Broken Wings (6 page)

Addison slipped inside and dropped his bag next to hers, swinging his racquet in his hand. “It was the last one,” he said. “I thought I might talk you into a game.”

Erin let the door swing shut and stepped toward him, her red eyes summoning an unyielding strength as she confronted him. “I think we covered just about everything today, Mr. Lowe. I want to play alone.”

“You were killing yourself,” he observed. He tossed his own ball into the air, then caught it in one hand. “Come on, I’ll go easy on you.”

“Don’t do me any favors.”

“You’re awfully tough on yourself,” he muttered.

She set her hands on her hips, letting her racquet dangle from its wrist thong. “Mr. Lowe, you have no right to intrude on my private time. I may have no choice but to cooperate with you to some extent in the investigation, but I don’t have to let you bully me in my personal life.”

“It’s a game, Erin,” he said in a tone that exaggerated her overreaction. “Just a game. No questions, no arguments. Just a friendly game.”

Her stiff lips moved to speak again, but instead, Erin dropped her hands and moved onto backcourt, a purposeful expression on her face. “Serve,” she said, riveting her angry eyes on the front wall.

Addison couldn’t help smiling as he hit the ball. The spirit of competition welled inside him, and he liked it. He hadn’t felt it this intensely in a very long time.

When they had each won once, Addison breathlessly tried to convince Erin to call it a draw. He wanted to talk to her, to tap some of the emotion brimming in her eyes, swinging in her fists, kicking in her step. He wanted to be her friend, because she seemed to need one.

But Erin hadn’t come here to talk, least of all to him. She was here to vent her grief, and she wouldn’t stop until she was too exhausted to feel the pain anymore. Addison realized with sagging spirits that he was a mere instrument to keep the ball coming. He could have been anybody with a racquet.

He saw her tears again during the third and deciding game, the grinding of her teeth as she swung, the ruthless way she dove for the ball and skidded across the court on bare knees, never acknowledging the pain. Her only goal, it seemed, was to fire that ball into the wall and hope it came back harder and faster the next time.

Slow down!
he wanted to shout.
This ball won’t numb the pain! I know! I’ve been there.
But instead, he kept smashing the ball with all his might, his heart aching like his weary muscles the harder she fought to keep the rally going.

The final point was hers, partly because she’d fought harder for it, and partly because Addison was too exhausted to rival her vengeance. He slumped against the wall, gasping for breath, thankful that, at last, they could talk.

But Erin had nothing to say. She merely wiped her face and neck on a towel she had brought, dropped her gloves and wristbands into her bag, and slipped the duffel bag’s strap over her shoulder. “Good game,” she muttered. “Thanks.”

And before he could catch his breath to reply, Erin was out the door.

Chapter Seven

T
he laugh tracks of Nick at Night provided little comfort to Erin as she lay limp on the bed. Even though she felt exhausted, her mind was fully alert. Lucille Ball bumbled through a scene, trying to pull something over on Ricky, but none of it seemed the slightest bit funny. She didn’t usually watch television to fall asleep; instead, she mentally grumbled when she heard it playing in Madeline’s room at night. Now she needed the company, the noise, the distraction…

The day played through her mind like old film clips: Addison’s vivid eyes studying her with concern…then with regret…then with delight…then with authority…Addison’s eyes, piercing, alert. Addison’s eyes, competitive. Addison’s eyes, disappointed.

Addison’s eyes.

What was it about him that she couldn’t get out of her mind? She closed her own eyes and tried to see him in a more rational light. Who was he, really, besides an NTSB investigator? Who was he inside? She thought of the sad note in his voice when he’d confessed that he had lost someone close to him in a plane crash. Four years ago, and he still looked freshly torn when he spoke of it. Was it a lover? A close friend? A family member? A wife?

The last thought jarred her heart inexplicably, and a frown stole across her forehead.
Not a wife,
she thought
.
A friend was bad enough. What if Mick
had
been her lover or her husband? Would she have ever recovered? Probably not, when the chances looked so remote now. She wouldn’t wish such pain on anyone. Despite how angry he had made her this morning, she was quite sure that not even Addison Lowe deserved that kind of pain.

You don’t forget. Ever.

Would Erin still be this strongly affected by the crash four years from now? Would she have abandoned her flying and found some other occupation that was nice and safe, without responsibility? It would be so easy now to just give up, run away, forget who she was and what was important to her. But easy wasn’t always best. A life worth living, she’d always said, is one worth taking risks for. If she overcame her fear now, went back up again, someday she could be captain of the largest planes Southeast had to offer, flying the most exciting routes in the world. No, she would never forget Mick or the crash that threatened to destroy her. But wouldn’t she still have the things she had worked so hard for?

I’ve got to fly.
The unspoken words incited cold chills, yet covered her in a thin sheen of perspiration.
I’ve got to make myself do it.

Tears filled her eyes, rolled down her cheeks. “But I can’t,” she whispered aloud.

