Read A Chapter:  In The Still Of The Night

1981. Ronald Reagan was inaugurated President of the United States. Michigan defeated Washington in the Rose Bowl. The Iranian hostage crisis ended. John Hinckley shot Pres. Reagan. Sissy Spacek won the Academy Award as Best Actress for Coal Miner's Daughter. USC tailback Marcus Allen won the Heisman Trophy. Sandra Day O'Connor became the first woman member of the Supreme Court. Brian Fincher lived his life with gusto.

* * *

9:10 a.m.Despite the ordeal of the long flight, Brian Fincher looked forward to it. Why not? He'd never been to Hong Kong, although he'd heard stories. It sounded like the kind of place he'd enjoy exploring. Fabulous sunsets. Floating villages. Electronics bargains galore. Chinese food. Billions of people. Millions of women. Thousands of beautiful women. For a man like Brian – six foot four, broad shoulders, muscular chest, Tom Selleck smile and wavy, brown hair -- it sounded like a trip to paradise.

 Brian was on InterContinental’s reserve for the whole month, which meant that he had to be available to fill in for any purser who called in sick. It just so happened that he got the call for Flight 499, non-stop from Seattle to Hong Kong. He was across the hall from his apartment visiting a friend when his pager went off. He called into Flight Operations, found out where he was headed and returned to his apartment to begin his preflight pattern: Pack. Water the plants. Take Sylvester the Cat downstairs to old Mrs. Arnuff. Hurry to the bank to exchange some U.S. money for Hong Kong dollars.

9:15 a.m.      Jesse Hill pulled the shirt on, wishing that he didn't have to button it all the way, but noting that everyone who wore a suit wore a tie . . . and that the tie went around the neck tightly. Well, at least the pants went on the same as his work clothes. Except for the zipper in the fly, of course. He'd always had buttons. Not that he couldn't figure out how it worked. He pulled it up with a jerk and caught his shirttail in the teeth. It was quite a struggle to separate the two. He finally had to pull the pants off and cut the shirt from the inside. He started over, this time more cautiously, now knowing the dangers that lurked within the simplest of inventions. What would happen if he caught something more personal, more tender in those steel teeth? He shuddered to think about it.

At last, he was dressed. He looked at himself in the mirror. A boy in his late teens looked back at him. A boy from a farm who had never worn anything but dungarees and jeans looked back at him. A boy who was too tall and too big for his grandfather’s suit looked back at him. Right off, he could see the pants were too long. They covered part of his shoes. He was certain his socks were supposed to show, else why bother with socks? He put the jacket on next and reexamined his mirror image. He looked to see if his lack of a tie showed. It showed. Rats! He did not have the faintest idea how one tied a tie. He put it around his neck, and tied a half-knot, like the kind he tied for his shoelaces. The tie looked ridiculous.

            His hair was out of control. It was obvious he had tried to comb it, but it refused to conform. It went straight up, depending upon the direction it was rooted, giving a look of disarray almost laughable. Shame, too. He had never been on an airplane. This was going to be his first experience and he wanted to look his best. Well, time was working against him. He was running out of time to catch his plane. And it was a long drive from his farm in Enumclaw.

            1:10 p.m.      Susan Cunningham was tired after her nonstop flight from New York, and to think that Seattle was just a way-stop. The next leg of the trip was supposed to take fourteen additional hours. I wasn't thinking too clearly when I booked this flight, she thought, as she gathered her purse and exited the aircraft. Tom told me it would be easiest to get it over all at once. “Ha!” she said aloud as she walked up the ramp into the Sea-Tac terminal. In a pig's eye, she muttered under her breath, avoiding the strange look from the passenger walking alongside her.

Counting the two-and-a-half hour layover in Seattle, she would be at airports and on the airplane for twenty-three hours. Adding the five hours she had been up before arriving at Kennedy Airport, and the time she assumed it would take to gather her luggage, clear customs, and catch a taxi to her hotel once she arrived in Hong Kong, this was going to be a thirty-hour day. The only redeeming factor for all this was that she would be able to immediately climb into bed when she got to The Regent since it would be eleven o'clock the next night, Hong Kong time. Being a fashion model wasn’t all that it was touted to be, she confirmed to herself. In fact, at this exact moment, she thought the job sucked.

            1:15 p.m.      Brian checked into Flight Operations at Sea-Tac International Airport. He barely got there in time. In fact, he missed the official pre-flight briefing. If he hadn’t been the reserve chief purser, his tardiness might have cost him. As it was, he received a special briefing so he could pass on the information to the cabin crew.

