David Robbins: Cincinnati Run

“Returning to Stapleton,” Orton said. “I don’t like this.”

“What could it be?”

“Beats me,” Orton said, frowning, alarmed by a dramatic increase in the bizarre sizzling.

“Is it me, or is the temperature rising?” Gunther asked.

Captain Orton abruptly realized he was sweating profusely, and he looked at a circular gauge to his right. His breath caught in his throat.

“The temperature is climbing! It’s ninety in here!”

“It can’t be the engines,” Gunther said.

The cockpit door unexpectedly opened, and in dashed a lovely brunette in a prim blue uniform. “The passengers are scared to death. What’s happening?”

Gunther twisted in his seat. “We don’t know, Gail. Try and keep them calm.”

“It’s so hot.” she declared.

“We’re returning to Stapleton,” Captain Orton said. “Advise the passengers.”

“Will do,” Gail responded, and turned toward the door.

She never made it.

The red radiance intensified, attaining the shimmering luster of a miniature sun, while simultaneously the temperature soared, the heat blistering the occupants of the cockpit.

“Damn!” Lieutenant Gunther exclaimed. “I can hardly breathe!”

Captain Orton gasped as a violent vibration shook the aircraft, and he struggled to maintain control, but the 757 started to dive of its own accord.

Gail screamed.

A moment later the azure sky above Stapleton Airport was rent by an explosion of tremendous magnitude.

The giant gaped at the billowing fireball, aghast. His brawny hands clenched at his sides, his knobby knuckles protruding. “Dear Spirit, no!”

he blurted out, horrified to his core.

“What the blazes happened?” asked a lean man in buckskins standing to the giant’s right.

“Did you see that strange red light?” asked the stocky Indian in green on the giant’s left.

“I saw it,” the giant confirmed, his penetrating gray eyes locked on the roiling, flaring cloud to the west of the airport. A comma of dark hair hung over his right brow. His features were ruggedly handsome, his physique outstanding. Every muscle on his seven-foot frame bulged, developed to perfection by years of vigorous exercise. A black leather vest covered his huge chest. Green fatigue pants and black combat boots completed his attire. Resting on each hip was a large Bowie knife, snug in its sheath.

“What the blazes happened, Blade?” the man in the buckskins repeated in a daze. His hair was blond, as was his sweeping mustache. Eyes the color of a crystal-clear mountain lake were wide in disbelief. Strapped around his narrow waist were a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers.

“I don’t know, Hickok,” the giant called Blade answered. “I just don’t know.”

“That light had something to do with the explosion,” the Indian said. “I just know it.” He was powerfully built, his black hair stirring in the breeze, his brown eyes squinting upward, his body clothed in a green shirt and pants constructed from a section of canvas tent. Both the Indian and the gunman wore moccasins.

“For once, Geronimo, I’ve got to agree with you,” Hickok said.

“If you think I’m right, then I must be wrong,” Geronimo responded, absently placing his right hand on the tomahawk angled under his black belt over his right hip.

“Smart-alecky Injun,” Hickok mumbled.

“Can it, you two,” Blade ordered, glancing at the throng to their rear.

Not a word was being spoken. The audience was deathly still, staring skyward at the subsiding fireball.

“This is a tragic calamity,” declared the elderly man in front of the giant. “Intentionally performed, I’d say.”

Blade swiveled and thoughtfully regarded his aged mentor. “Should we call for an emergency Council of the Federation leaders, Plato?”

Plato shook his head, his long gray beard swaying with the motion. He was in his fifties, and the experience of his years was etched in the deep wrinkles lining his visage. His blue eyes were alert and bright, belying his seemingly frail constitution. Faded, patched jeans and a brown wool shirt hung loosely on his body. “No,” he said. “Calling for an emergency Council would necessitate awaiting the arrival of those leaders currently not present. We would waste precious time.”

“But four of the leaders are here,” Blade noted.

“And the rest have sent representatives,” Plato said. “So we should convene an emergency session of those leaders and representatives on hand. The absent leaders will understand, once they are apprised of the gravity of the situation.”

Blade nodded. As usual, the Family’s sagacious leader had shown incontrovertible logic. He looked to the right at the row of dignitaries.

Just beyond Hickok stood President Toland, his countenance conveying his intense inner torment. The head of the Civilized Zone, one of the two key figures instrumental in bringing the concept of a Federation Airline to fruition, the man who had diligently directed the renovation of the 757 and the rehabilitation of Stapleton Airport, was devastated. Tears welled in his blue eyes. “Dear Lord, no!” he exclaimed.

Plato walked up to the president and draped his right hand on Toland’s left shoulder. “Nick, we must disperse the crowd.”

Toland said nothing, his mouth slack, a tear streaking his left cheek.

“Nick, are you okay?” Plato queried.

“Forty-five people are dead!” President Toland said. “And it’s all my fault.”

Plato’s shoulders slumped. “The destruction of the 757 wasn’t your fault. You know that.”

“My fault,” President Toland stated, gazing into Plato’s kindly eyes.

“Snap out of it,” Plato said. “Your people need you. We must disperse the crowd and attend to business.”

President Toland straightened at the mention of the gathering, taking a deep breath and wiping his left hand across his cheek. “Sorry. You’re right. Thanks.” He turned and surveyed the sea of pale faces.

“I don’t envy him,” Geronimo said softly to Hickok.

“The measure of a man is the grit he shows when the chips are down,” the gunman remarked in a whisper.

Geronimo did a double take. “Since when did you become a philosopher?”

“I’m no slouch in the smarts department. Ask anybody. They’ll tell you that I’m full of bright ideas.”

“You’re full of something, all right, but it’s brown and keeps seeping out of your ears.”

President Toland raised his arms aloft. “My fellow citizens, hear me! I know that many of you are still in shock. I know that many of you had relatives on Flight 1 A, and I share your grief. You all saw what happened.

What we don’t know is why. I’m about to get to the bottom of this catastrophe, and I need your help.”

The crowd began to stir sluggishly.

“Stapleton Airport will be closed until further notice,” Toland announced. “The military will seal off the airport in fifteen minutes. Only those directly related to the victims on the 757 will be permitted to remain in the terminal. Please. We must seal off the area. Kindly leave now. Your cooperation in this matter will be greatly appreciated.” He swung to his left, looking at a lean man in a neat military uniform sporting gold insignia on the shoulders. “General Reese, have your men expedite the evacuation. I want all nonessential personnel removed promptly.”

General Reese saluted. “Consider it done,” he said, and stalked off.

“I want to call an immediate meeting of the Federation leaders and representatives present,” Plato said to Toland. “Where can we conduct our session in private?”

President Toland glanced at the terminal. “There’s a room on the second floor ideal for our purposes.”