The Journalist (33 page)

Mary said, “Which one?”

“United.”

She drove a little then stopped at United.
“Just want you to know, Boca

” She leaned
over and kissed his cheek. “I love you.”

“I

”

“And another thing.” She paused.

“I

”

She touched his lips. “I don’t want you to
say anything–rationalize, analyze, preach, lecture–nothing,
okay

when I’m finished saying what I’m
going to say

just get out and go do what
you have to do. Okay?”

“Finished?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“When you get back, we’re going for a boat
ride. I’m finished. Bye.”

Chapter Fifty One

9:15 p.m.
EST

United Flight
1161

His briefcase wedged under the seat in front
of him, his CD player and the Joe Case audio recording secure
inside, Mary’s departing boat ride comment wracking his brain, Zack
again recalled Jim’s comments about Mary, “Twenty males waiting in
line.”

He shook that off and touched the briefcase
with his left foot just to be sure reality remained with him. It
seemed so.

The center and aisle seats empty, he
stretched and tasted the black coffee he had been served.

“This stuff is venial sin,” he said under his
breath. The familiar phrase “venial sin” passing his lips surprised
him. He hadn’t been in a confessional for umpteen years. No matter.
He found himself pondering under what type of sin the events of the
past few days might be classified. Forget about that, doesn’t
matter who did what, why, when or how. Bottom line, it’s all about
sticking it up somebody’s greed.

That thought distilling he sensed a familiar
lucid scaffolding of light and Joe Case’s presence was there. He
recalled Case’s sentiments about greed and hypocrisy

so we can get cheap oil, some capitalist can buy a
bigger house

make them
Christian

stirring up pots to create
democratic society

mierda del
toro

the interests of the USA’s
capitalists


The Case sentiments dovetailed into thoughts
of his own unending editorial: humans, God, Christ’s teachings,
affairs of individuals, do unto others, Capitalism is an innocent
driven by obscene greed masters, an ideal gutted by more, driven by
cruel me-me masters with sharp teeth and a peculiar smell, profit
has no home, men kill, women weep, children die.

Contemplating it all in view of the present
reality, he looked around.
Unbelievable

simply cannot be. This is not
happening

but here I am, on an
airplane headed for Washington DC. What will I say to Beno? She’ll
think I’m insane

already does. But
I have the recording from Joe Case—former owner of The Bimini Road,
now living on an Island, surrounded by young maidens with “3.14” on
their baseball hats. Like Jimbo said, think about it.

In the middle of his thoughts, peripherally,
in the graying red light of dusk, he saw the tip of a silver object
in the sky outside his window frame. In a moment, a U.S. Air Force
jet fighter, thirty feet away, came into full view. He read the
black lettering on the silver fuselage—U.S. AIR FORCE.

Zack smiled. “Well, hello there.”

He watched the fighter pilot’s white-helmeted
head turn back and forth. Feeling detached, he glanced to his right
across a row of drowsy passengers and there, outside the opposite
window, a duplicate Air Force jet fighter floated in the purplish
sky.

“Amazing,” he said, gulped some coffee,
nudged a shoe against his briefcase and longed for a cigarette.

Two flight attendants, with bird-dart glances
and plastic smiles, began cruising the aisles amid passengers’
bobbing heads and questions.

A baby began to cry.

A male voice said, “What in blue blazes is
going on?”

Anxious mumbling filled the cabin.

Then a calm voice on the intercom broke the
clamor. “Good evening, this is your captain, busy up here. We have,
ah, as you can probably see, some company. We’ll be talking to our
air force friends and keep you posted. No need for alarm. They’re
ours.”

“So you think.” Zack began mind maneuvering.
“It’s true, it’s really true. They’ve traced my call to Beno
or

the airline ticket

or that creep, Doug Hoffman.” He pushed his passenger
call button, and in a moment a flight attendant appeared at his
side. She leaned over him, wide-eyed but cool, said, “Yes?”

Zack savored her wintergreen breath and
smiled. “I must see the captain.”

