Aurora Blood Moon Tribute Pt 06

This is a work of fiction. All characters are 18 years or older

A low, gunmetal overcast shrouded the sky, weeping flurries of rain, an unrelenting deluge lashing the apron. A passing squall pounded the slumbering jet, as a limo surfaced out of the mist and drew up by the nose. Uniformed ground staff under blue and white umbrellas hurried to the doors. Lord Gideon Woodrow-Munt- billionaire, psychopath, genius and adventurer, fighter pilot, researcher and drug entrepreneur, mounted the air-stairs, under cover provided by fawning flunkies. Aki Ogi, aka Sook, his Japanese PA, followed closely behind, a leather-bound briefcase clutched in her arms. Ducking through the door into the Global 8000's spacious interior, Munt raked his fingers through a mop of blonde hair- once voted worst rug in Britain, before Munt bought the newspaper and disbanded the company.

A tall, handsome, young man stood waiting inside, dressed in a crisp white shirt and navy-blue slacks, tie, wings and epaulettes- the archetypal corporate pilot. "Your Lordship," he beamed, extending his hand.

Even as Munt was tensing to move, the diminutive young Asian nudged him in the ribs, discreetly but firmly staving-off reciprocation. Munt wiped an eyebrow instead and stood, rubbing fingers and thumb, peering at his digits as if inspecting some speck of invisible dross.

"His Lordship does not like to be touched." Aki said haughtily, "I thought you'd been briefed."

"Of course," the First Officer bowed, "my apologies." Stepping back, he gestured at the biz jet's lavish interior. "On behalf of Mister Zhao, I bid you welcome."

Aki raised a hand. "Excuse me," she said, "aren't you meant to be wearing a mask?"

"Sorry," the pilot said, digging in his pocket for a surgical mask, "sorry."

"And the mountain air we ordered," Aki went on, "is that on board?"

"Five cylinders." the pilot said, hastily rigging his face cover.

"Himalayan?"

The pilot dipped his head. "Of course."

"Release it into the cabin when we reach cruise." Aki instructed. "Oh, and the flight attendant is only to talk to me. She is not to address his Lordship directly, is that clear?"

Standing beside the pilot, already masked up, the smartly-uniformed stewardess, a sister Asian, bowed her head. Today's walk-on ballast was perhaps the richest man in the world, certainly in the top 10, though in truth nobody actually knew. Like many of the ultra-wealthy he remained a living enigma, a ghost, a literally supernatural-being who lived beyond the pale, outside the sphere of normal human affairs. Face invisible but for her eyes, the stewardess pictured Munt on the toilet, pants around his ankles on the piss-stained floor. She imagined him straining through a big, stubborn bowel movement, heard the sounds and conjured the smell. She visualised the shit stains in his five thousand-dollar boxers.

Having delivered the regulation greeting, the First Officer ducked into the cockpit, shut the door, then slung himself into the co-pilot's seat. "What a fuckin' tosser." he fumed. "You do it next time."

The captain, a Brit, with a shiny, shaved noggin, shot him a grin. "Sorry, Pal. Meet and greet. That's the co-pilot's gig."

"What a fuckhead." the FO growled, peeling off his mask. "And Himalayan air? What's that all about?"

"Haven't you heard?" the captain said, reaching up to start the APU. "The plonker climbed Everest. About two hundred years ago. He's still dining out on it."

"We ready for a start then? Let's get this shit-show on the road. The sooner we get going the sooner we get rid of these idiots."

"Just waiting for start clearance." the captain replied.

"Why do we do this again?" the First Officer frowned, adjusting his harness. The pilots looked at each other, beaming, and in one voice chorused, "Because it beats working for a living."

Back in the cab, the flight attendant showed the VIPs to their seats- deeply padded armchairs on either side of the generous fuselage. If Bragg's GulfStream 650 was an aviation masterpiece, the Global 8000- a billionaire Chinese crime-lord's personal mount- crossed the line into wanton extravagance. The decor inside was heavy with golds and reds, real gold of course, along with ivory fittings, that could be quickly spirited away, should the aircraft land in a country that had problems with the elephant going extinct. The ceiling writhed with dragons and phoenix, eagles, tigers and wolves- a veritable mythic menagerie. The seats were chamois leather, just the ticket for those in-flight shenanigans that might generate body fluids. The owner's personal throne, out of bounds, was upholstered in leopard skin.

While her guests made themselves comfortable, the flight attendant erected a cantilever mahogany table, then hurried back with a large dark bottle. "With Mister Zhang's compliments." she said, turning her head, lest her foetid breath befoul the air.

