Predator

[If unfamiliar with the storyline in

Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

, stop now and read that one before resuming. AL/a]

*

Acheson sat behind the wheel, looked at Genie sitting beside him in the dark, then he flipped on the overhead light, picked up a notepad and began writing. "I need to get packed," he said as he wrote, "and stop by the pharmacy on the way to the airport."

"What time's your flight?"

"I have to be in dispatch by nine. Scheduled departure is 10:20."

He finished writing and handed her the pad, and she read while he started the car and drove up Versailles, then turned on Lomo Alto. At Mockingbird he turned right, and they drove in silence until he stopped at the light at Hillcrest, then he motored slowly through the SMU campus, checking for a tail, before he pulled into the driveway to his little house. He took the pad from her, tore the page from the pad and wadded it up as they walked inside.

He packed his clothes, took an envelope he kept inside a small, wall mounted safe and put it in his flight bag, then he sat beside her for a long time, rubbing her head.

She shook her head after a few minutes, stood and walked over to one of the bedroom windows. "I feel horrible inside," she said as she looked at lightning dancing across the sky. "Like nothing makes sense anymore. I just want to go away and hide somewhere."

"Might not be such a bad idea, if you could still look yourself in the eye, anyway. Not sure I'll be able to, but I've had enough for now. I'm not sure this is a war we can win."

"Nobody ever wins, Ben. Winning is an illusion, an idea politicians sell to get people ready for the next one."

"You're turning into a cynic, aren't you?"

"We had to read this book for our Medical Ethics class," she said, handing it to him. "It really shook me up."

He turned the book over in his hand --

12, 20 & 5: A Doctor's Year in Vietnam

-- then he read the blurb on the back cover. "Sounds, uh, interesting."

"Interesting. Yes. It was that."

"And?"

"I wonder...is it ever go to stop? I mean, what's the point of all this -- if we're not going to learn?"

He shrugged. "Who knows? What I do know is there's always going to be somebody out there who wants your stuff, and who's willing to kill you to get it. Does it really make any difference why?"

"Maybe not."

"You carried the badge, you know the score. Once upon a time I went on the basic assumption that all people are basically good. I mean, deep down. It took about a year on the street to figure out how stupid that is."

"Is it? Maybe all people are born good, then maybe life changes us, slowly, little by little, until maybe it sucks the good right out of us. Maybe that's what's wrong with us."

"I don't even know how to respond to that. How do you explain a Mother Theresa, a Gandhi?"

"Did you ever read any Piaget? Or Kohlberg?"

He shrugged. "My degree was in engineering, remember?"

"You should read up on Lawrence Kohlberg. The stages of moral development."

"They making you read that stuff, too?"

"Yup."

"Morality and medicine, huh. Well, there's an unexpected thought."

"You're a philistine!" she said, laughing a little.

He tuned the book over in his hand again. "Mind if I take it with me?"

"No, go ahead. You've been warned, though. Might change the way you think. What'd you need at the pharmacy?"

"Some more eyedrops."

"I've got a spare. Want to take mine?"

"You don't mind?"

"No. You still having trouble?"

"Smog and dry air. Bad combination."

"Just use the drops, and stop rubbing your eyes. You get nodular episcleritis a few more times and you'll need to go back to the doc for some real work."

"Wish I'd taken a nap yesterday."

"What is it, a seven hour flight?"

"Depends on the jet-stream, but that's close enough. Usually closer to eight."

"Where are you staying?"

He shrugged. "Usually out by the airport. Marriott, usually."

"Makes sense, I guess."

"You haven't been yet, have you?"

She shook her head. "No, I haven't. Can't imagine why, either."

"We'll have more time now. Burning the candle at both ends...isn't that what you said I was doing?"

"Yup. Maybe we could go -- together? Still, I'm not sure..."

"Look, the cop thing is over with now. Time to move on."

"You think you'll miss it?"

"Being a cop? Hell yes. Every day."

"I do, too."

"You should've gone straight to med school, never done the FBI thing."

"I know. 20-20 hindsight, huh?"

"And I never should have joined the department."

"Well, the bottom fell out on the airlines, didn't it. You weren't the only one laid off."

"It'll happen again, you know," he said. "If this really turns into a full blown civil war, the global economy will tank."

"I know."

"Then what?"

"Then we pick up the pieces. I get through school, you go work for the Sanitation Department..."

He chuckled. "I guess I deserve that." He looked at his watch, shook his head. "I'm going to miss you this time."