The bitter memory of yesterday’s ordeal came back to her, harassing her like a plaguing spirit that only she could set free. She had tried to feign control, had tried to pretend—for her captain’s sake—that she was fine and ready to fly. She had tried desperately not to let him know that her confidence in herself was deflating like a balloon flying on its own air until the moment it ran out and hit the ground.

Maybe if it hadn’t been raining, like the night of the crash, or if she hadn’t thought about it so much before boarding, building on her dread, she could have coped. Silence had precluded all the usual cockpit conversation as Erin had watched the jet in front of her taxi down the runway and launch into flight. Her mouth had gone dry. Her muscles had become rigid. Tears had gathered in the crescents of her lashes. Unexplored options flitted through her mind like images of doors through which she could still escape. She could have asked Jack to fly this leg of the trip, since the two would alternate for the length of the flight. But what if she couldn’t manage to take over when her turn came? If she panicked, Jack would be forced to fly for too long, and his fatigue and her nerves would make for a hazardous combination.

“Southeast 34 taxi into position and hold. Be ready for an immediate.”

The controller’s words had constricted her chest and rendered her trembling hands useless. She had riveted her eyes on another aircraft—an L-1011—descending toward the runway. She’d jumped slightly when the airplane touched down.

“Erin? You okay?”

Trying to breathe, she had assured Jack she was fine and forced herself to taxi into position, but already perspiration was gathering on her temples. She had sat rigidly, contemplating the runway waiting for her to conquer it, as she listened to Operations’ calm orders to other aircraft. She’d watched the order of the smooth takeoffs, the precision of the uneventful landings, and for a moment, she’d started to believe in herself again. She was a good pilot. Her record was spotless. There was no reason she couldn’t make herself fly again.

But then the order came that brought life down to a choice. “Southeast 34 cleared for takeoff.”

Erin had closed her eyes and struggled to answer, but the words wouldn’t come. It wasn’t too late, she’d told herself. It wouldn’t be too late until she was airborne.

“I can’t do it, Jack…I can’t.”

“It’s okay, Erin.”

Calmly, without judgment, Jack had taken over the plane and radioed back to the tower that they needed to have a wing checked and would have to pull out of the lineup. But Erin knew that everyone who’d heard the transmission was shaking their heads, aware that Erin was bailing out again.

How could she go through that again? How?

The tears came harder now, bits of her soul mingled in each one. She’d pull herself together, she told herself. She’d make herself do it. She was too strong to let this defeat her. Too strong.

Sleep came on cat’s feet, sneaking up on her, dragging her under. In her dream she relived the night of the crash over and over, and this time she was in the cockpit, next to Mick, where she should have been. Flying the plane, going down, down, down…But in her fear, no scream escaped her…only the mute, rustling sound of a bird’s broken wings…

It was late morning when Erin awoke, feeling physically more rested than she had since the crash, but mentally as fatigued as she had at any other time. She was reading the paper and nibbling on a cold piece of toast when Lois bolted through the door.

“I’m home.”

Erin’s eyes brightened instantly. “Lois! I didn’t expect you this early.”

Lois set down her bags and regarded her friend seriously. “I came as soon as we landed. Wanted to make sure you weren’t hiding under those covers.”

Erin dropped her toast on her plate. “No, I actually crawled out to feed myself,” she teased. She stood up and gave Lois a hug. “I’m glad you’re back. I can use a mother hen to lash me with an occasional lecture.”

“Pep talk,” Lois corrected, returning the embrace. “Not lecture, pep talk.”

“Whatever,” Erin said, pulling back. “So how’d it go? Did you have a nice trip?”

“Nice?” Lois asked, her you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look answering the question. “Let me tell you how ‘nice’ it was. We had a pregnant woman on the way to Atlanta who went into labor during flight. Her contractions were three minutes apart when we landed.”

Erin followed Lois into the den, watching her kick off her shoes and collapse on the sofa. “At least you didn’t have to deliver it.”

“No, but I wasn’t so sure about that for a while there. Good heavens, could you
imagine?”

Erin laughed aloud, forgetting how seldom she’d done that lately.

“That’s not all. We had to go into a two-hour holding pattern over Atlanta because the traffic was so bad. We literally had to go back to Mobile to fuel up just to keep holding. I’ve got a whopping headache, and I’m wrung out.”

Erin went back into the kitchen and poured her roommate a glass of tea. “Go change clothes and relax. Have you slept?”

“I can use a couple more hours,” Lois said. “But I can’t.” Lois threw her wrist over her eyes and moaned dramatically. “I have to go back to the airport. So do you.”

“Me? Why?” The apprehension in Erin’s voice forced Lois to look up at her.

“It seems that the takeover is complete. We no longer work for Southeast. We’re Trans Western employees now, but I don’t know if they’re going to change our name. Rumor has it that a lot of changes are about to take place—big ones. They’ve called a meeting of all pilots who are in town at one o’clock, so they can break the news to us.”

