Flight into Darkness (Flight Trilogy, Book 2) (11 page)

A stiff breeze swirled across the Bay, chilling the air, masking the growing danger of ultraviolent rays from the rising sun. Light was Samael’s greatest enemy. All bright light irritated his eyes, but it was the ultraviolent light from the sun that presented the greatest danger. If exposed, any unprotected skin would fry like bacon.

Samael moved with urgency and purpose in each step. The healing would soon begin. With his beloved mother’s blood, he would cleanse the infected waters passing through the Golden Gate—Chrysopylae.

Just as an antibiotic overcomes a bacterial infection within the human body, water from the Golden Horn—Chrysoceras—would cleanse the contaminated water flowing through the Golden Gate Strait.

Standing in the exact center of the bridge beneath the twin towers, facing east, Samael reached into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved the vial. After unscrewing the top to the bottle, he brought the bottle to his lips and kissed it. With the bottle in his right hand, he lifted his head toward the sky, closed his eyes, and extended his arm out beyond the orange railing of the bridge. He slowly emptied the contents of the bottle.

As the brown liquid disbursed into the air, carried off by strong winds, he said, “Oh my beloved, may you purify these waters, healing them of the poisons by which they have been afflicted.” He then opened his eyes, drew back his arm, and hurled the bottle away from the bridge.

Usman stood speechless having not been informed beforehand of the significance of the ceremony. “What was in the bottle?”

Samael peered down at the little man as a teacher might a befuddled student. “The only way to purify these polluted waters is with the blood of Chrysoceras.”

“You brought water from the Golden Horn River?”

“Yes. The blood of my beloved is the only way the wrongs of the past can be purified.” Samael turned and faced the south tower. He gazed up at the orange steel reaching 748 feet into the air. “The last act of healing will be when this monument, a mockery to my beloved, is destroyed.” He smiled, knowing his beloved mother was sure to be smiling down on him. “At exactly midnight tomorrow night, under a crescent moon, this monument will collapse into the purified waters below. No longer will there be a monument to this Chrysopylae. At that moment, my purpose in this life will be fulfilled, and I will be free to return to the afterlife.”

“Tomorrow is May 29th,” Usman said. “It’s the day we celebrate Mehmet’s victory at Constantinople.” Usman peered up at Samael. “And it’s your birthday. What a genius plan.”

“Tomorrow will be a new beginning. Just as Mehmet found victory under a crescent moon on May 29th, we too will find victory on the same night, under the same crescent moon.”

“It could not be more perfect.”

“We will celebrate together.” Satisfied, Samael turned and marched back toward the car, calling to Usman, “Hurry along; we have a busy day ahead of us.”

Part II

“
Yea
,
though
I
walk
through
the
valley
of
the
shadow
of
death
,
I
will
fear
no
evil
;
for
You
are
with
me
;
Your
rod
and
Your
staff
,
they
comfort
me
.” Psalm 23:4

CHAPTER 13

Thursday
,
May
29th

6:30 p.m.

Ryan rolled out of bed after a two hour nap. The view out his bedroom window was black. He moaned.

Oh
boy
,
here
we
go
again
.

He pulled the spongy foam plugs from his ears, tossed them in the top drawer of the nightstand, slipped on a pair of jeans, then headed downstairs for dinner.

Every few days, he repeated the cycle, the same routine: nap for a couple of hours, eat dinner with his family, throw a few things into a half-packed suitcase, put on his uniform, and make the one hour, 68 mile drive to the airport.

By the time he hit the road, most of the working world had fled to their domestic nests in search of a few hours of rest before rising to the drumbeat calling them to repeat the never-ending cycle.

As a junior L.A.-based airline captain, the red-eye trans-con to the East Coast was the best trip he could hold. Pinned to the bottom of the seniority list, married to a company shrinking their way to profitability, he was forced to join the invisible brotherhood of workers who performed their trade and earned their living under the cover of darkness; the likes of burglars, grave-diggers, and prostitutes.