"You'll be gone, what, three days?"

"Yup."

She came and they hugged, then he picked up his bags and walked out to his department car, then he drove downtown and parked it in the central lot and hailed a cab for the ride out to the airport.

He got inside the taxi and ignored the man in the back seat by his side while he buckled his seat belt, then he turned and looked at The Duke, who handed him an overstuffed envelope.

"Here's the contact information, and what little background info I could lay my hands on."

"Seattle PD?"

"Yeah. Went out on a medical. CID for fifteen or so years. He says their department is completely compromised, the FBI field office out there may be too."

"What's Carol think?"

"About?"

"Rutherford."

"Not much. They're very compartmentalized, local cells, then regional. The national hierarchy is diffuse. She really doesn't know the details, and is getting testy when I ask."

"Think she can infiltrate?"

"Nope. She thinks even making the attempt would expose her. She's walking a razor's edge as is, one slip and they'll know she's playing both sides against the middle."

"You wanna get her out?"

Dickinson sighed, then shook his head. "Not yet. I'd like to know what their objectives are locally first."

Acheson snorted. "I'd say we know that, already. Discredit the political system, expose corrupt officials, then..."

"Yeah, it's the 'then' thing that has me bothered, Ben. What comes next, you know? Yeah, I get the whole 'discredit' and 'expose' thing, but what's their end game? And what lengths are these people prepared to go to in order to achieve their goals?"

"Well, they've killed over a thousand people in the last two days..."

"Exactly. So, what's next?"

"Who's next might be the better question." Acheson added.

"You ever wonder why so many of people in government have such serious kinks? Why so many kids have been a part of this?"

Acheson shook his head. "I'm no expert, but the whole BDSM thing is about consensual control, isn't it? With control the operative principle? And the pedophile angle? That's got to be about exercising power over someone completely, well, powerless hardly describes a kid."

"What you said, the whole 'manor' thing, the medieval feudalism angle? What do you make of that?"

"Well, feudal power rested within an uneasy alliance between lorded aristocrats and the church. That's beginning to resemble our modern world again, isn't it? A vested political elite appealing to an evangelical class -- which itself wants greater access to power and money -- in order to solidify their own hold on power. It's a symbiotic relationship, Duke. They're feeding off one another, until one gains momentary supremacy, anyway, then there's a renewed power struggle after a new hierarchy emerges, until the other can maneuver into a position of supremacy again."

"Dominance games?"

Acheson laughed at that. "All world history deconstructed into dominance games. With the emerging sexual undertones we're finding each day, that may not be too far off."

"Simple way to end that world would be to cut off all the balls. Get rid of testosterone as the fuel driving the motor of civilization."

"Or...get rid of all men in positions of political power." Acheson and The Duke looked at one another, then both shook their heads and laughed.

"No way," they said in unison. "Not gonna happen."

+++++

He had a new First Officer that morning, and she was already in the cockpit when he walked in the cockpit. He took off his jacket and hung it in the sliver-like closet by the door, then turned to stow his flight bag -- but she was up, her hand out, waiting for him.

"Sandy Beecham," she said. "I don't think we've flown together before."

"Ben Acheson," he said, taking her hand -- while thinking 'My, that was fast.' "No, I don't think we have. Ready to take a walk?"

"Yup," she said, gathering up her raincoat.

I would be at least another 45 minutes before pre-boarding began, but it was still raining out so he slipped his rain jacket on too. They walked out through the galley to the stairs off the Jetway, then out into the storm. He looked up at the clouds once he was on the wet concrete, low-scudding and whipping across the sky, driven by a north wind, then he walked to the left wing while Beecham took off for the right. He checked tread depths on tires, talked to the ground chief about the turn-around report and what had been finished -- and the squawks that remained on the 777s 'down' list -- then he signed the fuel load-out and finished his walk-around, meeting up with Beecham under the tail.

"Look good?" he asked.

She nodded her head. "Hardly anyone onboard today," she added. "Five in First, three in Business, and fifteen in coach."

He shook his head again, wondered how long the airlines could keep this up. So much uncertainty, and coming on so quickly, had undermined international commerce, and once again consumer confidence had fallen through the floor. With fuel prices spiking, this 777 needed 70 percent of her seats filled just to break even, and today's load was nowhere near that. He was a captain now, but he was low on the seniority list and that familiar worrying sensation came back again.

"You ready to head up?" she asked, but she was watching him closely now.

