Driver Pt 03

3. An Offer Too Good to Refuse

This is a work of fiction. All characters depicted are over the age of 18.

Next day was pretty much a repeat of the last. Wake up, swim, turn on the phone to find a backlog of voice-messages, none of them welcome. Cold-callers, scammers, someone from the media, and Wayne Garcia, Head Of Flying. 'Travis, it's Wayne. We need you here asap and require you to wear your uniform. Please message when you get this with an ETA. And don't forget, company uniform."

Well that was that... no way known he would be turning up in fancy dress just to get fired. For a moment he considered going straight in as he was, dressed in cargo shorts with a tear in the seat and his favourite 'Tame Impala' T-shirt, a ratty old ball cap and busted-ass Tevas. But, no, he thought, why sully his favourite apparel with a trip to garbage disposal?

Freshly showered, dressed in civvies, Mack pulled over a few miles short and shot Garcia a one-line message, 'inbound 10min'. Almost immediately his phone pinged and he scanned Garcia's reply. 'YOU WERE MEANT TO GIVE ME SOME WARNING!!!', all caps, from a patently expectant chief pilot. Mack grinned to himself, imagining Garcia's blood pressure peaking, his eyes turning red while cartoon steam blew out his ears.

It was nothing deliberate, but he just seemed to have that effect. On management, especially. On the flight line one day he met a new company pilot, another ex-Marine, fresh from the obstacle-course of on-boarding. "So you're the famous Travis Mack." the new guy smiled as they shook hands. "You know, for a while there I thought your first name was 'Fucking', cos' I overheard Garcia referring to you as 'Fucking Travis Mack."

Fucking Travis Mack. Always butting heads with management and never toeing the line. Forever making his own decisions and doing things his own way. Accepting any and every task cheerfully, if not gleefully, always helping the client and getting the job done. Worst of all making it look so easy, from night deck landings to instrument approach procedures, alienating those colleagues who believed themselves some sort of aviation elite.

Fucking Travis Mack. An appellation he wore with pride.

Groundhog Day. Tammy looked up as Mack walked in and sat blinking like a bunny caught in the headlights. In his denim jeans and dark blue polo shirt, emblazoned with 'Guadalupe Great White Shark Expedition', the disgraced pilot looked like he'd just turned up for a company cookout. "Hey, Tam," he smiled, "Wassup?"

Tammy put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, Travis. Didn't they tell you? You were meant to be in uniform."

"Still at the cleaners, I'm afraid. Tell me," he gestured with his chin at the boardroom door, "you didn't see a bunch of dudes walk in with rifles, did you?"

"They're in Wayne's office." Tammy replied.

"The dudes with the rifles?"

"Wayne. And Jason. And-"

A hand landed on Mack's shoulder and he turned to find Jason Baker had snuck up behind him. "Travis," Baker said amiably and Mack's alarm bells began to ring, "thanks for coming in. Tell me. Did you happen to get the message about wearing your uniform?"

"In one ear and out the other I'm afraid." Mack smiled lamely. "Besides, if it's just gonna get riddled with bullet holes."

"Riddled with what now?" Baker frowned.

"Just a little joke."

"Jesus." Baker breathed, chewing a thumbnail. "Don't suppose you keep a clean set in your locker?"

Well yes, he did, but Mack shook his head.

Baker ran a hand across his thinning pate. "Well, there's nothing we can do about that now." He looked at the rattled receptionist. "No calls please Tamara."

Tammy shook her head. "No, Sir."

"Travis," Baker said, "if you'd be so kind."

Baker rapped on the Chief Pilot's door and a voice said, 'Come.' Opening the door, he ushered Mack in before stepping through closing it behind them. Mack's eyes lit first on Garcia, seated at his big, cluttered desk, then on a hulking great figure standing behind him. 'Muscle', Mack fleetingly thought, in case he didn't go quietly. One glimpse at Mack's attire and a look of horror crossed Garcia's face. Quickly stifling his dismay, Garcia treated the errant pilot to a big, friendly grin. "Trav, thanks for coming in at such short notice."

Mack was tempted to look around for hidden cameras. Between the beaming chief pilot and the deferential Baker, and the time-expired goon standing behind them, this had to be an episode of Candid Camera, surely.

"Is this our man?" the towering onlooker rumbled.

