Chapter Two

April 2008

 

Jordan Scott awoke at his home in Columbus, Ohio at his usual 6:45 a.m. He nudged his wife Shelby for the first of the two or three “encouragements” it took to get her out of bed each day. As he walked down the hall towards the bathroom of their modest two-bedroom home, he knocked on the door of his nine year old son’s room. “Rise and shine J. J.,” he said as he opened the door and turned on the light. He continued walking toward the bathroom to shower and shave.

His morning hygiene ritual completed, he left the bathroom wearing slacks and an unbuttoned dress shirt. He entered the smaller of the two bedrooms in his ranch style house, and pulled the covers off half-awakened son. He placed a shirt, underwear, and jeans at the foot of his bed

He walked down the hall to where Shelby still lay in their bed...more asleep than awake. He pulled the blankets halfway down her torso, placed his hand on her hip, and gave her a nudge...rolling her back and forth ever so gently. There was a time in their relationship when she would have reached slowly for his hand, grasped it lovingly, and pulled him down toward her.

Today she responded scornfully, “Knock it off. I can get myself up in the morning.”

Jordan withdrew his hand as if trying to avoid the bite of an agitated dog, and walked back down the hall to the bathroom.

Facing the mirror over the sink, he buttoned the front of his shirt, and began tying his tie. He grinned to himself as he recalled the whimsical description of the three phases of sex in a marriage a friend at work had related to him the day before. According to the friend, the first phase of sex in a marriage is the “car sex” phase. This is typified by the fact that romantic encounters occur in such impulsive places as cars, elevators, the office, etc. As the relationship matures, you transition into the “room sex” phase. In this intermediate stage of the relationship, you confine your amorous activities to various rooms in the house, or perhaps a motel room. The final phase is referred to as the “hall sex” phase. At this juncture, you have evolved emotionally to the point where you pass your mate in the hall and she says, “Screw you,” to which you respond, “Screw you too!”

Jordan knew his marriage was definitely in the second phase. Based on the resentful tone in her voice this morning, he wondered if the hall sex phase was not rapidly approaching.

He gave one final tug to the full Windsor slipknot of his tie, buttoned down his collar, and returned to the bedroom to check on Shelby’s progress. She was still lying there with the pillow over her head. Impulsively he decided to tickle her left foot, which was protruding from beneath the blanket. She sprung up from the bed in a half seated position, threw the pillow that had been covering her head at him and hissed, “Screw you asshole!”

“She didn’t even wait to get into the hall,” he thought as he dodged the incoming pillow and left the bedroom.

As he walked toward the kitchen, he compared the frustrations with his marriage to those of his career. As the Director of Flight Operations and Safety for Consolidated Airlines, he struggled daily with the conflicting agendas of upper management’s demands to reduce the costs of flight operations, while at the same time maintaining a reasonable level of safety

Pilot training expenditures were particularly problematic for him. A cost conscious Director of Flight Operations would do all he could to reduce training time requirements. However, Jordan knew that any effort to reduce these costs could have a negative impact on the quality of training, and thereby diminish the level of safety. He relied heavily on the recommendations of the flight training department personnel to ensure his pilots received appropriate training.

By its very nature, managing the agendas of both Flight Operations and Safety created a conflict of interest. Jordan could never understand why upper management had chosen to combine these two conflicting initiatives into one office. He was not about to confront his superiors on this issue for fear that they would replace him. He had worked too long and hard at many lesser positions in this company to induce a confrontation that might put his job at risk.

Jordan began his career at Consolidated working on the ramp loading baggage. He worked nights and weekends while attending college during the day. Although he deplored the drudgery of loading and unloading freight, he was nonetheless enthralled with airline operations.

As he placed bags on the conveyor belt transporting them into the cargo hold of an aircraft one cold rainy evening, he was reminded of the joke about two neighbors discussing their vocations. One neighbor comments that he is a carpenter. The other neighbor replies that he drives the truck that is used to service the lavatories on airplanes at the airport. The carpenter comments in disgust, “You mean you spend your entire day pumping shit out of airplane toilets? Why don’t you come to work with me and learn a more rewarding skill like building houses?” In a state of utter disbelief his neighbor responds, “What, and get out of aviation?”

Jordan did not get out of aviation, and his reliable work ethic was recognized and rewarded as he was promoted to ramp supervisor. After graduation from college he was promoted to manager of ramp operations and then station manager. As his financial situation improved, he enrolled in flight school and obtained a Private Pilot license.

Through contacts he made in the Consolidated flight training department, he arranged for free training in the company flight simulator and eventually obtained a rating to fly the 737. With that accomplishment added to his resume, he was promoted to his present position when the previous director retired.

His mind sifted to preparing breakfast as he entered the kitchen. He turned on the small TV in the corner of the counter space. The Channel Six morning news show appeared on the screen, and he began to make coffee.

As the first person in their household to awaken each morning, he had established a ritual of preparing breakfast for his son and Shelby. Jordan liked the Channel Six morning feature segment that presented unique breakfast food recipes. A jovial fellow known to the viewing audience as “Mr. Breakfast” presented the ten-minute segment.

A sort of Bozo with bagels, he prepared quick and easy recipes that Jordan attempted to imitate each morning. In contrast to his affinity for Mr. Breakfast, Jordan loathed the contrived atmosphere the male and female anchors of the show created.

Symington Bolivar was the male half of the team. He appeared to be of both African and Latino heritage. Although he was very articulate, he had one of those toothy smiles that exposed far too many molars. Unfortunately the show’s obligatory banter between the anchors required him to smile much too often.

