John Nance: 16 Souls

“Why?”

“ What? ”

He could see real anger in her eyes. “Sit your ass down right now, Captain!”

He should have barked back, but instead he shrugged and pulled out an adjacent chair. “If it pleases your majesty.”

“Answer the question. Why? Why are you dead? Why do you want to give up? Are you that furious with being prosecuted, or is this some kind of pitiful survivor’s remorse?”

“What, now you’re a psychologist?,” Marty snapped, “Because, lady, I’ve been rejected by the best.”

“Wrong answer. Why?”

“You don’t give up, do you? Don’t you get it? The mere act of criminally prosecuting an airline pilot in the United States for doing his job the best way he could and for using his blanket emergency authority is so horribly assaultive and third-world banal and wrong… there’s just no way to respond other than to say that I will not play your damned game. If America is dead and justice is dead, do what you may. I don’t care. I refuse to play. Clear enough?”

“Not even close,” Judith responded. “Tell me what happened.”

“What?”

She cocked her head slightly and almost smiled as she sat back. “You didn’t understand the question, Captain?”

“Give me one reason why I should go over everything with you? You’re not even on my side. What did you take this case for, anyway? To make headlines? Are you some sort of an associate on the make in this law firm?”

“I’m a full partner.”

“Really? Well then, this must either be some sort of exile for you, or you’ve got an angle. In any event, lady…”

“Judith.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have a name, Captain Mitchell,” she sighed in practiced contempt. “You may call me ‘Judith,’ or ‘Ms. Winston, or ‘Counselor.’ You may not call me ‘lady,’ ‘ma’am,’ or for that matter, ‘honey,’ ‘darling,’ ‘sweetheart,’ or ‘babe,’ and no matter how upset you might get, you may never use the ‘C’ word or refer to me as ‘bitch.’ Clear?”

“Clear enough… Ms. Winston.”

“Thank you, Captain Mitchell. Now, please, tell me what happened.”

He snickered. “You don’t know?”

“Of course I know, in gross terms, but I haven’t heard the full story from my client. So maybe we could rectify that before the next ice age.”

“And, what? You’re going to get me off?”

“Probably not. But we’ll see. I’ll do my best.”

Marty sat forward, almost leering at her, his index finger stabbing the polished surface of the conference room table.

“And that, Ms. Winston, is my story as well. Plain and simple.”

“Excuse me?”

“I did my best. And now some slimeball DA wants me in prison. One hundred fifty-three people inside that 757, fourteen on my wing, and most of them made it home because of my decisions.”

“Not all made it home.”

“That’s true…” he began, his voice choking off the remaining words. He swallowed hard and fought to re-compose himself. She could hear the deep, ragged breath as he forced his eyes back to hers. “I did my best. I tried my best to save everyone… every one .” His eyes flashed with anger and impatience, his temper rising like an over-stoked fire. “You getting this?” Suddenly he was on his feet again, eyes blazing. “YOU GETTING THIS? I did my goddamned best with the hand they dealt me, and I will NOT be second guessed by someone who wasn’t there!”“

“You also climbed your jet to the wrong altitude.”

The words stopped him cold, and Marty sank back into the chair like a deflating balloon, his fingers drumming an absent tattoo on the table before looking up at her, his voice noticeably subdued.

“Yes, we were at the wrong altitude.”

“We? Not ‘I’?”

He shrugged.

“Then tell me your story. All of it.”

Seven Months before — January 21 st

Regal 12

Captain Marty Mitchell had shifted the phone to his right hand and sighed as he nodded to a female passenger standing nearby and then tried to catch the young gate agent’s eyes. The agent seemed oblivious to his presence and he smiled a conspiratorial smile at her, a collegial attempt to share the pressures of upset passengers and disrupted schedules.

The agent looked up at last and smiled at him.

The dispatcher on the other end of the phone was taking his own sweet time coming back on the line after Marty had pushed him for answers. But as captain, he’d meant every word, even if he sounded overly demanding. Until they gave him the time he was supposed to have the airplane started and waiting at the “wash-rack”- the deicing hard stand near the end of the ramp — he simply wasn’t going to leave the gate. The snow storm was too intense, and the absolute FAA prohibition about flying with any snow or ice on the wings was a rule he was not about to bend.

God, he was tired of such battles! Why couldn’t he have been a pilot back when captains had some respect and authority, rather than being treated as disobedient peons every time they had the audacity to make an autonomous decision?

He watched the young agent dealing with the passengers with a friendly demeanor and a constant smile, obviously enjoying her job. It was a deeply refreshing sight, since too many of Regal’s gate agents were smoldering with discontent over years of incompetent management or past mergers that hadn’t worked out well. Good people, bad system, he thought, wishing for moment he could have flown for a really professional carrier like Delta, or a great company like Southwest or Alaska. Regal was always on the bottom in customer ratings, and they simply refused to spend the money necessary to change it.

“Captain Mitchell, you still there?” the dispatcher’s voice snapped him back from his thoughts. The voice was pained.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I dropped everything else to get this, because you asked, but your time for the de-ice rack is eight-twenty. Normally you get that number right before push-back from operations.”

He ignored the dig. “Any change in the forecast?”

“Don’t you have the paperwork?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s all in there. But… I’ll verbally re-brief it if you insist. It’s just… we’re really busy down here.”

“No. That’s okay. We’ll be ready. Hope things get quieter for you guys.” He replaced the handset behind the podium and looked around for Ryan Borkowsky, his copilot, who was treating the storm as if it were some sort of fun opportunity.

He’d noticed Ryan drifting off to one of the nearby coffee stands a few minutes back, presumably to buy his irritatingly predictable triple-shot, skinny, no-whip, one-Splenda mocha and another oatmeal scone. There was a yawning generational gap between the two of them, and it showed clearly in the younger man’s attitude. Borkowsky was one of the small percentage of airline pilots who had signed on because flying was convenient, not because it was a life force. Marty had been startled to hear that he’d never spent time as a kid hanging around airports, pumping gas into light airplanes, or otherwise just being in love with flying. How was that possible? How was it possible to be a pilot and not be in love with flying? The very concept was offensive.

“So, what’s the story, fearless leader?” Borkowsky’s laconic voice reached him from behind. Marty turned, wincing internally at the unprofessional image before him. Borkowsky’s blue uniform coat was unbuttoned, revealing his slowly exploding girth and a badly wrinkled shirt, and he was munching indelicately on a scone like a hungry horse cropping grass.