Standing awkwardly next to the desk like a schoolboy sent to the principal, Baker opened his mouth to reply, but before he could do so the stranger uncrossed his arms. "If you'll permit me." he said stepping around Baker. Casually dressed in brand-new designer jeans with a belt buckle the size of a Hummer's hubcap, he wore a checked shirt that cast an oddly pricy sheen, and hand-made cowboy boots, lavishly tooled with silver toes. Offshore type, Mack figured, those Cashed Up Roughnecks were paid far too much. An older guy, late fifties, he stood a couple of inches taller than Mack, well-built and obviously fit. "Do you know who I am, son?"

Well yes, kind of, but for the life of him Mack couldn't pin it down. "Umm..." he said, and saw Baker in the background palm his forehead, "the face is familiar."

"I'm the very last guy you pulled off the rig the other night."

Mack arched his eyebrows. Even as the stranger spoke, Mack wondered if he might be able to leverage the rescue for some sort of favour. Like getting management off his back.

"I'd shake your hand," the survivor said in a deep baritone, raising a bandaged right hand, "but she's pretty blistered up and the doc said not to."

"Well..." Mack smiled, a little embarrassed. Out of countless casualties he'd retrieved as a chopper pilot in the Marines, not one had ever come back to say thanks. Nor had he ever expected them to. He was a medevac pilot. It was his job. "It's good to see you up and about."

"Mister Carter insisted on thanking you himself." Garcia said a tad desperately and Mack's knees almost buckled. That nagging sense of familiarity suddenly gave way to full-blown recognition. This was Harrison Carter. THE Harrison Carter. Multi, multi, multi-billionaire. Draconian owner of the oil- and gas-drilling empire, Cherry Directional. THIS... was The Client.

"Well..." Mack blushed, "I... ah..."

Carter lay a gauze-swaddled hand on his shoulder. "Forty years in the business," he said, eyes turning misty with tears, "and I've never seen anything like it. Lost a lot of good people last night, Captain Mack. If it hadn't been for you we would have lost a bunch more."

"Appreciate it." Mack said as an image leapt to mind, of a desperate rig worker, on fire, plummeting to his death. "I only wish we could have done more."

"Don't we all?" Carter intoned. "Oh, and I'm sorry to hear about your copilot."

"My copilot?"

"I hear he came down with smoke inhalation. Just spoke to him on the phone. He even offered to come in from sick-leave, he's that sort of guy. He tells me you all might be up for a medal."

"We might?" Mack blinked.

"Uh huh. And if you are I'll be backing it one hundred percent. You and the young lady, the paramedic. If they can find her."

"Find her?" Mack piped while Baker and Garcia commenced gesticulating behind Carter's back. That loud-mouthed Australian would have to be kept out of this. They'd hired her on a dodgy contract, charging the client for 2 personnel- Paramedic and Aircrew Officer- and paying the wages for 1. Not to mention the fact they'd just fired her ass. There was no love lost and if she were to go spilling the beans...

"I understand she was only part-time but the least they could do is remember her name. Aspen, I mean. She was Aspen, wasn't she?"

Mack rolled his shoulders, about to field a blatant lie. "Not sure, Sir. There was so much going on."

"I bet there was. Did you happen to catch her name?"

Unseen behind Carter, Baker and Garcia stood shaking their heads. "All she said was 'Just call me mate'." Mack replied, hating himself but equally determined, the second Carter left they were giving Wendy her job back. "I think she was Australian."

"No surprises there I guess." Carter frowned, running a bandaged hand over his greying buzz-cut. "Still, in any event, I owe her my life. I owe the three of you in fact."

Still rankled by his co-pilot's cowardice, Mac grit his teeth. "We were on SARbird, Sir. That was our job."

"You're a hero, son." Carter said gravely, "Don't waste your time talking it down."

Carter lapsed into a long, troubled silence, brow furrowed, eyes downcast. "Sir?" Mack finally asked, intruding on his troubled reverie. "Any idea what might have caused that fire?"

Carter looked up, his expression dark. "I do have my suspicions as a matter of fact. But the investigation's barely begun and it's gonna take months. Years maybe." Pausing, Carter looked over his shoulder at the two stunned mullets who had suddenly found their presence redundant. "Would you gentlemen mind?"

"Mind?" Garcia echoed wide-eyed.

"I'd like a word with Captain Mack. In private."

About to be ousted from his very own office, Garcia stood as slowly and awkwardly as he could. "Why no... yes... of course. Jason?"

Similarly stricken, Baker bumbled around, picking papers up, putting them down before they finally paired up to take their leave. "He's one of our most valued pilots." Baker smiled, offering a pre-emptive disclaimer to whatever Mack, left on his own, might say.

