Authors: Roger Olivieri
The four men all undressed together. Art and Beau were now wearing pilot uniforms that fit extremely tight in most areas. The pilots wore nothing but their underwear and were gagged with their own socks. They were stuffed into the small closet in the cockpit.
Grant boarded the plane soon thereafter.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Winchester. My name is John Timmerman, pointing to the naked pilot's nametag, and this is my co-pilot, Charles Eidson. The pleasure is all ours. Where are we flying to today sir?”
“I need to be in Columbia, South Carolina as soon as possible. We will then fly right back here after I pick someone up. When will we be cleared for takeoff?”
The
pilot
replied, “Well Mr. Winchester, it shouldn't be long now. We are at the smallest runway here at Washington Dulles. Of course our biggest problem is the short notice to Columbia, but the airport there is a small one, so it shouldn't be too long. For now, please make yourself comfortable. Can I get you anything to drink sir?”
Grant exhaled. “Yes, could I just have a beer?”
“Yes, sir. Is light beer OK?”
Grant smirked at his host, “Man, I'll drink anything at this point.”
“Sure enough sir. I'll bring it to your seat, go make your self comfortable.” Art, AKA, Mr. Timmerman walked off to the refreshment stand.
Beau, AKA Charles Eidson, walked into the cockpit as Grant turned and entered the cabin.
He found a seat. He sat in the first row, which allowed him as much room as possible. Once he was comfortable, he pulled down his tray, opened his briefcase in the seat next to him, and removed his seldom-used laptop.
He plugged the computer into the telephone port next to his seat. After a few clicks he connected to the Internet to check his e-mail because his beeper had not gone off for some time now. He wanted to make sure that Aaron was still going to meet him at the airport in Columbia at six o'clock that afternoon.
His computer disconnected from the Internet almost immediately. Nothing annoyed Grant more than this. Grant knew all too well that Murphy's Law tended to prevail at the worst of times. If he had been sitting in his plush apartment, in downtown Atlanta, at two in the morning just innocently cruising the Internet, the connection would last all night. Now, as dire urge and importance stared him in the face, the computer would not cooperate. Just then, John Timmerman walked into the cabin. He reached inside his Navy blue sport coat to grab a concealed item. Out came a sparking, ice-cold Budweiser beer.
“Mr. Winchester, we have no plastic cups on this flight because of the short notice. Do you mind drinking this one out of the bottle, sir?”
“Actually, I'd prefer it. Cups or glasses ruin the beer. Thanks.” He extended his hand.
Timmerman smiled at Grant and spoke, “Sir, we are about to take off now. I do have to ask you to pack up your computer for take off. Once we reach a safe altitude you are more than welcome to work, but right now we just cannot allow it. I'm sorry.”
Grant was frustrated, but he understood the pilot's reasoning. He began reaching for the cords in the back of his computer explaining, “That's OK, I understand. When we get to a safe altitude would you come back here and tell me? Oh yeah, and could you grab another when that time comes?”
“Sure thing Mr. Winchester. Please buckle up sir, the weather is a little bumpy just south of here,” said the pilot who disappeared into the cabin again.
Grant fastened his seatbelt. He stretched his arms and opened the sliding plastic cover to reveal the window. When he would fly to California to stay with his grandparents as a child, he would be glued to the window so that he could watch the takeoff. He would then use the bathroom and return to observe the earth below. It was like a ritual. The entire country seemed to look like a big farm from so high up. He could understand his home state of Alabama looking like a big farm, but more urban states would seem that way as well. He loved the view, even to this day.
After about twenty minutes of what seemed like a rougher than normal takeoff Grant could feel the plane even out. He knew his friend, the pilot, Mr. Timmerman, would emerge from the cockpit soon with another beer and permission to resume his work on the computer.
Sure enough, John Timmerman appeared. Again, he reached in his sport coat and revealed another ice cold Budweiser. Grant did not like his beer having been so close to another man's armpit. It was definitely unusual, but this guy was a pilot, not a steward. He gladly accepted the cold beer.
“OK sir, you can plug that computer back in again and do whatever you need to do. We should be arriving in Columbia, South Carolina within an hour and twenty minutes. Normally we could do this in one hour, but the weather is stormy. Also, sir, please remain buckled in, for your safety as we travel through the storm.”
“OK, will do. Thanks again.” Grant took two long swigs from his beer and sat it down on the tray next to him.
He popped open the laptop again and made all the connections necessary. His computer simply would not click on. He checked the power switch; it was on. He checked the ports in the rear of the computer casing, which were all secure and correctly connected. This just was not Grant's day. After another long swig off his beer, he moved to the seat adjacent to him. Maybe that power supply would work. As he began unfolding and untangling wires again, he realized that the floor lights were not on either. He clicked the light and fan switch above his head. Again there was nothing. There was no power in the cabin. His initial feeling was fear. No power in the cabin was a bad sign for the aircraft. The ride was getting bumpy, but they were not dropping or slowing down, so everything must be fine. Still, Grant was ready to scream.
Timmerman was a gracious host, though. He would simply ask John to look into this problem, as it was integral to his flight. Grant got up from his chair and tried to walk towards the cockpit to alert the pilots of the problem in the cabin. His body weight shifted from side to side as the plane jerked. He could not place his foot firmly as the aircraft rocked, jumped, and swayed. He grabbed the headrest of the seat across from him. He braced himself and began to slowly move towards the cockpit.
When he entered the cockpit both men seemed somewhat surprised. John Timmerman asked if he needed anything, possibly another beer?
“Actually, my beer is fine, but I guess I was wondering if
we
are going to be fine?” Grant looked genuinely concerned now.