“Sir, please stay quiet, that is
impossible.”

“You do not seem to understand. Here is my
card, I’m Zackary Stearn, editor of
The Boca
, a Miami
weekly. This is imperative, national security. Please, I must talk
to the captain. I must talk to him.”

The attendant took the card, sniffed Zack’s
breath, looked down her slender nose into his eyes, “Sir, the
captain is a her.”

“Oh, I

”

“Right.” She studied the frayed
The
Boca
business card, “This the only one you have?”

“Yes.”

“Stay seated, I’ll be right back.” She walked
toward the cockpit.

He whispered to himself, “Captain’s a her, I
have to move into this century,” and began to think.
What if the
Air Force blows us out of the sky? Naw, they wouldn’t do that. What
do they want? Ha, they want me and the CD. How did they
know

Hoffman, that smelly
creep

What else do they know? They
know everything.

The attendant appeared again. “Follow me,
sir, please, quietly.”

Zack unbuckled his seatbelt, grunted out into
the aisle with his briefcase and followed.

A female passenger shook her fist at him,“You
dirty terrorist, killer of women and children.”

They think this is my doing
, he
thought and stopped. “Look, I

”

The attendant touched his elbow. “Follow me,
please, keep moving.”

She led him forward. They entered the
darkened cockpit. The captain, blue-eyes, red pixie hair, talked
into a tiny mouthpiece to the Air Force pilot to her left.

“Look, pal, I don’t give a hooter’s hock who
you say you are. This is more horse manure than down on the farm.”
She listened then, “Look, pal-o-mine, I’ve been given initial
clearance to I.A.D. and that’s where I’m putting this sucker
down.”

She listened to the Air Force for several
seconds then responded, “Why didn’t the tower tell me Dulles had
been closed?”

She listened again while making steely eye
contact with Zack.

Zack pointed to his briefcase.

The captain spoke to the Air Force: “Roger,
okay, let me get back to you in a minute. I got a glitch here with
a sick passenger.”

She flipped her microphone off and looked at
Zack. “You the guy with the problem?”

The flight attendant said, “Yes, Captain,
this is Mr. Stearn, you have his card.”

“And what may I do for you, Mr. Stearn, while
I talk to the U.S. Air Force, fly a very old 767 and suck my
molars.”

“Captain, I’m Zackary Stearn, you have my
card.”

“I don’t have a card but I’m Glenda
Bodine.”

“You’re not going to believe this.”

She shook her head. “Look, buddy, I’m kinda
busy here. The boys in blue want me to land at Andrews.”

“You cannot land this plane at Andrews.”

“I can do anything I want

well, kinda.” She flipped her middle finger toward the
jet to her left then spoke to Zack. “Okay, o-pal-o-mine, what’s
going on?”

“You don’t understand

”

“No,
you
don’t understand. I got one
hundred-fifty passengers back there, two U.S. Air Force jet
fighters want me to land at a military base and my hemorrhoids are
killing me.”

Taking the CD player from his briefcase, Zack
said, “Listen to this tape. There is a national conspiracy going
on

President Armstrong

it’s all a plot, a coup d'état.”

Glenda looked at the flight attendant then
closed her eyes. “Has this guy been drinking tequila or what?

“I don’t think so.”

Glenda squeezed the steering yoke. “Get him
the fuck outa here.”

Zack pleaded. “Listen to me, please. The
rioting, the national emergency

it’s all a
plot, orchestrated by the President, his E.I.C., to declare a
national emergency, so he can

listen to
this recording, please.”

Glenda looked to the left, listened, then
flipped her microphone on. “Roger, have a very ill passenger, heart
attack, will get back to you.” She flipped the microphone off and
looked at Zack. “You still here. I thought I

”

“Why do you think they want you to land at
Andrews?”

“What is this, a quiz show?”

“It’s a military base. They know I’m on board
and I have this CD.”

Glenda shook her head. “Get him out of
here.”