Watson-Woodrow-Munt crooked his finger and whispered in his sidekick's ear.

Aki looked at the flight attendant. "What is it?"

"Chivas, Madam. The sixty two gun salute."

Munt looked away, sneering. "Mouthwash."

Bending, the flight attendant fetched an ice bucket from the bar fridge, and two crystal tumblers.

"The ice." Aki demanded, "What's its provenance?"

'Well you should know.' the stewardess thought, 'You ordered it.' "Hofsjokull glacier, Madam. Iceland."

"Very good." Aki said with a wave of dismissal, "Now leave us alone." She watched the stewardess make a dignified retreat, admiring the sway of her hips, the swell of her butt, the tell-tale hint of a thong under her skirt. Yes, indeed, she thought, grooving in her role- bottom bitch to a billionaire sociopath- that stuck-up Chinese galley-rat would make for mighty fine eating.

The moment she was out of earshot, Watson slumped back in his seat. "Jesus Christ!" he breathed, briefly breaking character, "This is killing me."

Sook turned towards him, finger to her lips. Their rooms at the hotel had been bugged and there was no reason to think the plane would be different. Delving into her shoulder bag, she withdrew a 3D-printed tampon applicator- Kevin's creation, Maya's idea. The undercover bug detector cased the local electromagnetic field, before flashing the all clear with a blue LED. She squeezed Watson's arm.

"You're doing fine, Damon, believe me. For god's sake don't stress."

"Don't stress?" he piped. "Here I am, pretending to be someone I'm not, treating people in a way I'd never dream of."

"I know." Sook said, arching her eyebrows. "How cool is that? Being a total asshole with none of the karma."

"It's not cool, Sook, not for me. I'm telling you this is just crazy."

Sook the Korean housekeeper, aka Aki the Japanese ninja patted his arm. "Relax. The worse our behaviour the more they'll leave us alone. Trust me, I know. Some of the people I've had to put up with. You're a billionaire, remember, you can get away with anything. Treat these people like shit and they'll simply accept it."

"But I'm not a billionaire." Watson sulked. "I'm a busted-ass yachtie. And wannabe writer."

"Well they don't know that." Sook said, a little frustrated. "And if you just play the part they never will."

"Easy for you to say."

"Look!" Sook said, "Can I tell you something?"

Watson nodded.

"Becky told me a story one night." Pillow talk, Sook omitted to say, after an evening's rampant sex. "About a boat. And a boy. Who put a knife to her throat, while you were out for the evening. With his dad, I believe?"

Watson nodded. "That's right."

"And just when that boy was about to rape her, Beck said, you turned up and broke his leg, then headed out to sea in your yacht." She looked at him. "Is that true?"

Watson cleared his throat. " 'Fraid so."

"Of course it is," Sook nodded, "why would she lie? Then the boy's silly father came after you, didn't he? And he had a gun. And you faced him down, with a fish-gun thingy and a bottle of boat fuel."

Watson nodded again. The details might have been sketchy but it was otherwise the unvarnished truth.

"Were you afraid?"

Watson nodded. "Of course I was. I was shitting myself."

"Of course you were," Sook concurred, "fear is a vital survival tool. I learned that on the job, as a street kid in the Guryong, hawking my wares to American soldiers. Before the Braggs picked me up and paid me to play the part of their daughter, all to seal a property deal with a billionaire pastor. It was just business at first, I could have been anyone, but they gave me an education and a safe place to live. Business or not, I thought it was an awesome arrangement. There I was, a mangy little orphan, used to sleeping in a cardboard box and foraging in dumpsters, suddenly living in a beautiful apartment... new clothes and all the food I could eat, safe at night and going to school, just as long as I did my job."

Sook took a sip of her Scotch and winced at the fire in her belly. Then she cleared her throat and carried on.

"It always scared the shit out of me, Damon. Mixing with billionaires and presidents and politicians and what-not. I was so afraid of putting a foot wrong, of blowing the cover, and winding up back on the street. But I never let them down, not even once... I always showed a brave face, I always stood my ground. And in the end they took me to Switzerland, as far from the Guryong as I could be." Sook patted the fabric of her black waistcoat over her heart. "But she's still in there, that frightened little street kid, still pretending she's someone she never was. And if I can do it, Damon, so can you."

Arms crossed, Watson sat back, ever so slightly humiliated. She was right. Fortune favoured the bold. And the brazen.

Having let herself into the cockpit, the flight attendant closed the door and fell back against it as the pilots looked around. "'Sup, Lily?" the First Officer beamed. "You look like someone just pissed on your shoes."