“Yes sir, just a bit of turbulence. I was just coming back there to let you know that I had to cut the power in the cabin off for about ten minutes. When you are flying through turbulence such as this it is much easier to maintain the aircraft when there is less to worry about. Let us get through this, then I'll notify you when we can get up and running again.”
Grant was furious, but tried to conceal his frustration and anger. The explanation seemed logical to him. “OK fellas, I trust you. I'll be back here.”
He shut the door and walked back to his original seat the same way he walked to the cockpit, bracing himself the whole way. He sat down and began to feel sick to his stomach. Each bump on this ride kicked his stomach in another direction. He lay his head back and began to take long, slow breaths. Grant Winchester had flown over five hundred times, but this was the worst flight he could remember.
After about five minutes of the plane rocking and swaying again, it began to level out. The ride became smoother, and Grant's stomach began to loosen. He shook his head and laughed about how close he had just come to throwing up all over the small, chartered jet. Just then the lights in the cabin came on and John Timmerman came out from the cockpit. He reached back into his armpit.
Grant gave him a half smile, “After the last five minutes, the last thing I need is a beer. Is it OK to try this computer again?”
This time John Timmerman retrieved a gun from his jacket. He pointed it at Grant who pushed himself up and back on his hands on the arm rests. “What the hell is going on here? Who are you?” he asked.
“Grant, if it were up to me, I'd kill you. I have, however, been ordered not kill you because certain people like you. I think it would make everything a whole lot easier to just shoot you in the head right now, dump you off while we are flying over the ocean, and just forget about you, but my orders are nothing of the sort, unfortunately.”
“I still don't understand. What the hell is going on?” Grant asked, feeling scared and angry at the same time.
“Shut up Grant. You know what's going on. You were not flying to Columbia, South Carolina to go golfing. You were flying there against the orders of CNN to try to break some bullshit story. I am here to prevent you from breaking any such story.” Timmerman was now sticking the gun into Grant's temple.
“This is the way Barry Stienham keeps me from working? Don't you think this is a little forceful?” Grant was now down on one knee. “Listen man, if you are not supposed to kill me, could you at least take the gun away from my temple? I mean one air pocket, your finger slips, and I'm gone. I'll do whatever you want, just please get the gun away from my head. Please.”
“I'll take the gun away from your head, Grant, but I swear, if you make one false move, I will blow you away. All I need is one reason to shoot you. Do not try me.”
Timmerman, who still would not reveal his real identity, moved back towards the cockpit, never taking his eyes off Grant. He opened the door to the cockpit and stood halfway in and halfway out, still keeping the gun on Grant. He swung the closet door inside the cockpit open. Grant was getting confused. All of a sudden two men wearing nothing but underwear fell out of the closet and into the cabin.
“You.” Timmerman selected the pilot closest to him. “Go up there and fly the plane.”
He motioned towards the cockpit with the gun. The real John Timmerman jumped up and did exactly what was asked of him. The other pilot just sat there, waiting for his instructions. One hit man would remain in the cockpit with the real pilot to ensure that no one radioed ground control. The other, known to Grant as John Timmerman, started taking his clothes off as his partner threw him his original set from up front.
“So where are we headed?” Grant asked his kidnapper.
“Oh, we are going to Columbia, South Carolina all right. We are going to pick up your friend, too. When we get him on the plane, we are going to blow his brains out. Then CNN is going to offer you the most money you could ever imagine to keep your mouth shut and continue working. You'll receive four million dollars each year for the rest of your life. You will be, far and away, the highest paid reporter ever in the field. You'll have enough money for anything you could ever want. Oh yeah, we will also blow away this jackass and his buddy up front flying the plane.” He stuck his chin in the direction of the naked pilot sitting in the seat next to him.
Grant let out a long, loud breath. He was actually considering becoming one of the bad guys. He would like very much to be able to afford anything he wanted, but he refused to sell his soul to the Devil. His desire to take down Farnsworth was greater than that of fame and fortune. He told Timmerman that he would not cause any trouble for the duration of the flight. He needed time to think about what had just been proposed to him.
“Good boy, Grant,” Timmerman replied, reassuring Grant that this was a win-win situation for him.
Grant could hear the real Timmerman begin to cry from his seat in the front. Grant felt terrible for the naked pilot. The bounty hunter had just told the poor man that he was going to kill him soon. The thought of dying when you know you are going to die must be tough to deal with. He had committed no crime and was probably a good man. Hell, he probably would rather get an unsuspected bullet in the back of the head right now than be tortured by the anticipation.
Timmerman, the pilot, spoke silently through his tears, “Sir, now that you've taken my clothes off, can I have them back?”
“Didn't I tell you there were no questions before we took off? Do you need me to kill you right here?” the hijacker spoke in a bullying tone.
Grant interrupted, “Hey, man, so if that's Timmerman up there crying, what's your real name?”
“Don’t worry about my real name. Just call me Larry.”
“OK Larry, why don't you at least let the guy put his clothes on, for Christ's sake. You already told him you were going to kill him, at least have the decency of letting him get dressed.”
Larry turned to Timmerman, the naked pilot. “Go ahead, put your clothes on, and stop your damn crying!”
Grant felt better for the pilot. “Thanks Larry, I'm sure he'll feel a little better.”
John Timmerman was slipping a leg into his pants when the airplane hit another air pocket. The plane was jarred up, then down at lightening speed. The tension was beginning to mount and a turbulent flight was the last Grant needed.
Little John Timmerman spoke up. “Sir, I could fly the plane better than anyone else on this aircraft. Why not let me go up there? The weather doesn't call for this kind of turbulence. That is just faulty flying, sir.”
“He's got a point, Larry, this ain't the smoothest ride I've ever been on,” Grant chimed in.