“Well, Captain,” Harrison continued, “you say you think you lost a propeller blade, but isn’t it possible the clouds were just pressing you down and you kept descending and didn’t realize how low you were until you dug a wing into the water?”
“Hell, no!” Arlie Rosen snapped upright in the bed, wincing at the pain in his head as he fixed the FAA inspector with his eyes and leveled a slightly shaking finger at him. “Get this straight, Harrison. I was doing precisely what I said I was doing, where, when, why, and how I said I was doing it! Who the hell do you think you are to come in here and throw some cockamamy accusation at me without the slightest foundation to back it up?”
Harrison chuckled and began closing the small steno pad he’d been holding. There were no notes on the page.
“Good offense is always the best defense, eh, Rosen? Don’t worry. I’ll get the facts if you were scud-hopping, as I believe you were.”
“Scud-hopping?”
“I’ve seen it a thousand times. Overly cocky airline pilot in a private plane pushing the visual limits. You were in a seaplane, after all, and the FAA’s nowhere around, and you want to get to your destination, and you don’t give a damn how low the clouds overhead are as long as you can stay airborne and see the water below.”
“That is absolutely not true! Not to mention the fact that if you’re so damned experienced, you know that pilots who do that do it because they aren’t instrument-rated and have no alternatives. I had an alternative!”
“Yeah, well, I understand you have to cook up a good cover story for your insurance company, but it won’t wash with the FAA.”
“What?” Arlie said, his face reflecting shock.
April moved toward the bed and into the line of fire between her father and the FAA inspector, her palm out to the man in a stop gesture. “That’s enough out of you, sir! Get the hell out of this hospital room.”
“Miss Rosen, I wasn’t talking to you,” Harrison replied, his eyes on Arlie.
“You watch your tone with my daughter, buster,” Arlie said. “And, like she said, get the hell out of here.”
George Mikulsky had stood up in obvious confusion, his eyes wide as he tried to figure out how to disengage himself as quickly as possible from the extreme discomfort of the mess his FAA companion had made of the interview. But Harrison moved to the end of Arlie’s bed, physically blocking Mikulsky, his finger leveled at Arlie Rosen.
“Hey, chew on this, Captain Rosen. I don’t give a damn how big an aircraft you fly or how many hours you’ve logged sitting in an overstuffed armchair eating first-class meals and pretending it’s real pilot time, nor do I care about your obscenely inflated paycheck. But here’s a news flash, hotshot. You still have to comply with the rules, or we take your license away. And you want to know what I think?”
Arlie shook his head. “Not bloody likely, asshole!”
“Dad…” April cautioned, but it was obviously too late.
“Yeah, good, let’s start with the name calling,” Harrison sneered. “Very mature response for a thirty-thousand-hour cappie making five times what he’s worth.”
“Five times… Okay, you rancid, pontificating little windbag. This is a jealousy thing with you, isn’t it? What the hell happened, United turn you down for a pilot job twenty years ago, so you joined the FAA?”
There was a momentary waver in Harrison’s expression, but he stifled it quickly. “I looked up your records, Rosen. You’re an alcoholic. You were drinking, weren’t you?”
“WHAT?!” Arlie yelped.
“I understand you were in United’s alcoholic program a few years back.”
“That was ten years ago, and I honorably completed that program!”
Harrison walked toward the door, turning back as he opened it.
“Oh, I’m sure you filled all the squares, Rosen. But we all know there are dropouts. It’s painfully obvious you were flying that Albatross last night drunk as a skunk and scud-hopping to boot. When I find the proof that you were drinking and flying — and I will — we’ll get your reckless tail permanently grounded.” Harrison moved through the door, his back turned.
“Come back here you little son of a bitch!” Arlie bellowed at Harrison as he tried to swing out of bed and found his legs trapped by the tightly tucked sheets. “I’m gonna have your ass fired, Harrison!” he yelled through the door at Harrison’s back as George Mikulsky retreated after him.
“Dad! Calm down!”
“Goddammit! Goddammit!” He was shaking with fury, his face beet red.
“That’s not helping!”
“I can’t believe that little shit! THAT WAS OUTRAGEOUS!”
“Dad! Your language is outrageous!”
“Where’s the damned phone? Get me that phone, April. I’m gonna call the entire congressional delegation and have that bastard cashiered!”
“Dad! Take a deep breath and think this through.”
“What? Why?”
“You told me yourself, never antagonize an FAA inspector.”
“Me antagonize? You were right here!”
“Dad, please!”
The door was opening again and the noise riveted Arlie’s attention as he tensed for another round, but a wheelchair entered instead with Rachel Rosen aboard.
“Mom!” April said as she ran to hug her. Rachel returned the hug, her eyes on the murderous look in her husband’s eyes.
“What’s going on here?”
“It’s…” April began, but Arlie blurted out the basics of the acidic exchange with the FAA.
“Good grief, Arlie, they control your license!” Rachel said.
“Dammit, you think I don’t know that?” he replied through gritted teeth.
Rachel left the wheelchair and walked somewhat unsteadily to her husband’s side, gathering him to her breast until he hugged her back and stopped snarling.
April watched the seamless move with admiration. Her mother always knew precisely what to do to calm him down, while issuing orders with a flick of her eyes, which she did now in April’s direction. April understood instantly. Rachel wanted a sedative for her husband and a strategy session in the corridor as soon as possible. Damage control was obviously going to be necessary, and April silently raised her cell phone and mouthed “Gracie,” eliciting an affirmative nod from her mother.
EIGHT
TUESDAY, DAY 2 UNIWAVE FIELD OFFICES ELMENDORF AFB, ALASKA
Lindsey White struggled to hide the fact that her stomach was churning and concentrated instead on the neatly arranged bric-a-brac adorning Joe Davis’s impeccable desk. She hated confrontations, and it had been difficult to maintain the facade of rock-solid conviction as he ranted, begged, bullied, and finally whined against the news that tonight’s acceptance test flight had to be canceled.
At last he ran out of words and plopped himself back in his suitably impressive desk chair with a look of defeat.
Almost.
“Lindsey, how can you sit there for… for five minutes—”
“Ten.”
“Okay, ten minutes, then, and say absolutely nothing?”
“You were doing the talking.”
“Well, hell. I had to. Somebody has to talk or it’s not a conversation.”
She shook her head.
“There,” he said, coming forward in his chair and pointing at her with his index finger as he sighted along it with one eye. “You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“You know I hate long silences, so you stay quiet knowing I’ll keep talking until I talk myself into whatever you want.”
“Pretty efficient method, isn’t it? Especially when I’m right and you know it.”
Joe shook his head and looked out the windows bordering the south side of his office as he scratched absently at his stubbly chin. He wasn’t a bad fellow, Lindsey thought, just scared of his own shadow. He’d been a very sharp electronics engineer for Uniwave, advancing project after project and promoted as a reward each time, until they’d elevated him to a job at least one level above his maximum capability. A small half-full jar of Maalox sat on his credenza, and what little hair he had left was rapidly going to gray. Joe, she knew, was now a full hostage of the high pay, benefits, and stock options of his position, and since the possibility of losing all that was his greatest terror, any suggestion from the corporate leaders in North Carolina attained Ten Commandment status in his mind. He had, Lindsey was fond of saying, achieved a status of profitable agony.