Critical Incident, Chapter One

~I~

Captain E. A. West III held up a glass of cabernet and viewed the wine’s ruby color, then put his nose in the bowl-shaped glass and took in the fruit-forward bouquet of black cherry and tobacco layered with earthy cedar. He took a sip of the liquid fermentation and tasted the berries, noting as he swallowed a long fruity finish that ended in dry, toasted oak.

He set the glass down on the sticky bar top and wondered just when he had turned into a wine snob. He realized in a moment of self pity that his life had spiraled downward in sadness until reaching the point where the only joy in his life came from a glass of wine. He didn’t wonder when the downward spiral had begun, however. He knew exactly when it had started. The pain of his loss had begun eleven months ago, and now a glass of wine was the only thing that took away the hurt and allowed him, just for a moment, to forget the tragedy. The red liquid in this small glass was now the only thing in life that he cared about. He understood how people in grief easily lost themselves in alcohol. It was an unhealthy addiction for any profession, but especially damaging in his line of work. But right now, he didn’t care.

Captain West was a pilot. Not just a private pilot, the kind who spends weekends flittering around the skies in a 1950’s Piper Warrior, no, Captain West was a pilot at the top of the flight ladder. He was an airline pilot, a captain at Liberty Air; the most successful airline in the United States. But his success wasn’t enough to soften the hard edge of his mood; it wasn’t enough to give him a reason to be happy.

He was tired. Tired of nights spent in endless sterile hotel rooms, where the walls only reflected his grieving sobs, never absorbing or assuaging his pain. He hated the hotels, with their lifeless rooms, their bland restaurants and their dark lounges with their sticky, wooden bar tops and leather stools that smelled of stale beer and smoke. Hotel bars were like a repository for all the pathetic, hopeless, and unreachable dreams of sad and lonely people. The top of the bar could never truly be cleaned of the lurid stickiness left by dreams that had been forever cast away.

The pilot ran a hand through his dark hair and exhaled a long sigh. He pondered this life he had chosen. People around him admired his lucrative profession while they knew nothing of the real airline life. They saw the life of an airline pilot as one of glamour, filled with exotic travel and beautiful women. He knew the truth: A life of being constantly on the road. The hotels were always the same: Disinfected cookie cutter rooms filled with two double beds and small TV’s with remotes that had their battery covers missing and never worked; tiny bathrooms with thin towels that smelled of bleach; restaurants off of every hotel lobby that served the same bland menu of buffalo wings, chicken Caesar salads, burgers; and of course, the dark smelly lounges showcasing their particular variation of the ever-present sticky wooden bar.

Airline pilots lived two lives, actually; one at home where the real living was done, and one on the road, where their real lives ceased, placed on hold in kind of a suspended animation until returning home. An airline pilot’s real life was at home. On the road, the layovers played out like scenes from the movie Groundhog Day, repeating the same way over and over again until the trip ended and the pilot returned to real life. And Captain West’s real life had been shattered.

The income, people would say of airline pilots. What a great income! They didn’t understand. What good was making two hundred thousand dollars a year when your wife was dead?

Captain West sipped the 1999 Franciscan Oakville Estate and swirled it in his mouth, feeling the velvet smoothness of the black cherries scented with wood and tobacco. The wine would do.

“So what’ll it be for dinner, gonna go with the steak?” the bartender asked as he approached. He was a portly fellow wearing a white shirt with a plain black tie that surrounded a thick neck that bulged too much to allow him to button the top button. His cheeks were ruddy and peeling, as if he’d sampled from more than a few liquor bottles late at night when the bar was closed. His name tag said Dominic.

“Yea, I’m gonna splurge tonight. Give me the prime Kansas City strip with grilled veggies and béarnaise on the side.”

“Good choice. Coming right up,” the bartender smiled woodenly, and turned to punch some keys on the register.

West turned on his stool and surveyed the bar with eyes the color of polished steel. It was early, only five thirty, and there was just a smattering of people inside. A sweaty businessman sat several stools down working on his third whiskey on the rocks, trying to forget another day of failed sales pitches. A young couple sat in a booth near the door trying to avoid the light as if they were on some hidden tryst, or maybe they were on their honeymoon and this place was all they could afford.

Captain West turned back to his glass of cab and watched in the mirror behind the bar as another Liberty flight crew checked in at the registration desk out in the lobby. It was Bob Hargrove, an older Captain West recognized from Dallas, and a female first officer he didn’t know. Then, something else caught his eye. A woman walked into the lounge, stopped, and surveyed the place. She approached and sat next to him at the bar.

“A glass of your house cabernet,” she said to Dominic.

Bold move, the pilot thought: Sitting down in a hotel bar next to a stranger.