The thought of being in a room full of her peers, all of them cognizant of her state of mind, sent a new rush of panic roiling through Erin’s stomach. “But I’m on leave of absence. I—”

“Redlo said to tell you to be there. It was an order, Erin. And you’re going if I have to take you at gunpoint.”

“But you could tell me what they say. I don’t have to—”

“You
do
have to, Erin. You’re still one of our pilots. I won’t let you miss this. There are going to be some cuts, I’ve heard. I don’t know if that means the number of pilots, the routes, or what. You at least have to act like you’re interested, so they won’t cut you.”

Erin set the glass of tea on the coffee table and tried not to be so transparent. It was a meeting. Just a meeting. No one was going to pressure her into flying. No one was going to throw stones. “All right,” she said. “I’ll go. You don’t have to get so excited.”

Lois smiled and reached for the glass. “I’ll go change and try to forget holding patterns and birthing mothers, and work myself into my submissive mode. I have a feeling we’re all going to be that way a lot for a while.”

S
ubmission wasn’t the word for what Trans Western seemed to want from them.
Blood
seemed more accurate. The pilots seethed as the new owner, Collin Zarkoff, a tyrant whose expression told them either his shoes were too tight or he had a strong aversion to the human race, stood before them outlining the changes about to be made. He announced twelve percent cuts in pay for all flight attendants and machinists; twenty-five percent cuts for all pilots; longer working hours; fewer sick days; cuts in time off and sleep time between flights, barely keeping the minimums the FAA demanded. And, he added, “his people” would be doing careful studies on each of the Southeast pilots, to determine if their records indicated any of them could be cut and replaced with Trans Western employees.

The cons of the merger made the pros seem minimal, though there were a few. Trans Western’s motive for the takeover was to include more of the East Coast in their flight routes. Southeast, in turn, would have more western routes. And Trans Western had bigger and better airplanes to offer, so pilots like Erin, who’d expected never to go farther than a 727 as long as they stayed with Southeast, now would have the opportunity to fly L-1011s and 747s some day. But those benefits didn’t override the sacrifices demanded.

Before the wave of protests could rise high enough to reach Zarkoff, the owner warned the president of the pilots’ union that he should advise his members to take what he offered or lose their jobs. He wasn’t in the mood for union games, he said. He had an airline to run—one which, he pointed out, was losing money hand over fist, and he had to cut back to survive.

It didn’t take long for the president to call a union meeting, and Erin felt herself getting caught up in the spirit of her coworkers. No one seemed to be interested in her aborted flight, or her panic, or her refusal to fly again. This was too immediate, too personal.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Ray Carter, the president, began, “this is war. If that man thinks he can cut our salary by one-fourth, he’s nuts!”

The crowd roared approval, but Erin and Lois were cautiously quiet.

“Over the past five years, I’ve willingly taken pay cuts that amounted to forty percent of what I was making,” someone shouted. “Now he wants to cut out another fourth of that? What am I supposed to do? Sell my house? Stop eating?”

Most of the members voiced agreement.

“What about those longer work hours?” a pilot from across the room demanded. “In the wake of a major crash at this airline, he wants to put the pilots under more stress?”

Erin couldn’t sit quietly for that. She sprang up, raising her voice above the others. “Wait a minute! That crash had nothing to do with pilot stress, and until the investigation is over, I think comments like that should be avoided.”

The pilots grew quiet, the reminder of Erin’s association with Mick settling their anger and making them consider their words before they spoke. Erin began to feel decidedly uncomfortable at the newfound quiet, and she sank slowly back into her seat.

Sensitive to Erin’s discomfort, Lois took the opportunity to stand up and offer her views. “Look, I’m as upset as you guys, believe me. I have bills to pay, too, and I agree that we can’t tolerate his version of our working conditions. But we’ve got to face the reality of this industry, and the reality is that the airlines—all of them—are suffering. Without the takeover, Southeast was on the way to bankruptcy. If we want to keep our jobs, we have to play the game his way, at least to some extent.”

The pilots began shouting disagreement or approval, but the president’s voice was singled out.
“His
way?” Ray Carter yelled. “I say we play
our
way. We can strike!”

To Erin’s relief, half of the members shouted their rejection of the suggestion, but the other half gave equal decibels of support.

“What about the air traffic controllers during the Reagan administration?” Lois shouted. “They all lost their jobs. What about the TWA flight attendants a few years ago? Forty-five hundred people are still out of work. And if any of you had done the least bit of research into this, you’d know that Zarkoff has taken over companies before. He
likes
it when the employees strike, because he can replace them immediately with people who are willing to take half of what he’s offering us.”

“She’s right,” an ally piped up. “Zarkoff has a reputation for never backing down from his first offer. I know a guy who flies for Trans Western, and he said Zarkoff’s first offer is usually his best. If we dicker, we might wind up with less.”

A new rise of shouting occurred, but Ray Carter banged his gavel. “We aren’t getting anywhere,” he said. “We need a committee to hash this out. I recommend a committee of twenty representatives chosen by the membership.”