“Listen to me, please, I’m telling you the
truth. Those fighter jets, all that’s going on

what’s happening

if it looks
like a duck

”

“It’s a duck.” Glenda paused. “You
know

” She paused, thinking about what Zack
had just said, wiped her lips. “How long is this recording?”

“Not long.”

She looked up, “Why me?” looked to the
fighter jet to her left, paused, then flipped her mike on and
spoke. “Roger, heart attack passenger critical, beginning initial
descent.” She turned the microphone off and looked at Zack. “Play
it.”

He snapped his CD player on.

After a dozen evasive answers for the Air
Force’s benefit, several feigned sloppy maneuvers, the recording
ended, and Glenda’s eyes met, pupil-to-pupil, Zack’s..

Zack spoke first, “That was the President’s
media guru, Dr. Barbara Lande, describing that infamous video that
you’ve surely seen on television the past few days

the one that started all this cockamamie crud.”

“Cockamamie crud,” Glenda shook her head.
“You mean

that’s the famous Cerebellum, Dr.
Barbara Lande?”

“None other, and Cerebrum and Medulla
Oblongata.”

“Sounds like Lande.”

“Trust me, it is.”

“I’ll be a daughter of the Lone Star
State.”

“You can’t land at Andrews.”

“Tell that to those fly boys with the guns on
my wing tips.”

“There must be a way to outsmart them.”

“You know, I’d say you were a crackpot if it
wasn’t for those jet jockeys out there. That they’re there, I mean,
like you said, kind of confirms something is up.” She looked at her
co-pilot. “Don’t it, Herb?”

He nodded.

“It’s true,” Zack said.

“Okay, folks, so what do we do now?”

“Don’t land at Andrews,” Zack said.

“Like I said, what do I tell the cowboys out
there with the pea shooters? ”

Co-pilot Herb said, “Baltimore is thirty
miles north of Andrews. You could tell them you’re going to follow
their request, contact the tower there, then

”

“You’re into this, aren’t you, Herbs.” Glenda
paused, glanced at Zack, said, “I don’t even know you’re not some
screwball spy escapee they want.”

“Well, think about it for about ten seconds.
With all you know, what is going on as we speak, those fighter
planes out there, what you said earlier, this recording.”

Their eyes met for a long moment then Zack
said, “anyway, make a wise decision, Captain.”

He turned to the flight attendant. “Please
take me back to my seat.”

Glenda said, “Wait a minute,” and indicated
the cockpit jump seat, “stick around Zack, have a seat.”

Zack sat.

Glenda: “Okay, I don’t like orders,
especially from Air Force jock straps, and I got no guns to play
with.” She gave the Air Force pilot out her left window a salute
with her middle finger, then opened her microphone, “Roger that,
lading at Andrews, contacting tower, have a nice day.”

The Air force jets acknowledge then advised
theat they would escort her to final approach.

Glenda to co-pilot, “Listen up, Herbs.”

Chapter Fifty Two

9:40 p.m. EST

Sitting in the jump seat behind Captain
Glenda, Zack pondered staying alive and thought,
More outrageous
than fiction, non, history and that too. Amazing what has happened
on the evolutionary path to

to
what?

He looked past captain Glenda to the distant
lights of the District of Columbia glowing up into the night sky,
mumbled, “Wonder if Beno is still at her friend’s house?”

“You’re mumbling, Boobie,” Glenda said.

“I

I’m sorry.” He
turned and there, through the front windshield, he watched the
landing lights of an airport grow larger as the aircraft
descended.

“That’s Andrews, Boobie,” Glenda said. She
listened to airport controllers’ directions then spoke, “Roger
that, roll out to the last turnoff and stop

ground vehicle will escort us to a hanger. Have a nice
day.” She flipped the microphone off. “Jerks.”

The Air Force jets tipped their wings and
were gone in an instant. Glenda held the yoke with her left hand
and squeezed the throttle levers with her right.

“Easy does it. I hope you’re right, Boobie,
or we’re in a whole lot of chili pepper trouble.”