"Hmm. Oh, yes, let's go."

"You alright?"

"I was just thinking, about the last time. In 2008, with the crash. How fast the lay-offs came..."

"Me too," she said. "I was at Northwest, had just started in A320s then the boom fell."

"Too much uncertainty out there right now. Things are getting spooky."

They started walking back to the Jetway, both lost in thought, and they slipped into the cockpit and took their seats quietly. But the routine was the same, and they fell back into the familiar: they pulled out checklists and began waking the bird up, getting ready like today was just another day.

But of course it wasn't.

"Someone told me you work with the Police Department, in Dallas."

"I did," he lied. "I quit recently. Too much on my plate."

She nodded her head. "Got to be confusing. You look tired. Get much sleep last night?"

"You know, I had trouble falling asleep. All this stuff on the news I guess," but he found himself thinking of Genie -- and that book about the doctor in Vietnam. He wanted to go aft, find a quiet seat by a fireplace and read for a while, but he shook himself back into the present...

"You married," she asked.

He turned and looked at her, pointed at the ceiling -- the universal sign that the cockpit voice recorder was on -- and he began calling out the pre-start checklist. It was all business now, and thirty minutes later the Trip-7 was pushing back from the gate.

"American 48 heavy, clear to taxi," the tower said, "on K to 1-7 Right, DALLAS FOUR departure approved. Winds out of the south now, 1-6-6 degrees at four knots, ceiling 2500, visibility five miles, altimeter two niner niner one."

He watched as the push-back cart disengaged, then reached up and turned on the wipers as Beecham began starting two. The ground chief standing in the rain below got on the intercom: "Okay, double checks on baggage holds complete, all doors show red-locked. You're ready to go, Captain."

"Thanks, Chief," Acheson said, and when the man was clear he advanced the throttles and cleared the brakes, then began the short taxi out to the runway.

"Pre-takeoff checklist complete," Beecham said as he slowed at EK, then a powerful gust shook the aircraft. "That's out of the north," he said, then he called the tower. "Uh, 48 Heavy, can you advise wind speed and direction, please."

"Uh, 48 Heavy, winds now out of the north at 2-5 knots. Standby one."

"48, standing by."

"Uh, 48 Heavy, take off runway 3-5 Left, BLECO SEVEN departure now active, winds now 0-1-0 degrees at 2-7 knots, altimeter two niner niner four."

"3-5 Left and BLECO SEVEN, 48 Heavy."

"Look at those clouds," Beecham said, and looked left, to the north. The clouds were almost black, and he thought he could see a wall cloud off to the left.

"Uh, 4-8 Heavy, you got anything on doppler to the north northwest?"

"4-8, heavy precip, no hooks."

"I think I see a wall cloud from up here. Might keep an eye out."

"Uh, tower, Delta 224, we just went through and it's a screamer, picked up some hail and a lot of chop."

Acheson listened as the tower advised all aircraft in the pattern of the storm, and they taxied south for the new runway; he re-entered the new departure information on his FMC, or flight management computer, and he watched as his display changed, as new waypoints and steering commands appeared on his display. An American Eagle RJ pulled onto the runway and roared by, then he stopped at the holding area and double checked power settings and climb angles entered in the computer.

"4-8 Heavy, taxi to position and hold."

"Heavy." He released the brakes, turned onto the runway and lined up on the centerline, applied the brakes and waited. He peered into the sky a little off to the left. "I don't like this," he sighed.

"What?"

"That cloud." He keyed the mic again: "4-8 Heavy, any update on this storm?"

"Still heavy rain, no hooks. Uh, Heavy, you are clear for take off."

"4-8 rolling," he said as he advanced the throttles. He scanned the engines then began looking at the storm...

"80 knots," Beecham called out, then V-one...and...rotate..."

He pulled back on the stick...

"Tower to all aircraft...tornado on the ground one mile north of 3-6 Right, repeat, tornado on the ground. The pattern is closed, the airport is closed!"

He looked to the left and saw the rope twisting in the sky and turned right. "Go to full take off power. Positive rate..."

"Gear coming up. Where is it?"

"Right fucking there," he said -- as the skies opened up. They flew into an impossibly thick hail storm, then the right wing dipped, and dipped. He didn't fight it, turned right with the gust. "Uh, tower, 4-8, heavy hail, we're turning right to 0-2-0 degrees."

"0-2-0 approved, contact departure on 1-2-5-decimal-1-2. Good day."