"We're all very proud of you." Garcia confirmed. "When I found out it was you flying the other night, I thought, well, at least the mission's in good hands."

They shuffled out, plainly apprehensive about losing control of the witness, and the door clunked shut behind them. Hand on Mack's shoulder, Carter guided him to a plush leather sofa. "Mind if I call you Travis?"

Mack shook his head. "Of course not."

"And you can just call me Harry." he said, taking a seat while Mack sat down beside him. Silence settled over the office, strained, brittle, Mack wondering desperately what to do. Tell the truth or gloss it all over, pretend he hadn't been stabbed in the back by his copilot then denounced by management and thrown to the wolves.

Shoulders hunched, Carter lay his forearms on his thighs, fidgeting with his bandages. The recent trauma had clearly taken a toll and he sat, apparently deliberating, staring at the handwoven carpet. He cleared his throat. "Marine, weren't you?"

Mack flinched then quickly reined in his surprise. "Yes sir, I was."

"Harry, just call me Harry. Look, hope you don't mind, but I had my people do a little digging. I understand it wasn't all plain-sailing."

"The Military?" Mack asked and Carter nodded. Mack compressed his lips. "No, Sir, it wasn't."

"Court martialled?"

Mack pulled back and gave him the eye. "That's correct, Sir. Twice."

"For transporting an enemy combatant, I understand? Against orders?"

"Well, sir," Mack said, a might wearily... wondering how many times would he have to tell this goddam story... "I guess you could say I was working on a small-scale map. One-to-one, if you will. HQ said she was an enemy combatant... they said everyone out there was an enemy combatant. But, up close and personal... she just looked like a poor little girl who'd had both her legs blown off."

"By the same IED that wounded those men in the patrol. The ones you were sent to pick up?"

"Sir... those troopers on the ground... the buddies of the wounded... they were the ones who brought that kid to my aircraft. THEY were the ones who begged me to take her. The other medevac bird had already refused."

"But you did disobey orders?"

Mack snorted with derision. "No, Mister Carter, I did not. I was ordered not to carry any enemy combatants. By some rear-echelon mother... some bird colonel sitting in his air-conditioned office, swilling coffee, pushing pieces around on a map. As a matter of aircraft safety or so the brief said. But an eleven-year-old girl, with both legs blown off... she wasn't an enemy combatant. She was just some poor little kid who was born in the wrong country, caught in the middle of a filthy grownup war. I didn't disobey orders, Sir. Not one little bit."

"What about the second time?" Carter rumbled.

Mack heaved a deep sigh. This was where things really got messy. "Long story, Mister Carter."

"No problem, we have plenty of time."

Mack clenched his fists. "I'm sorry Mister Carter, but why do you ask? If it's just out of interest, I can recommend some really good books. Written by operators with far more interesting stories than mine."

The multi-to-the-power-of-3 billionaire raised a hand. "Please, Travis, just indulge me. I know SARbird-1 turned back the other night, and I do not hold that against them. Not for one minute. And if you'd taken a look, and decided it was impossible, I wouldn't have held it against you. Not least of all cos' I'd be dead, and it's hard to piss and moan from beyond the grave. But let me tell you, not one of those folks on the crane deck that night, me included, thought you had a snowflake's chance in Hades. But down you came, and here we are. Look, can I tell you something?"

Mack shrugged. Like he had a choice? "Be my guest."

"Travis. I didn't make a fortune out of steel and tungsten, I made it out of flesh and blood. Out of people, who use their busy little hands and brilliant little minds to build and operate some of the most powerful machines the world has ever known. I don't work those machines. I don't have to. I work the men, THEY work the machines. And the older I get the more fascinated I become about what makes the human being tick."

"Well, Sir, I can tell you what makes this one tick. The insides of a two-dollar watch."

"With respect, Travis, and I mean that, I'll be the judge. The second court-martial? I've already heard the official version. The 'large scale' version as you called it. Now let me hear yours."

Mack fidgeted restively. "What can I say? We were deep in Indian country on the way to a task and my buddy took some groundfire. Took out both hydraulics, a one in a million chance. The A-10s were coming and I was told to stay up out of the way, but they still had fifteen minutes to run and those guys didn't have fifteen minutes. They didn't even have two, so I broke out of the hold and went in after them. Not that it did any good. The thing with the Bell, you see, it just can't be flown without hydraulics. It's just not negotiable. They ran out of boost one hundred feet off the deck, then she rolled inverted and in they went. We landed beside them but no one got out."

Carter reared back in surprise. "And they court-martialed you for that? For going to the aid of a downed aircraft?"