The young woman palmed her forehead. "Ai ya mai ya!" she cried, "Naxie sa bi, shu shei?"

"What's that, Lily?" the captain beamed, "You feel greatly honoured to have welcomed our guests?"

"Sa bi!" the young woman spat, leaning between the pilots' seats. "They are faaaar-king idiot!"

The FO looked over his shoulder, straight down her shirt at her pert little tits. "Careful, Lily, he's a geneticist. He'll turn you into a newt."

"Shenme?" Lily frowned.

"He's that foetus guy," the captain drawled, "remember the one? Got run out of Brazil for harvesting babies."

"What for?" Lily frowned.

"Their stem cells."

"Their what?"

"Stem cells." the FO pronounced with great authority. "They're like master cells that all the other cells are made of."

"Why he do that?" Lily frowned, lowering the jump seat.

"There's something in the stem-cells that stops you getting old." the FO shrugged. "I guess he wants to live forever."

"Who doesn't?" the captain said under his breath.

"If that's what it takes?" the FO cocked an eyebrow. "I might just pass."

The captain, sitting with an earphone over one ear, raised a hand. "Hang on guys... Clearance Delivery, go ahead."

The First Officer restored his own headset in time to hear Air Traffic control announce, "Dynasty triple-eight. Start clearance cancelled, remain where you are."

The pilots looked at each other, plainly startled. They were on a tight timeline. Any delay might be disastrous for their guest and lead to all sorts of collateral damage. Like summary unemployment. "Dynasty triple-eight." the captain replied. "That's a negative. Unable to hold, request immediate start clearance."

"Negative, Dynasty, hold."

"We're on an international flight plan." the captain said tersely. "With a narrow overflight window. We can't delay."

They heard the Air Traffic Controller heave an exasperated breath. "That's not our problem. Your start clearance has been cancelled, hold position."

"Who says?"

"Border Force. Hold position."

The pilots looked at each other, exchanging shrugs.

"Dynasty eight, eighty eight. Copy?"

The captain cleared his throat, "Dynasty eight, eighty eight, we copy. And I can tell you now, the boss ain't gonna be happy."

Watson sat studying the cuffs of his ten thousand-dollar shirt. And the sapphire cufflinks. The suit, commissioned by Bragg, fabricated by his favourite tailor using a team of craftsmen and women working day and night, ran out to 47-thousand British pounds. To be fair, the fit was perfect and the textiles sublime, but no better than a salt-crusted pair of torn board-shorts, on the deck of his yacht, anchored off the coral on the Great Barrier Reef. He flexed his feet in the 30-thousand dollar Testoni shoes, the whole thing so ludicrous it brought a smile to his face. Ludicrous maybe, but his alter ego, the Lord Gideon Woodrow-Munt, wouldn't be seen dead in anything less.

For a while the old man sat watching the deluge outside, rivulets zig-zagging down the Plexiglass window to the hiss of the APU. He looked at his watch, a Patek Philippe worth literally millions, Roger's personal timepiece from back in the day, when such things mattered. Watson had always hated watches, and this was no exception, heavy and bulky, a temporal millstone wrought in precious metal. It was half past already. They should have been airborne twenty minutes ago. He was a billionaire, strict punctuality was his due. He heard footsteps.

Sook intoned, "Oh ohhh." then raised a hand as the willowy flight attendant came to a stop in front of them, looking at Watson over her mask. "Hey!" Sook scowled, "How many times must I tell you? You are not to address his Lordship directly. Now what do you want?"

The flight attendant turned away, facing neither the Lord nor his glaring gopher, a body-language slur where she came from. "Forgive me, Madam. There has been a delay."

"What sort of delay?"

"Air Traffic Control. They stop our clearance."

"Is that so?" Sook snarled, wriggling out of her seat. "Well we'll soon see about that!"

"Aki!" Watson barked. "Sit down! Here. Let me call the Home Secretary. But before I do, ask this woman, why has Air Traffic control seen fit to cancel our clearance."

Lily opened her mouth to reply and Sook cut her off. "His Lordship is desirous to know, why Air Traffic Control has made this mistake?"

Lily replied with the briefest of answers. "Border Force."

"Border force?" Sook demanded. "What do they want?"

"Forgive me Madam, that's all I know."

Watson-Munt waved her away. "Tell her to tell the pilots. If we miss our window they're out of a job. Her too. Go on, tell her."

Sook relayed the threat and the hostess withdrew, empty-eyed yet seething with humiliation and anger. They watched her go, then Watson looked at Sook. "Border Force? Well that's us fucked."