After fifteen years, he’d imagined a different life. Instead of all-nighters, he’d dreamed of flying day trips out of LAX to Hawaii. Early arrivals to the Islands in time for relaxing dinners at sunset, eight hours of sleep, and late-morning departures back to the Mainland the next day. But the fallout from 9/11 had forced the airline industry into a nosedive, taking with it any hope of a better quality of life for all airline employees.

The bright, kitchen lights, smell of fresh bread, and the clatter of dishes helped bring him out of his half-dazed state. A glimpse at the black of night beyond the sliding glass window leading onto the patio was a sobering reminder of what lay ahead.

“Hi, Honey.” Keri said, greeting him with a kiss. “Were you able to sleep?”

“Remind me to kill the neighbor’s dog,” he growled. “I’m sure I’d be doing them a favor.”

Keri’s face scrunched with empathy. “I’m sorry.”

“While I’m over there, I’ll be sure to put a knife in their kid’s basketball.”

Keri placed a plate in front of him with baked chicken, rice, and broccoli. “What would you like to drink?”

“Water’s fine.”

As ice cubes clunked into the glass from the dispenser, she said, “So, is it New York, Boston, or Miami tonight?”

“New York,” he grunted.

Regardless of the destination, it was all the same. Drive to the airport, complete a routine preflight, takeoff into the darkness, climb to cruise altitude, stare into the black of night for five to six hours while fighting the urge to sleep. Then approximately thirty minutes from landing, tank up on enough bad coffee to last through the descent and landing, make the bag drag from the arrival gate through the terminal to the crew van to the hotel, find the room, pull the curtains, crawl into bed and hope for a few hours of rest. His two greatest enemies were the noise of departing guests in adjacent rooms and the dreaded, mistaken knock on the door: “Housekeeping!” It was a constant battle with circadian rhythm, chronic fatigue, and living in an upside-down world.

Keri set his water glass on the table and took a seat. “Thanks,” he said.

After the debacle with her father’s inheritance, Keri returned to work. However, not willing to sacrifice her time with her young son, she waited until David had entered the first grade. In the shadow of 9/11, the idea of continuing as a flight attendant was unsettling, plus being on the road and away from David was not acceptable. She decided to return to school for a nursing degree.

Between the time David started first grade and the birth of their daughter, Martha, Keri completed a bachelor’s of science degree in nursing and had worked two years as a nurse at a local emergency clinic located only a few minutes from their house. With qualified nurses being in short supply, she had been fortunate to find the perfect job with the perfect hours. Her added financial contribution helped to pare Ryan’s 30 percent pay cut at the airline.

Financial catastrophe bred a new form of corporate greed. Airline managers began to look on the tragic events of 9/11 as a trump card in a bigger scheme aimed at breaking the backs of labor unions—a form of unorganized conspiracy.

With the help of inflation, a flying public conditioned by lowered air fares and less frills, a younger workforce willing to accept lower wages in exchange for the promise of job security, skyrocketing fuel costs, and the use of bankruptcies to shed expensive pension obligations, corporate executives worked frantically to spin the negative events so as to forever blur the actual value attached to the professional responsibilities of being an airline pilot.

Ryan and Keri were blessed by what most would call a
good
marriage in a day when most marriages are little more than a mini vacation down the highway of lust, littered with offspring created from the
8
-
12
%
possibility
of
failure
as read on the warning label of most condom packages.

“Hi, Dad,” David said and signed, walking into the kitchen and slipping into his chair at the table. His guttural voice sounded strained.

“Hey, Buddy,” Ryan said and signed. “Where’s your sister?”

“Coming.”

A moment later, small arms squeezed his waist. “How’s my sweetheart?”

“Fine.” Martha took a seat beside him. “Daddy,” she said, signing while she talked, “do you
have
to go on another trip tonight?”

“Yes. But when I get home, we get to take that vacation we’ve been planning.”

“Can’t you just miss this one trip? Pleeease!”

“Darling, I wish I could.”

David added, “Yeah, Dad, miss it. We go tomorrow. Vacation.”

“You guys know there’s nothing I’d like more.” He glanced over at Keri, meeting her wishful gaze. “This is the last one and then I’m off for two whole weeks.” He put a bite of chicken in his mouth.