On his way out of Operations, he saw an envelope in his mail slot. He studied it for a return address as he tore open a corner and extracted a note. Large, child-like letters, spelled a message. It looked like a ransom note. It wasn’t. It was a threat. “I know who you are. You owe me one. And I will be paid.” It was unsigned, of course.

            Brian shrugged his shoulders. What kind of nut would send a letter like that? A nut would, that's who. He wasn't going to worry about it. He Crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it at the wastepaper basket. “Three points!” he said as it rimmed the basket and fell onto the floor and under a desk. “Well, almost.”

He turned and headed to the North Concourse to board his plane. Life had to go on, Brian figured. Still, he wondered, searching the recesses of his mind for what he might have done to prompt this note. Then, suddenly he knew. It was the husband from whom he had escaped that night. Somehow, the man had found out who he was. But what was he likely to do about it? Nothing. It was just an idle threat. How had he gotten the note into his box at the airport? Now that was a puzzler. Still, as he had already concluded, life had to go on. And he had a plane to catch.

As he expected, all of the crew had been to Hong Kong before. He was the only neophyte aboard. Four members of his fourteen-member crew spoke one or more Chinese dialects while two others spoke Korean and Japanese. That was a blessing. He assigned Sharon Cheng to the First Class cabin along with Alex Kim and Anne McGiver. He gave to Molly Harmon, a seasoned veteran with whom he had flown over the years, the upper deck. Brian had flown with two of the other members of his crew, Chris Folk and Jeana Jensen only last week, and they were given Business Class, along with Stephanie Phillips. Gene Fitzpatrick asked for and received the below-decks galley. The rest, covering Economy, were Jackie Karpoe, Sandy Ponds, Linda Nakamura, Carrie Hunter, and Christina Yoo. Four were faces he recognized but people whose performance he didn't know. One, Sandy Ponds, was a close friend. They had shared an intimate dinner together a few months ago, and he had not gone home until the next afternoon. This was going to be a new experience. Brian had never flown with someone he'd dated, and he wasn't certain how well he was going to like it.

In all, the flight attendants covered the age spectrum from twenty-five to fifty-seven; an interesting collection of diverse personalities and travel experiences. Other than being a long flight, and one on which a girl he had dated was also flying, Brian figured this was going to be a good flight. He had a good sense for these things. He had long since dismissed the stupid threat from the anonymous letter writer.

            As his good fortune would have it, his Asian debut began aboard InterContinental's first remodeled 747. The company had worked hard to overcome the stereotype image of an aircraft's interior. The new president of the airline reputedly had said when he took over the previous year, “An airplane is an airplane is not an airplane.” His point was that his airline was going to appear different from their competition where traveling by commercial jet was about as thrilling as riding on a New York subway at rush hour. His passengers were going to feel comfortable in their airborne environment. It wasn't going to be the same as home, but it was going to be as close as he could make it.

The world-famous decorating company, Jean-Pierre Armond, had been commissioned to revamp the interiors, giving the sidewalls, ceilings, aisles, and seats a feeling of comfort and warmth. Three times they had made lavish presentations at corporate headquarters in New York. Three times their designs had been rejected for falling short of InterContinental's expectations. The fourth time, they constructed a full-size mockup of the cabin interior, showing how the Business Class section would look. Lush green carpet, pastel hues on the walls, starlit ceilings and Corinthian leather upholstery won unanimous approval. Aside from the Sultan of Brunei and a few Middle East sheiks, no one had a more spectacular aircraft interior.

            Refurbishment of the fleet was time consuming and expensive. Aircraft were rotated out of operation at their designated time for complete overhaul, not before. On this trip, Brian shared with the passengers the awe of the spectacle and the smell of soft leather. He marveled at the use of mahogany on trays behind each seat and as trim around each window, although he later discovered it to be high-impact, non-toxic, non-flammable lightweight plastic. Practical and effective, lavish and elegant. If it weren't for its tubular shape, the cabin could as easily have been the living room of Professor Henry Higgins in the Broadway production of “My Fair Lady.” Well, not really.

            3:25 p.m.     The passengers were starting to board and Brian moved to the main door to assist those needing help finding their seats. His self-assigned role was as backup to Sharon Cheng and Anne McGiver who were already stationed there. One more smiling face never hurt. Besides, this let him check out the passengers. “Yes, sir. Seat Sixty-Six B is all the way down this aisle in the rear section of the aircraft.” He pointed the elderly, bewildered-looking gentleman toward his seat. “Enjoy your flight.” The man shuffled off, trailed by an elderly lady toting a heavily laden overnight bag. She was short, maybe five feet tall; her gray-hair tied in a bun with a pillbox hat on top. She wore a flowered dress with darker flowers than he had ever seen in a flower shop. The bag was her burden, she explained as she passed Brian: “He's got a bad back.” Brian smiled as he watched her retreat down the aisle, then suddenly realized that he should help her.

