by S. L. Menear
They caught him with his pants down and drugs and a flask of whiskey in his pockets. By then, two more officers had arrived. They handcuffed and escorted him—with pants on— through the resort and out to their car, drawing the attention of guests and employees.
After watching the comical takedown, Linda and I couldn’t stop giggling.
“Ladies, we’ll need you to come inside the resort and fill out police reports,” one of the cops said.
“Sure, Officer, but we need to use the restroom first,” I said.
“Now, ladies, you’re not planning to sneak off, are you?”
All our grinning and giggling must’ve worried him. Most people take police matters more seriously. But we were tipsy, and Naked Guy’s arrest was hilarious. Every time I pictured him struggling to pull up his pants while the cops charged toward him, followed by his face plant, I started giggling again—couldn’t help it.
“Honest to God, Officer, my bladder is about to burst,” Linda said.
“Mine too. Why don’t you wait outside the ladies’ room? Then you won’t worry,” I said with a smile.
He guarded the door while we took care of business. By the time we arrived at the table in the lobby, the police had more info about Naked Guy.
One of them said, “His excuse for trolling the beach nude was that his wife is almost eight months pregnant, and he’s not getting any at home.”
“Oh, so he thought he’d show me his junk, and I’d say I’ve got to have me some of that! Really?” I laughed.
The cops chuckled.
He handed me a form for the police report. “He’ll be stuck in jail a while because his wife refused to bail him out.”
At this point I should mention all the police officers involved were white men so you’ll understand my next comment, which was truthful, motivated by humor (and too much wine), and not meant to disparage.
I glanced up at them and grinned. “If he was a typical example, I have to tell you it’s not true what they say about the size of—”
The officers burst out laughing. Linda and I giggled.
Word of our little adventure must have circulated. As we filled out the police reports, employees strolled past, snickering.
Linda, a dental hygienist, wrote a concise clinical report: My cousin and I were standing in the ocean when a big naked man walked up to us. I ran away. Sharon called the police.
I’m an author, so I felt compelled to write a detailed two-page report that began: The soothing water of the summer-warmed Atlantic lapped at our ankles as my cousin, Linda, and I gazed up at the brilliant full moon ...
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Page Ahead for an Excerpt From:
FLIGHT TO REDEMPTION
by S.L. Menear
Flight to Redemption
The Samantha Starr Thriller Series, Book 1
A thunderous blast assaulted the cockpit door a second before the pressure in my ears went haywire. The Boeing 767 rolled rapidly to the right, causing the autopilot to disengage. I grabbed the yoke and leveled the wings as an invisible force sucked the air out of the cockpit and my lungs. Every second at thirty-one thousand feet brought us closer to death in the sub-zero temperatures and low-oxygen levels.
The cockpit filled with a bone-chilling mist as I turned to my copilot and gasped, “Oxygen masks on.” I pulled on my mask and keyed the cockpit intercom. “Rapid depressurization, initiating emergency descent.” I spoke the list of memorized commands for a dive to a safe altitude.
Lance pulled on his mask. “I’m on it, Sam.” He selected the appropriate switches to the ON position and keyed the radio while entering the emergency code in the transponder. “Miami Center, Luxury 434 is declaring an emergency. We lost pressurization, and we’re initiating an emergency descent to ten thousand feet.”
“Luxury 434, understand leaving flight level three-one-zero for emergency descent. Turn right thirty degrees and call level at ten thousand.”
I shivered and rubbed my arms as the frigid high-altitude air enveloped me like an Arctic blizzard. Throttling back our wounded airliner, I extended the landing gear and speed brakes for drag and began a diving right turn to exit the jet route.
The flight attendant intercom chimed. When I answered the interphone, I heard noise and screaming in the background.
“Captain, a bomb exploded, and a man was blown out through the hole!” a flight attendant shouted into the intercom phone.
I scanned the instrument panel as my heart skipped a beat. “Where and how much damage?”
“Under the last window seat, left side, four-foot hole.”
“We’re diving to a safe altitude. Everyone buckled in?”
“Yes. Oxygen masks deployed. They’re putting them on now.”
“Okay, sit tight.” I turned to my copilot. “Small explosion in the aft cabin.”
Lance read the emergency checklists aloud to ensure nothing was overlooked as we plummeted to ten thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean.
I scanned the gauges when we reached our target altitude. “We’re level at ten. Remove your mask and take control. Then I’ll remove mine and check with the cabin.”
I called the flight attendants at every seat station for status reports.