She was attractive, West noted, wearing low cut jeans and a pink striped oxford shirt that was not tucked in. She looked comfortable in her casual attire, but exhibited a self-assured confidence that was absent in most of the flight attendants he worked with. Trey caught a whiff of Chanel No. 5. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, but didn’t seem to be trying to dress younger. West caught himself staring. “Try the Franciscan Oakville Estate,” he said with a smile, holding up his own glass. Then he turned back to look straight ahead. He suddenly felt stupid. He didn’t want her to think he was hitting on her.

“Thank you,” she smiled back, and nodded to the bartender who took down a glass from overhead and poured from the open bottle behind the bar.

Several minutes passed in silence.

“On business?” she suddenly asked, turning to West.

“Yea.” He didn’t want to be any more specific. He never volunteered his line of work while at the bar. People sometimes freaked out when they found an airline pilot drinking in the bar. For some reason, they immediately assumed he was going to be flying an aircraft in the next 30 minutes. They never understood that he had fourteen hours off before returning to duty. “And you?”

“Business,” she replied.

They both went back to their glasses and sat quietly for awhile. An NBA game was playing on the TV above the bar, but for some reason the sound was turned down.

The woman spoke again. “This is a nice cab,” she acknowledged, holding up her glass.

“I think so,” West replied. “I try not to be a wine snob, especially when California wine is so ridiculously expensive, but I like it when you can find a good one that’s not outrageously priced.”

“Six bucks a glass? I’d call that outrageous!”

Then she laughed, and he knew she was kidding with that last remark. He didn’t want to tell her that his glass was only two bucks; the Liberty Airline flight crew discount.

“Sarah Collins,” she introduced herself, extending her hand.

“Trey West.”

They shook.

The bartender had disappeared and now came out with a sizzling steak that he set in front of the pilot. He also set another plate in front of the woman; a large wedge of iceberg lettuce drizzled in Roquefort dressing and sprinkled with extra blue cheese.”

“Wow, that’s great service,” West laughed at her, acknowledging her salad. “I never even saw your order anything.”

“It’s easy for Dominic when I’m in here every week. He knows to bring me my usual.”

“I see. You’re here every week. What kind of business are you in?”

“Security. You?”

“Aviation.”

“Ah. You must be an airline pilot.”

He was shocked. “How did you know that?”

“I see it all the time. I know that the crews who fly for Liberty overnight here. So I’m guessing that’s who you’re with. Am I right?”

“Right on the money. You have me at a disadvantage, then. You’re in security? You must be a detective!”

She laughed. “I am, as a matter of fact. Well, I was, anyway. Precinct 3, Fort Worth Police Department. I’m on a sabbatical from that right now. I’m a FAM.”

“No kidding!” Trey knew the acronym right away. Federal Air Marshall. He had FAM’s flying regularly on his flights, but he could not recall having ever seen one this attractive. She was petite, probably no more than five four and a hundred and five pounds, but he guessed from her shapely and buff figure that she could kick some tail when she wanted to. Her dark auburn hair was thick, and though he guessed she wore it back in conservative fashion when on duty, now it was down and informal, framing her face quite pleasantly.

“So, do you carry your weapon with you all the time?”

“Better believe it,” she smiled, patting the small black handbag that lay on the bar. “But that’s a secret just between us, Trey, okay?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you mind if I call you Trey?”

West smiled. “Not at all. Anything but ‘Captain’.”

They ate their meals in silence for a few minutes. Trey loved beef, and this prime cut was tender and flavorful, though he barely noticed, for his attention was totally on the woman next to him. Sarah spoke again.

“Where’s your first officer?” she wondered.

“Upstairs, playing his electric guitar.”

“What?”

“Yep. He brings this tiny guitar with him that plugs into a little amp, and he practices on his overnights. He just started taking lessons, and he’s working on his homework assignment.”

“I see. He sounds like a real winner.”

“Well, he’s a little different. He’s got a corporate background; a wife and like eight kids, so he eats out of a food bag on his overnights to save money. He doesn’t drink either, so it’s just me down here tonight.”

“What about your three flight attendants?”

“Slam clicking, I guess.”

Her questioning look told Trey he needed to explain that slam clicking was the universal term for flight crews, who upon arriving at the hotel, went straight to their rooms, ordered room service, and stayed in.

“The term applies mostly to flight attendants,” he explained. “Pilots are cooped up all day in a tiny cockpit and we crave interaction with other humans when we get out. Flight attendants, on the other hand, spend their entire workday dealing with masses of people, and when they get off for the day, oftentimes they just wanted to be alone. In that case, when they get to the room, the door goes slam, click.”

“Wow that stinks,” Sarah noted. “I never realized it was like that.”

“It’s okay. You get used to it.” Trey turned back to his wine and was silent. Sarah noted a hint of sadness in him.

“You okay?”

