a second in the open doors and looked into the office, appreciating the sight of him standing before a wall of windows. Hands
in his pockets, he was watching a Singapore Airlines 777 on its final approach into McCarran International Airport. The huge plane flew right down the center of town and looked as if it would land on Las Vegas Boulevard, right between the Bellagio and the Paris. In fact, it would land just south of the strip, but so close that the passengers would see the breathtaking panorama of the new casino resorts close up and personal.
From here, the city had a beautiful, freshly scrubbed appearance. Unlike any other city, Las Vegas was a cache of multicolored, sparkling shapes—not office buildings, but enormous, glittering hotels that were more like cities with stores, malls, restaurants, bars, movie theaters and amphitheaters. While it had been the mecca of buffets and three-dollar steak dinners fifteen years ago, Las Vegas now had more famous five-star chefs than Manhattan.
Yes, flying people in and out of the biggest tourist attraction in the United States was probably a good idea.
She let the triple seven pass out of Riordan’s view before she spoke. “I saw your new plane.”
He turned around, bright-eyed at the sound of her voice. “What did you think?”
“It’s awesome. You know it’s gorgeous. Who designed the paint job?”
“It was a group effort. A few rounds, pizza and genius, the usual combination. I’m trying to figure out how I can be here when the first flight comes in so I can see it on final approach…. But I’ll have to be on the first flight. Tradition.”
“You can stand right there for the FAA-proving flights. You can see your plane landing in the city while your senior check airmen are passing the final check rides required for your certificate.”
A smile began to spread across his lips. He hadn’t thought of that, she could tell.
“Damn good to see you, Nick. You look great, despite the shit we’ve all been through.”
“You, too, Joe.”
“I heard about the ex. Kids okay?”
“It was tough on them, of course, but they’re very okay now. My dad is with them when I fly. And while I’m up here.”