The horrid images from his dream still lingered—they always did. Ryan and Keri had made a point not to share the events of his recurring nightmare with their children.

Once David and Martha finished their dinner, Keri said, “You guys can be dismissed.”

After they left, Keri turned to Ryan and said, “Are you going to be okay?”

“Is it that obvious?” He pushed the remaining food around on his plate.

“I worry about you.”

Still looking down at his plate, he said, “It’s the nightmares.” Resting his fork on his plate, he turned and met Keri’s concerned eyes. “I just can’t let it go. Rex should’ve never died.”

“Honey,” she said, placing her hand on his arm, “it’s not your fault. Just like you told
me
, you’ve got to let it go.”

“I know.”

“You can’t do this to yourself. You have to know there’s nothing you could have done to stop what happened.”

“And Emily….”

“I know….” Her eyes filled with a watery glaze.

He glanced at his watch, “I need to get ready.”

He felt trapped by circumstances beyond his control: his company always wanting more for less, pushing him to his physical, mental, and emotional limits; his insides being eaten away by guilt and remorse for the circumstances surrounding Rex’s death; the needs of a handicapped child.

If only there was something he could do to make it all go away. He couldn’t bring Rex back, and he had few options to deal with his work schedule other than calling in fatigued or sick—neither a fix for the emotional hemorrhaging that plagued him.

He took one last drink of water before heading upstairs to dress and finish packing.

* * *

7:35 p.m.

Dressed and packed, he loaded the car and gave Keri a kiss. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, late. Don’t wait up.”

Her eyes searched his soul, seeing things only a wife could see. “I love you,” she said. “Ryan, everything’s going to be okay.”

“I know.” He slipped into the driver's seat, pulling the seatbelt across his chest, snapping the buckle. He looked up at her, forcing a smile. “I love you.”

Leaning down, she gave him one last kiss, and then walked to the door leading back into the house. He backed out of the garage and onto the street. The night was damp. The black asphalt shown under the mist-cloaked, street lamps while fog, carried by a cool breeze, drifted beneath the tops of the trees like ghosts.

One last glance at Keri standing at the door tugged on his heart like a cord refusing to let go. He eased away against the slight grade in the street. Within five minutes, he merged into a sea of traffic on Interstate Five. He checked the time—7:45. He should roll into the employee parking lot at 8:50 in time to catch the 9 p.m. bus to the terminal. He normally allowed more cushion in case there was any unexpected traffic or an accident on the freeway, but, this time, he found it extra hard to leave Keri and the kids. As long as there were no delays, he had plenty of time to make his 9:30 sign in.

He clung to Keri’s departing words and the sweet lingering taste of her lips. One last trip stood between him and two weeks of needed rest with his family.

He pushed through the dark among a herd of speeding automobiles driven by blank faces masking complex and mostly troubled lives.

CHAPTER 14

7:40 p.m.

The sight of Ryan driving away tore at Keri’s heart. She had watched him drive away thousands of times before, but this time it was different. He was hurting. Life was out of balance. Something had to change.

She returned into the house. In for the night, she checked the doors, engaged the bolt locks, and flipped off the foyer light, and front porchlight. Hearing the children upstairs, she took a breath, accepting the challenge of getting them bathed and in bed. Tomorrow she’d promised they’d do something special together, just the three of them.

“Okay, time for baths,” she said, signing her words as she spoke.

“Not now,” David spoke in a guttural tone.

“Yes, now. Tomorrow is a fun day and we all need to get to bed early.” She noticed David brighten.

“Yay!” Martha said. “What are we going to do, Mommy?”

Keri took Martha’s hand and led her towards the bathroom. “You can think about it tonight, and we can decide in the morning.”

The doorbell chimed, followed by a light knock. Keri checked the time—7:45.

Who
could
that
be
?

Martha looked up at Keri, “Mommy, someone’s at the door. Let’s go see who it is.”

Keri checked her watch. “No, Honey, I’ll get it. You get ready for your bath. I’ll be back in a minute.” Keri turned to David and signed, “Doorbell. You and Martha bathe.”