“The hole isn’t getting bigger, and there’s no fire, but we’re all freezing,” a flight attendant reported.
“I’ll take us down to a warmer altitude. Any serious injuries?”
“No, that row only had one passenger, and he went out with the seat. Several passengers near the bomb were cut up pretty bad. We’ll tend the wounds and hand out blankets now.”
“Good, I’ll talk to the passengers.” I flipped the switch for the public-address system. “This is your captain speaking. Now that we’ve reached a safe altitude, everyone may remove their oxygen masks. Everything’s under control. We’ll be landing soon.” I turned to my copilot. “I have the airplane. Grab our jackets.” I took a deep breath and resumed flying.
The air traffic controller’s voice filled our headsets, “Luxury 434, this is Miami Center. State number of souls on-board, fuel remaining, aircraft status, and intentions. Radar shows you ninety miles northeast of Palm Beach International Airport, level at ten thousand feet.”
I pushed the transmit button. “Miami Center, a bomb blew a four-foot hole in Luxury 434’s aft left fuselage. We lost one passenger, possibly a terrorist. Could be more bombs on board. I don’t want to put people on the ground at risk. We’ll fly over water near the coastline and land south on the Space Shuttle runway. Notify law enforcement and emergency services. ETA fifteen minutes. One-hundred-and-eighty souls on board and forty-five minutes of fuel remaining. Request lower altitude to warm up the cabin.” I released the transmit button with numbness gnawing at my fingers. Survival mode kicked in. I spent the next several seconds putting on my uniform jacket.
The controller spoke in a dismissive, matter-of-fact tone, “Negative, Luxury 434, turn left heading one-eight-zero. Descend to six thousand feet. Plan to land at Palm Beach International Airport. Kennedy Space Center is not available to civilian aircraft.”
“Miami Center, that area is too populated. Kennedy is the only safe option. No launches are posted for today. Deal with it!” I tried to keep my voice steady during my shivering. The interior heat was set at maximum to recover from the nasty jolt of subzero air that had i
nvaded the cabin at thirty-one thousand feet.
“Luxury 434, authorities may not have time to secure the area before you land.”
“Call the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station. Tell them possible Homeland Security threat, but not to scramble the fighters from Patrick. I want a tight perimeter of military personnel around my aircraft before we evacuate. We’re descending to six thousand feet.”
A deafening explosion rocked the cockpit, followed by loud ringing and a bright-red light. My nostrils were filled with the odor of melted foam and singed leather. Passengers’ high-pitched screams penetrated the cockpit bulkhead.
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Also by S.L. Menear
The Samantha Starr Thriller Series
Flight to Redemption
Flight to Destiny
Triple Threat
Vanished
About the Author
About the Authors
Sharon Littlefield Menear is a retired airline pilot. US Airways hired Sharon in 1980 as their first female pilot, bypassing the flight engineer position. The men in her new-hire class gave her the nickname Bombshell. She flew Boeing 727s and 737s, DC-9s, and BAC 1-11 jet airliners and was promoted to captain in her seventh year.
Before her pilot career, Sharon worked as a water-sports model and then traveled the world as a flight attendant with Pan American World Airways.
Sharon also enjoyed flying antique airplanes, experimental aircraft, and Third World fighter airplanes. Her leisure activities included scuba diving, powered paragliding, snow skiing, surfing, horseback riding, aerobatic flying, sailing, and driving fast cars and motorcycles.
Sharon has flown many of the airplanes in her debut novel, Deadstick Dawn, winner of the Royal Palm Literary Award, Poseidon’s Sword, Blaze, and Stranded, Books One, Two, Three, and Four in the Samantha Starr Series featuring a woman pilot in fantasy action thrillers.
WWW.SLMENEAR.COM
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Dorothy Metz Littlefield has been writing for over fifty years. Her first story, When Time Stood Still, was published in magazines and in another short-stories anthology.
Dorothy is currently writing mystery and romance novels as well as short stories. She draws on experiences from her world travels with her daughter, aerobatic flying, soaring, diving, hang gliding, horseback riding, and hot-air ballooning with her children.
Born and raised in Chicago, Illinois, she moved to Diamond Lake, Michigan after marrying her husband, Ken. They raised their two children, Sharon and Larry, in Michigan and later in Bradenton, Florida.
Dorothy was a long-time resident of Kilgore, Texas, where she raised horses on her ranch until she moved to West Palm Beach, Florida in 2002 to be near her children.