“Sure. I’m fine.”

“Listen, if I’m interrupting or something, I understand. You seem a little down. If you want to be alone, just say the word.”

“Really, it’s okay. I am a little down, but it’s no big deal. So do you like being a FAM?”

“Nice changing of the subject, Trey! You don’t have to talk about it. Do I like being a FAM? Yeah, the money is pretty good, but it sure gets boring flying around the sky all day doing nothing. And the overnights are pretty weak.

“Tell me about it. So why did you leave the force to work as a FAM?”

“Oh, it was the whole 9/11 thing. I wanted to do my part to combat terrorism, and they needed volunteers for FAM’s, so I signed up. Plus, I was kind of frustrated with the detective thing. The Fort Worth Police Department wasn’t too keen on having a woman on the detective force. I think my selection for it was some affirmative action move to please someone higher up. They didn’t really take me seriously. That can really piss you off, you know?”

“I can imagine. I’ll bet you earned the detective job fair and square, though. Just look how you nailed me! But now you’ve given it all up for the luxurious life that the rest of us flight crews enjoy! Another evening in a lavish hotel!” His tone was condescending toward the place around him. He didn’t care if Dominic heard.

“Hey don’t knock it. At least you get put up here at the Radisson! Try staying across the street at the Hampton Inn!”

“You’re not staying here?”

“Are you kidding? Remember, I work for the government. I just come over here because there’s a bar and some food. Real food, not like the cereal and muffins in plastic they put out at breakfast across the street.”

“Well, at least your continental breakfast is free. Don’t let a pilot know that though, or you’ll have all of them over there trying to get free food!”

Sarah laughed to see Trey making fun of his fellow pilots and loosening up a bit. The ice broken, they ate and laughed and traded airline flight stories for almost an hour.

Trey was amazed when he realized how much time had passed.

“So, what about you?” Sarah’s emerald eyes were beginning to twinkle as she started on her second glass of wine.

“Me?”

“Yeah. Corporate background? Wife and like eight kids? I see that you’re not eating out of a food bag.” Sarah teased him by comparing him to the absent first officer while she playfully stabbed her fork at the last piece of steak on Trey’s plate. “And obviously you do drink.”

Trey laughed. “Yes, I do.”

He paused as if remembering back to a time that was now shrouded in fog. It seemed as if everything before his wife’s death was another lifetime ago.

“I was in the Air Force.”

“Oh really, what’d you fly?”

“Training mostly, T-37’s and T-38’s though I did get one tour in the F-15. That was cool. I did twelve years and then they kicked me out. Been at Liberty Air ever since.”

“F-15’s … pretty hot stuff.” Sarah motioned the bartender over. “Can we get a couple more glasses of that Franciscan?” The bartender began to pour.

“Put it on my tab,” Trey signaled to Dominic. Sarah began to protest, but relented when Trey told him of his airline discount.

“Wow, I wish the government gave me a perk like that.”

“Hey, you get to carry a gun when you fly.”

“Big deal. You can too, if you want to.”

“Oh, you mean the FFDO program?” Trey referred to the Federal Flight Deck Officer program, where airline pilots could go through training and then carry firearms and wear them in the cockpit when working a flight. “No thanks. That program is too much of a pain in the butt right now. If I could do biannual re-qualifying at home in San Antonio, I might do it, but right now you can’t and it’s just too much of a hassle. Besides, why do I need a gun when I’ve got you onboard?”

Sarah responded by holding up her glass in a toast. “Touché!”

Trey responded with a laugh. “Actually, Sarah, I used to be in law enforcement just like you. I was in the FBI.”

Sarah almost spit out her wine from laughing so hard.

“Seriously, I was! I was in the FBI.” They were both laughing now. “I know, I don’t seem like a law enforcement officer. I know you guys can pick each other out of a crowd. I really was in the FBI, but I wasn’t actually an agent. It was years ago. I was a pilot for the Bureau, but I jumped at the chance to go to Air Force pilot training.”

“Well, here’s from one cop to another,” Sarah saluted, and they both swallowed the last of their second glasses.

“Are you married?”

The question seemed to return Trey to his somber mood. His gray eyes turned dark.

“No. I was, but my wife died.”

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“That’s okay.”

“How long ago did she die? I’m sorry; it’s none of my business. If you don’t want to talk about it—”

“It’s okay,” Trey stopped her, and put his hand on her forearm. “She died in a rollover a year ago coming home from work. I was out on a trip when it happened.”

“My god. That must have been horrible. I am so sorry.” Sarah stopped, waiting to see if Trey wanted to talk anymore about it.

She was greeted with silence. She decided not to ask anymore.