"48, bye." He switched frequencies. "American 4-8 Heavy, out of 3-5 Left for BLECO, we're deviating around this funnel cloud, on 0-2-0 right now. What's it look like out there?"

"4-8 Heavy, resume 0-0-4 degrees as soon as possible, direct to YUNGG at 7000 approved. Storm is now at your eight o'clock, four miles. Do you have any damage?"

"Nothing showing right now."

"Okay, 4-8, only traffic now a Delta MD80 at your ten, eight miles, he'll be turning ahead of you, about two thousand over."

"4-8, got it. Where are the tops right now?"

"Solid to flight level 2-4-0."

"4-8, okay." He shook his head, scanned the engines again -- looking for any sign hail ingestion had damaged a fan blade, but everything looks good. "Let's clean the wing," he said as he turned to the originally programmed course.

"Flaps and slats up."

"Well, that was fun," he said.

"You mind if I go change my underwear now?"

He laughed, turned on the intercom: "Uh, ladies and gentlemen, for those of you on the left side of the aircraft, yes, that was a tornado. Sorry, that thing came out of nowhere and we had to make a few abrupt turns, but we're on time and it looks like we'll be in Gay Par-ee a little after midnight local time. No more bad weather on the radar, so as soon as we reach our cruising altitude the crew will be around to serve lunch. We'll keep the seatbelt signs lit until we're out of this cloud, so sit tight and enjoy the ride." He flipped off the intercom, but the chief flight attendant called as soon as he did.

"Uh, Captain, it's like floor to ceiling barf back here. Carpets, walls, you name it."

"Was it that bad?"

"You have no idea. Half the overhead bins popped, one woman didn't have her seatbelt latched properly."

"Is she hurt?"

"Don't think so, maybe a few bruises."

"Okay. Keep me posted." He looked at the FMC and watched it make the turn at YUNGG.

"4-8 Heavy, clear to flight level 2-7-0, contact Oklahoma Center 1-2-4-decimal-1 and good day."

"4-8, bye." He turned to Beecham as he changed COMMs. "Go back and take a look around. See if this bird needs a look see in Tulsa. Check on the folks, wave the flag."

"Right." She got up to leave and he put his mask on, and after she left he sealed the door again. Such a visit was now very unusual, but he felt it warranted under the circumstances. She chimed a few minutes later, and he picked up the intercom.

"Nothing bad," she said, "but I think the ground crew at CDG ought to be warned. Maybe a few seats need to changed out, that kind of thing."

"The injured woman?"

"There's a doc onboard. He says it's no biggie."

"Okay. Codeword?"

"Pink-two."

"Opening now." He unsealed the door and Beecham came in, double locked the door then sat down. She handed him a sandwich and a Coke, then buckled up.

"What is it today?"

"They had pink sludge, and green. This is the pink."

"Okay. But what is it?"

"Supposed to be roast beef on rye."

"It's oozing. I've never seen roast beef ooze before."

She unwrapped her's and took a tentative sniff.

"Goddamn, I can smell it from here," he said, and they both tossed them in the trash.

"I brought a couple of granola bars," she added.

"I think I'll wait. There might be some good food left in Paris."

"Not a three in the morning."

"Good point," he said as he took the offered granola bar from her. 'Well,' he thought, 'is she one of them? Is she going to try to kill me here? Now? Can I not trust any woman, ever again?' He sighed, tore open the mylar wrapping and started in on it. 'Can't live that way. Not sure I'd want to live that way...' then, for some reason, he thought of a play he'd had to read back in high school. A Greek comedy, wasn't it? About women in the Peloponnesian War? Who joined together, stopped having sex so men would stop making war? What the hell was the name of that?

"Lysistrata!" he shouted.

"What?"

"Oh, I was just thinking," he said, but he saw the look she gave him just then. A little sidelong glance, a look full of suspicion. Then he settled in for the flight, centered his thinking and time passed.

"Do you think they're serving real food in First today?" he said a while later.

"You hungry?"

"I am. Skipped breakfast, can't even remember what we did for dinner."

"So, you're not married?" she said, ignoring his earlier warning about the CVR.

He sighed. "Not technically, but I might as well be. Genie. She's in med school at Southwestern."

Beecham laughed. "That's too much."

"Oh?"

"My husband was in med school; he started his internship and filed for divorce the same day. I paid the bills while he was having an affair -- with a goddamn nurse, too!"