His counterpart was Elizabeth Kwan-Gonzalez. Her Latino and Asian lineage gave her stunningly good looks. The only flaw to her perfectly chiseled features was a disproportionately enlarged lower lip. She had it injected with Botox to enhance her onscreen pout, and had gotten a little more lip that she bargained for.

Mr. Breakfast had just completed his segment on quick and easy havarti cheese eggs when the screen’s image changed to the rather somber and thankfully closed-lipped face of Symington Bolivar.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have breaking news just in from Charlotte, North Carolina,” he announced. “There has been a crash of a commercial airliner. For more details we take you to our affiliate station in Charlotte, KCLT. Reporting live from the airport is news correspondent Dirk Johnston. Dirk, what can you tell us about the situation?”

Symington’s image faded from the screen, and was replaced by that of a man facing the camera with a microphone perched just below his chin. Holding his left hand to his head as if trying to hear something from an earpiece, he seemed oblivious to the fact that he was on the air. He turned away from the camera and asked someone out of the camera’s view, “How long to affiliate feed?”

The response in his ear startled him as he realized that he was already on the air. He immediately assumed the demeanor of a composed professional purveyor of TV news and began his report.

“I’m speaking to you live from Charlotte Douglas International Airport,” he announced. “Behind me you can just make out through the early morning fog the twisted remnants of an aircraft that crashed while landing here this morning.”

From his kitchen in Columbus, Jordan kept one eye on the screen as he placed a bagel in the toaster oven and poured his first cup of coffee.

“While we have only a limited amount of information at this time, we can tell you that the aircraft is a Boeing 737 operated by Consolidated Airlines.”

Jordan felt himself having trouble breathing. His heart began to pound and a lump formed in his throat.

“Consolidated Flight 243 from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina was scheduled to arrive at Charlotte at 6:40 this morning. The aircraft was attempting to land, and for some unknown reason, ran off the end of the runway.” The reporter turned his back to the camera. “From where I am standing, it appears the aircraft has broken in half just forward of the wing, and is aligned at a ninety degree angle to the runway. There’s a small fire at the crash scene, and it appears several passengers have been injured.” He continued his comments turning back to face the camera.

The image on Jordan’s TV changed to a split screen presentation with Symington and Elizabeth on one half of the screen, and Dirk on the other.

“Have there been any reports of fatalities?” Symington inquired. This was not a question that he had devised, but rather one that had been passed on to him from his director in the production booth by means of the earpiece concealed in his left ear. He was told to wait for Dirk’s reply and then allow Elizabeth to inquire as to the number of passengers on board.

“While we have no direct information at this time,” Dirk replied, “I would surmise from the extent of the damage and the fire that we could expect numerous fatalities.”

Right on cue Elizabeth chimed in, “Dirk, do you know the number of passengers on board?”

As Dirk was responding that he did not, the news producer told Symington to wrap up this segment, as they needed to get on to the local weather report. As soon as Dirk finished his answer, the split screen image disappeared.

The image of both of the reporters with hands folded in front of them on the news desk as if in prayer now filled the screen. With heads slightly bowed and furrowed brows, their concern for the report of the crash seemed almost too sympathetic.

“We will continue to follow this story closely, and keep you updated throughout the rest of our broadcast.” Symington repeated the words fed into his left ear by his producer.

“A tragic way to begin the day,” Elizabeth retorted.

“As our hometown airline,” she continued in reference to the fact that Consolidated was in fact headquartered in Columbus, “we realize it is possible that some of your neighbors and loved ones might have been on this flight. It was scheduled to continue back into Columbus later this morning. We are in the process of contacting officials at the airline, and will relay any details to you as soon as they become available.”

“When we come back, our very own Wendy Dayze will have our current weather and local forecast,” Symington added as they broke for commercial.

Jordan felt himself becoming lightheaded and leaned against the kitchen counter for support. The loud chime of the toaster, indicating his bagel was done, startled him. He turned toward the sound and knocked over his coffee cup.

“Jordan. What’s for breakfast?” He shifted his gaze from the TV to his wife standing beside him in a T-shirt, boxer shorts, and a flannel robe that was opened at the front.

“Uh, a crash,” was all he could mutter.

“What?” she replied in a somewhat agitated tone as she brushed her uncombed hair behind her left ear.

“One of our flights . . . there’s been a crash . . . Charlotte . . . I’ve got to go to Charlotte,” he stammered, his mind racing between the gaps in his answer. He turned, brushed her aside, and rushed to the desk in his den.

Several months ago he had proposed to upper management that a team be created to react to just such a disaster. He had tried to anticipate contingencies for various problems that would arise if such a tragedy occurred at his airline. He spent a great deal of time on the proposal, and was extremely disappointed when the plan was rejected with little review and no explanation. He wasn’t totally surprised by the response, however.

Jordan had noticed as he advanced to different positions in the company that there was an incredible tolerance for mediocrity when it came to issues not essential to maintaining day-to-day operations of the airline. If it wasn’t absolutely required or necessary to keep the airplanes moving, any sort of initiative that had long term implications for improving the overall level of safety of flight operations stood little chance of being implemented.

He had kept the rejected proposal in manila folder in the bottom drawer of his desk. He retrieved it and began to make plans to fly to Charlotte.

He left the den and walked down the hall. He turned slightly sideways to pass Shelby as she approached from the kitchen.

“What about breakfast?” she demanded in an irritated tone.

Fighting back a phase three screw you comment, he announced, “I don’t have time to cook today. I’ve got to get to Charlotte. I’ll call tonight.”