Bob Hargrove, the older, white haired Captain Trey had seen earlier signing in at the desk, walked into the bar. Tanned and leathery from life on a ranch, he was wearing a western shirt with pearl snaps over a gut that had seen way too many beers. His horse hair belt and rodeo buckle held up double knit polyester western slacks over black boots that were as pointy as an Indian spearhead. Trey laughed at the odor of freshly applied Old Spice. Good old Bob.

“Howdy, Trey. Sorry to hear about yer wife. You doin’ okay?” They hadn’t seen each other since the accident.

“Fine Bob. How about a drink.”

“Great. I’m ‘bout as parched as a buzzard in the Red Desert.” Bob’s east Texas accent hadn’t changed a bit. “I’m thirsty for one of their finest dollar beers,” he said in a loud voice.

Sarah looked puzzled until Trey explained. “Dollar beer. It’s our airline discount. Bud or Bud Light on draft for a buck. Oh, I’m sorry,” Trey quickly turned back to Bob. “Bob, this is Sarah Collins. Sarah, Bob Hargrove.”

“Nice to meet you, Bob.”

“The pleasure’s all mine little lady,” he said. “Where you based?”

Sarah blushed.

“She’s not a flight attendant, Bob. She’s actually an Air Marshall.”

“Well bust my britches, darlin’. Yer ‘bout the purdiest FAM I ever laid eyes on!”

“Thanks Bob. You must be from East Texas.” Before he could be hurt by her remark, she added, “I live in Forth Worth.”

“Gawl darn accent agin, ain’t it?”

They all laughed.

“Bob, where’s your FO?”

“She’s slam clicking. I think she’s on the—” It was his turn to blush. “Sorry Sarah. I didn’t mean it to come out like that.”

“Quite alright, Bob. I’m in law enforcement, remember. I’m used to that kind of talk. Pretty good with acronyms too, but I don’t know FO. What’s that for?”

“Sorry, Sarah,” Trey answered. “It’s always the same with us pilots; always using acronyms. FO is short for First Officer.”

“Got it. It’s the same way in law enforcement. Not to worry. I’ll get your lingo down!”

Trey laughed.

The three of them talked for another hour. Sarah and Trey watched as Bob consumed about five dollar beers to their one glass of wine.

“How ‘bout I buy you both a round?” Bob offered.

“Thanks, Bob, but I’ll have to pass,” Trey said with a weak smile as he held up his third glass. “I have a pretty early go tomorrow, and two is usually my limit. I probably need to hit the hay.”

“Me, too,” Sarah chimed in unexpectedly. “Bob, it was nice meeting you.”

“Suit yerselves, lightweights!”

Trey threw forty dollars on the bar, enough to cover his and Sarah’s tabs for dinner and drinks. “My treat,” he told her.

She started to protest again, but knew she was fighting a losing battle.

“Thanks.”

The two of them said goodnight to Bob and walked out of the lounge into the hotel lobby. Trey suddenly felt awkward. He didn’t know how to say goodbye, and realized he didn’t want to. Sarah saved him the trouble of initiating it.

“Trey, it was great to meet you.” Sarah extended her hand.

“Nice meeting you, too. Seriously, thanks for the conversation. You turned an otherwise boring evening into a lot of fun.”

“I enjoyed it as well. Maybe we’ll fly together some time.”

“That would be great. Listen; do you want me to walk you back over to the Hampster?”

“The what?”

“The Hampton Inn. We airline people call it the Hampster. There’s one in Oakland where a lot of commuters stay. It’s like a zoo, or maybe a cage.”

Sarah laughed. “I see. No, you don’t have to do that. Thanks for the offer, but I can manage. I do have protection, you know.” She patted her little black purse.

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that.”

They walked through the lobby together until the front door. “Goodnight Sarah.”

“You have a great night,” she answered, and squeezed his arm.

“Bye.” Trey watched her pass through the revolving doors and out into the night. In seconds, she was gone.

As he walked back to his room, Trey thought of her dark hair and bright eyes. He still felt her touch on his arm. He was surprised to find himself attracted to another woman. It was a feeling that had been totally absent for the last eleven months. The Chanel perfume lingered in his nostrils for a long time.

After a shower, Trey settled into bed under a big down comforter. He was glad the hotels were going to the more comfortable pillow-top beds. He felt weary, as if unloading a little bit about his wife’s death had drained all his strength. He heard female voices out in the hall. They were the p.m. crewmembers, just getting to the hotel. He closed his eyes. He was surprised that instead of his wife’s face, his last thoughts were for a petite, dark haired FAM with a twinkle in her eye.

Trey slept, and never heard the activity out in the hall, where hours later, a flight attendant returning from the bar found a very inebriated girl sitting on the floor in the third floor hallway. The flight attendant helped the drunkenly incoherent girl into her own room with a plan of calling down to the front desk for assistance. It was the last mistake the flight attendant ever made.