"Steady as she goes, Captain. Isn't that what you say?"

"I'm serious. This passport isn't worth the paper it's written on. That flunky who checked us in didn't even scan it."

"Of course she didn't. You're a goddam billionaire."

"Well not for much longer." Watson-Munt said, his feet turning cold enough for frostbite.

"You had a flare gun, didn't you?" Sook asked conversationally. "That's what Becky said. And you were about to light him up."

As if to say, 'You ain't going anywhere.' flashing reds and blues emerged out of the gloom, and a police car slewed to a showy stop under the nose. A second vehicle drew up in a mist of groundwater. The lights went off and doors flew open. Knuckles rapped the fuselage and Lily the flight attendant, lowered the airstairs.

The plane shook as footsteps pounded up the steps. "Well," Watson breathed, "here we go. Nice knowing you Sook."

"Relax." Sook chided. "And look on the bright side. We might wind up sharing a cell."

Lily stepped aside with a bow and Watson found himself face to face with a slightly damp, visibly angry, overweight official. 2 more figures followed him in, Transport Police, with CQB carbines slung across their chests, their bulky utility vests stuffed with everything but the kitchen sink.

The fat official took a few steps down the aisle. "You!" he snarled, pointing at Watson.

Sook was on her feet in the blink of an eye. "You do NOT address his Lordship like tha-"

"Aki!" Watson barked and motioned Sook back to her seat. He crossed his legs, then brushed some unseen speck of dander from his shoulder.

The interloper ran a shaking hand across his threadbare pate, heavy breathing with barely contained rage. "You! Do you remember me?"

Any second now, Watson thought, this fat idiot's heart would throw in the towel, then both he and Sook both could look forward to a long sojourn at His Majesty's pleasure. Immigration fraud... impersonating someone rich and important. "It's probably better for you if I don't." he said calmly.

"Well let me jog your Lordship's memory. Eric Worthington, Compliance Manager, Border Force. I fixed your little problem, remember, that time you tried to sneak back? From Russia? Remember?"

"Well, if you're suggesting you used your position to do me a favour. An extra-legal favour. Then you're doing so in front of these officers. Really, old boy. If I were you I'd keep my mouth shut."

"Oh very clever," Worthington sneered, "turn it around onto me. But it was all please and thankyou before, when I got you back into the country."

"So now you want me to pay?" Watson demanded, "Aki? Give this gentleman ten thousand dollars. Declare it a gift and let's be on our way."

"I don't want your filthy money!" Worthington railed, as Sook delved into her shoulder bag.

"Then what do you want old boy? We're on a very tight timeline."

"We had a deal, remember?"

Watson turned his head to look out the window, riffing on the fly. "Listen, Mister..."

The official grit his teeth. "Worthington."

"Mister Worthington. I don't do deals. I ask and I get, it's as simple as that. Now, state your business and get out of my sight."

"You can do what you promised to do... old... boy. Give us the treatment."

Watson's heart stalled. Treatment? What treatment. "Are you an idiot? You honestly believe I carry the stuff round with me?"

The cockpit door opened and the copilot weighed in. "Gentlemen." he said, looking the heavily-armed Transport Police up and down. "If we don't get underway soon we'll have to replan. And we'll have to reapply for new overflight permits."

Watson waved him away. "Go back to your seat. Our visitors are about to leave."

The pilot dipped his head. "Your Lordship."

Worthington brandished a badge. UK government. Border Force. "You're not going anywhere, your Lordship." he sneered. "Not till I say so."

"I do believe you're mistaken." Watson said, studying his nails.

The official snapped his fingers. "Passports!"

"Passports?" Sook glared and got to her feet, as the 2 hulking police unlimbered their weapons. "According to law, we're already out of the country. This is a hijack!"

Watson saw the cops exchange a furtive glance. In a flash of lucidity, the old man realised they'd been dragged along merely for show, for window dressing, without the comfortable, solid ground of authority under their feet. He cleared his throat. "Officers." he said helpfully, "I wouldn't do that if I were you. This is a Chinese registered vessel, you're actually on foreign soil."

"Where's that fucking treatment you promised?" Worthington keened, tears in his eyes. "We hocked everything to be on that trial, even mortgaged our house. And six months in when she was so close to cured you pulled the rug out from under our feet. Now I'm watching my wife go downhill day by day. While you sit on that cure, delaying just to make some more money. People are dying, you heartless old bastard!"

"How DARE you!" Sook exclaimed in mock indignation, back on script, no longer fearful of rotting jail. "No one talks to his Lordship that way."