Joseph Finder - Power Play

Airplane geek: who, me?

That baby could go Mach 0.89, and even when it was up against the barber pole-cruising at max speed-it was so solidly built that nothing ever squeaked or rattled. It had a range of almost seven thousand miles, partly because it was so light. The airframe was made of lightweight improved aluminum alloy, and the engine cowlings and all the control surfaces, the rudders and ailerons and elevator, were made out of advanced composites.

I learned to fly when I was in college, wanted to be a pilot but was disqualified because my vision wasn't totally perfect. But at least I got to work with planes, and when I'm a passenger on a well-built plane, I'm always watching and listening, noticing things most people don't.

Once we started our ascent-we'd be cruising at forty-five thousand feet, I knew, well above commercial airline traffic-I turned back to my laptop and began studying the photos. Which was when something caught my attention. I enlarged the photo to the full size of my computer screen, then zoomed in on one small area of the picture. A piece of the plane's wing was lying on the asphalt. The inboard flap, I could tell right away.

I zoomed in still closer. I could see where the aluminum hinge had ripped out. It was pretty dramatic looking, and sort of surprising, too.

The wings and the wing flaps on the Eurospatiale E-336 were made out of composite materials, just like our own SkyCruiser. But the hinges that attach the flaps to the wings are made of a high-grade 7075 aluminum.

And somehow those aluminum hinges had just ripped clean off the wing flap. How, I had no idea. I needed to study the pictures some more. Maybe do some more research.

My Scotch arrived, in a cut-glass crystal tumbler on a silver tray, with a dish of warm mixed nuts under a linen napkin. Next to it was a small envelope.

A bill? The Hammond private jet didn't exactly have a cash bar. So what could it be?

The envelope was made from very thick, expensive-looking stock. It was blank on the outside. Inside was a folded note, on a matching sheet of paper.

I recognized the handwriting at once. It said, simply:

Landry-

Please come to the executive lounge as soon as you get this. BE SUBTLE.

– A

I closed my laptop and got right up.

The inner sanctum-the CEO's private lounge-was even more opulent than the main salon.

If I'd just come from an English gentleman's club, then this was the club's private library. The walls here were paneled in a rich, antique wood, though I knew they had to be veneers, since real wainscoting would be too heavy. The lighting was indirect, from tiny ceiling pinpoints trained against the paneling, and gave the cabin an amber glow. The antique carpets were even finer. There were cabinets that looked like family heirlooms (though not my family, of course, whose oldest piece of furniture had been Dad's Barcalounger). A flat-screen TV hung on one wall, tuned to CNBC. A steel-clad galley kitchen with an espresso machine. A couple of overstuffed couches, upholstered in an off-white brocade.

And sunk down in the middle of one of the couches, facing the door, was Ali. She was reading a folder, but she put it down when I entered.

"Landry."

"There you are," I said, as casually as I could manage, walking up to her. "A private summons, huh? And I thought you'd forgotten who I was."

"I'm so sorry about that. I really am. It's just really important for us to be discreet." She got up off the sofa and put her arms around me. She had to stand on tiptoes to do it. "Hey, I've missed you."

She spoke with a slight Southern twang, the residue of her years living in Fort Benning, Georgia, and Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

"Me, too." If I was perplexed before, by this time I was even more confused. She looked great, of course. Even more beautiful, which I found disconcerting. Ali was petite and slender-people tended to call her "pert" or "perky" or "spunky," words she hated, because she thought they were all basically synonyms for "short." When we were going out, she wore her hair short. Now it was long and flowing, down to her shoulders, and looked like she spent a lot of money getting it cut in some fancy salon. She'd done something to her eyebrows, too, made them sort of arched. She wore glossy lipstick with lip liner. The old Ali didn't wear much makeup; she didn't need it. She was beautiful, but you'd never call her stylish. She was like a tomboy who'd grown up. The new Ali was willowy, elegant, polished.

I liked the old Ali better, even if the new one was more striking.

"You look good," I said.

"Thanks. I like your jacket."

"You got it for me."

"I remember."

"It's the only decent blazer I own."

"No argument there. You did have the worst clothes."

"I haven't changed."

"That doesn't surprise me, Landry. You never liked change."

"That hasn't changed either," I said.

It's time," I said, clicking on the remote.

Sunday nights at nine; we never missed it. My favorite TV show. The Dog Shrink: an Australian canine therapist who specialized in helping troubled dogs, invariably with a happy ending.

This week's show was about a vicious Presa Canario/Cane Corso/pit bull mix owned by a frail-looking old lady. The dog was highly territorial and fiercely protective and was about to be put down after horribly mauling a neighbor boy.

The Dog Shrink called Missy-that was the dog's name-a "red-zone dog" and said, "Missy was not born a killer. Monsters are made, not born. Her aggressive behavior was created by her caretakers. I'm sure Missy was abused at an early age."

Ali lay on the couch doing paperwork, manila folders arrayed on the old steamer trunk that served as my coffee table. "I always wanted a dog," she said. "But my dad wouldn't allow it. He liked everything to be 'trig,' as he called it. Totally clean and neat and squared away. He said dog hairs get all over everything, and you never ever get them out."

She was an Army brat: Her dad had been a drill instructor, then a master sergeant. My father had been a Marine, so we had that military-family thing in common, too. She used to tell me all about her dad, how she loved shining his shoes and polishing his belt buckle and ironing his handkerchiefs and his uniform and all that. How proud she was of him. And yet how distant he was. If you're not an Army brat, she once told me, you'll never really understand. She liked to talk all about her background, her childhood, her brothers, her parents' lousy marriage. I never talked about that stuff at all.

"Don't forget the poop," I said.

"How come you don't have a dog, if you love dogs so much?"

"I'd consider it if they'd take turns picking up my poop."

"Seriously."

"It's a real commitment."

"Right. They just take and take and take, don't they?"

I shrugged, admiring her dry sarcasm but not taking the bait. "Someday I'll get one."

"Did you have a dog, growing up?"

I shook my head. "My dad didn't like them."

"Why not?"

"Who knows. Probably because dogs didn't like him. They're really good judges of character."

"And what did they see in him?"

"Remember the dad on The Brady Bunch?"

"Vaguely. What about him?"

"Well, my dad was kinda the opposite."

On the TV, the Dog Shrink said, "Missy is a very protective dog. Anytime she thinks her owner is being threatened, she'll attack." There was scary footage of Missy frothing and baring her fangs.

The Dog Shrink said, "Missy just needed to understand that not everyone is a threat to her owner. She had to learn not to be so protective. And do you know what her secret was-the real secret of her aggressiveness?" He stroked the dog under her chin. "She was frightened! That's what made her overcompensate. That's what made her so aggressive. So I had to show her there was no reason to be so afraid."