            “Ma'am,” he called out. “Hold on. Let me carry that bag for you.” She stopped and put down the bag.

            “Thank you, young man. It's kind of you.” She looked up and smiled as Brian lifted the bag, noting that he was big and strong and quite handsome. Then, hurrying to catch up with her husband, she called: “Not so fast, Ed. We've got all night.”

***

            Once back at the main entry, Brian resumed his study of passengers, one in particular. It seemed likely that she had been pretty once. That was probably a while ago, Brian thought. He looked at her short sleeve, jewel-necked, aqua sweater that buttoned down the front. He smiled to himself. She was clinging to her youth just like her sweater clung to her body. Things were sagging a bit on both counts.  She carried a Gucci bag and wore a Rolex watch. From all appearances, she had been to Rome and Geneva to purchase them, when in fact, he was willing to bet anything she had obtained her counterfeits on New York's 42nd Street. But then, she probably would have cheapened anything she wore, real or counterfeit. Trailing behind her was a man whose hair was odd looking, like a paintbrush that had dried without being cleaned — thick gray streaks caked on top of black. It was combed, trim, and not dirty. But odd. They definitely go together, he decided, and smiled at Anne McGiver who was watching Brian with an amused expression. He winked at her.

***

            As usual, the assortment of passengers was varied and colorful. An all-star baseball team, made up of high school standouts from Seattle's Central District, was on its way to Hong Kong and Taiwan for a series of exhibition games. They all wore matching jackets that proclaimed, “Seattle's Finest.” They were keyed up and rowdy. One of them had brought a baseball for a friendly catch. All had their gloves. Two of the women who boarded appeared to be in the final terms of pregnancy. They were Chinese and possibly on their way home for deliveries. There were four infants who, with their parents, were assigned bulkhead seats to which bassinets would be attached once in flight. In addition to the baseball team and the babies, Brian counted twenty-two children who appeared to be younger than ten. All filed into the Economy section. Probably one-quarter of the passengers were Asians heading home.

            The passenger loading proceeded without a hitch. Five minutes before scheduled departure, the plane with 315 passengers aboard was ready. Well, everyone was aboard, but the aisles were still crowded with people making last minute decisions about blankets, pillows, magazines to read, and so on. Brian stepped to the passenger address system and removed the handset from the cradle. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm Brian Fincher, your Chief Purser for this flight. We are about ready for departure from Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, but FAA rules prohibit us from leaving the gate until every passenger is seated. If you'll look around, not every passenger is seated. So we request that you take your seats now, fasten your seat belts, place your seats and trays in upright and locked positions, and settle back. The captain tells me that with your cooperation, we'll be away from the terminal within five minutes.”

He paused as he watched the milling throng slowly move toward their seats. “By the way,” he added, “this is Flight 499, headed to Hong Kong nonstop. If you don't want to go to Hong Kong, now would be as good a time as any to deplane.” Those who were listening chuckled at his facetious remark.

            3:45 p.m.     In the cavernous freight payload area beneath the passenger deck, a team of cargo handlers hurried to finish loading and locking last minute checked baggage in place. Fifty tons of containers filled with suitcases, packages too big for carry-on, boxes, mail, exported goods and merchandise, live animals and two coffins were ready for transportation to Hong Kong and locations throughout Southeast Asia. Bill Watkins, seasoned freight handler and ramp supervisor only months from retirement, directed the crew. His intercom headset was clamped firmly over his bald head as he talked to the captain. “We're ready down here, sir. All cargo is fastened and secure. My crew is out; I'm about to disengage my intercom.

“Wait a minute. One of my guys is still in there.” He swung the head mike away from his mouth. “Hey, Collier. What’s going on?”

Roger Collier was adjusting one of the hinges on the cargo door. “Just making sure everything is as it should be, Bill.” He finished what he was doing, hopped onto the conveyor belt and rode it to the ground, giving Watkins the ‘thumbs up’ sign.

            “Captain, we’re about to lower the forward cargo door. I’ll give you the Okay as soon as that’s accomplished.” He pulled the intercom plug from the jack box, walked out the door and down the ramp. He gave a signal to a smiling Collier standing near the fuselage to lower the door. Fifteen seconds later, the hefty door was down. Collier reached up and pushed in the handle that stuck out from the middle of the door. Satisfied that everything was as he wanted it, he twisted the handle, completing the locking operation. Watkins inserted his intercom plug into the jackbox near the nose wheel. “Captain, we’re secure down here.”

        “Thanks for the confirmation, Bill. We know. The cargo door warning light just extinguished.”