Mack shrugged. "That and delaying the push. And needlessly exposing my aircraft to hostile fire. You see, my own ship took a round through the main transmission. Nearly made it back but the gearbox failed and I had to put her down. Just outside the compound so we nearly made it home, but you know the old saying... choppers don't just crash, they beat themselves to death afterwards."

"And that was it?"

"Sir?"

"The substance of the charge? You went to another aircraft's aid, then crash-landed a damaged machine?"

Mack nodded. "In a nutshell, yes."

Carter was smart enough to know that Mack had much more to tell, and what he HAD revealed was the least of the story. But Mack had already told him what he really wanted to know. That he was a risk-taker, who had far too little faith in the powers-that-be and far too much faith in his own ability. "Can I ask you something, Travis?"

Mack cocked an eyebrow. "Sir?"

"Fer Crissakes, Travis, just call me Harry. Listen, between you and me. During those... exploits... for want of a better word. When you chose to disobey orders? Did you understand at the time that there'd be consequences?"

Mack sat back frowning, wondering if he could effectively bullshit this man. A wealthy industrialist who, by his own admission, had made a fortune through his ability to understand others. In the end, he figured, he'd just lay it on the line. "Honestly, Sir? Yes, I did. But I figured the consequences of NOT doing something were far more severe."

"You mean the consequences for others would be worse than the consequences for you?"

"Sir..." Mack said, a little impatiently. "I know my abilities and the aircraft's limitations. It was a gamble, I'll admit... it's true that kid might have been carrying explosives... though god knows where... and the baddies at the crash site might have had RPGs. And the other night... the crane could have come down or the rig gone up like a bomb. But cranes are strong and while rigs burn, they don't often explode."

"So you're a betting man? Is that what you're saying?"

Mack mulled the statement over. "No sir, I don't believe I am. It's just the way I perceive risk. Or don't perceive it as some might say."

"Risk? So tell me, the other night? Did you think you were taking a risk?"

Taking a risk, Mack thought, when his asshole was puckered so tight it was gripping the sheepskin seat cover. "Sir, my decision was based on the BALANCE of risks."

"For god's sake, Travis, just call-"

"Sir, if it's alright with you, I'll stick to what I know. Sir. Not because of what you are, but who you are."

"Who?"

Mack performed some quick mental gymnastics. "The customer." he smiled brightly.

"Can't argue with that." Carter said, then stood and walked to the windows overlooking the flightline. The airport had been busy all morning, unscheduled sorties taking emergency crews out to the field, scheduled flights to a multitude of offshore destinations. For the time being, however, there was a lull, with a solitary aircraft down below having a ground-run. Then Carter turned and out of nowhere said, "Can't lead, won't follow. Does that ring a bell?"

Mack sagged, winded by a taunt from long ago. "That was just an in-joke, Mister Carter. That's what they said about all the gun pilots."

"It was written in your Performance Evaluation."

Mack raised his hands. "Again, Sir, if you'll just put it in context. We... I... I may have misinterpreted orders once or twice-" Mack grit his teeth as Carter gave a snort of derision, "but I never broke the rules. I never busted the minimums or exceeded limitations. Or ate into my fuel reserves, or overloaded my aircraft. And I ALWAYS got the job done, at least where it was humanly possible."

Carter wandered around, thinking, then came to a stop. "May I be frank, Travis?"

'With your sort of money you can be whoever the fuck you want', Mack thought, 'Frank. Fred. Phineas fucking Fillibuster.' "Of course, Sir. Go right ahead."

"I don't believe you're cut out for offshore."

Mack shrugged, stung, but mildly flattered that they'd gone to so much trouble. That he was so badass they'd had to drag a multi multi-billionaire into the office, the injured client no less, to give him the chop. As much as he'd been expecting this outcome, Mack felt his spirits deflate as the debacle reminded him, yet again, that the road to hell was paved with good intentions. "I understand, Mister Carter."

A door opened and a good-looking young woman leant into the room. "Sir, Mister Carter. The president's on the line. He wants to talk to you."

Carter looked around, glaring. "What does that idiot want?"

"Err..." his PA hedged, "I mean the US president."

"I know who you mean, goddammit." he snapped while the PA weathered his ire without batting an eyelid. Heaving a sigh, Carter pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sorry, Sally, just give me a minute."

Idiot? The US president? Mack stood, looking stunned, while Carter regained his composure. "Look, sorry Travis, "I'll have to take this call. And listen to some more bullshit condolences."