Driver Pt 06

Driver Pt. 06 Lifestyles of the Rich and the Famous

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

For the next few weeks Mack had the feeling he was forging boldly onwards into the past, spending long, demanding days flying around the oil fields with Carter down the back, dressed in oil-worker's gear, accompanied by random suits and his ever-faithful PA. From time-to-time they shut down on a rig, Mack and Wendy haunting the mess hall while the pax got on with business. Easy money Mack told his Aussie sidekick. Money for old rope.

Airborne at first light one morning, they hopped over to Houston to meet up with Carter's Boeing 787. Strolling with Carter across the apron to the waiting chopper, Mack stiffened as his boss lay a hand on his shoulder. "How are you enjoying the job so far, son?"

"The job?" Mack replied, instantly wary. "Well, so far so good Mister Carter."

Carter gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Well, I have to say I'm mighty impressed. You two have given a one hundred percent response rate. And you've been pullin' the lion's share of the flying. Not working you too hard are we?"

"Too hard? Why, no Sir, it's all good. Wendy?"

"No complaints here."

Carter turned his head and called over his shoulder. "Sally!"

A few paces behind, almost running to keep up, satchel over one shoulder, a bundle of documents under one arm, Carter's PA looked none-the-less cool in her grey, pin-stripe pants-suit and pristine white shirt. "Mister Carter?"

"Slip these guys a bonus, would you. Fifty k."

"Each, Sir?"

"Of course each. What do you take me for?"

"Consider it done, Mister Carter."

Mack blinked and Wendy shot him the side-eye. 50 grand? For just turning up?

A flunky from the FBO saw them coming and slid the Agusta's rear door open. Carter, who never bid less than a million at the casino, whose only use for 100k chips was to hand out as tips, heaved a deep sigh. "Only wish it could be more."

Carter's guests- 2 Chinese businessmen, a German corporate lawyer and a sight-seeing Arab, climbed onboard. Next was Sally, followed by Carter. Completing his final walk-around, Mack saw nothing of his aircraft as he grappled with the concept, a fifty thousand dollar bonus, on top of his ridiculous pay, for the onerous task of swanning around in a 15-million dollar luxury aircraft. It just didn't sit right.

The day's schedule included a two-hour stop on one of Carter's rigs, seventy-odd miles south-west of Houston. After lunch in the cafeteria with the rig's other residents, Mack hit the helideck with Wendy to walk off his meal and enjoy the weather- bright sunshine and a cool sea breeze- and the grand vista of the of the Gulf surrounding them. Rounding the tail they saw Sally top the stairway in a high-viz vest and hard hat, her high-heels swapped for miniature ankle-length steel-caps, suit-pants tucked into the tops.

"Ssst!" Mack hissed, as Sally leant into the cab. "Sal!"

Sally looked around with a question mark on her pretty face. "Hey, Flyboy. And Fly-gal. Had your lunch?"

The pair nodded. "Sally," Mack said in a low voice, as if they might be overheard above the hum and clang and roar of the rig, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure, Trav. What's on your mind?"

"That Fifty k."

Sally raised a hand. "Already in your account. Don't worry, I did it on the way out."

"Yeah, awesome, but. What for?"

"'What for' what?"

"I mean, what have we done?"

Sally hefted a shoulder. "Your job, apparently."

"And that's worth a fifty-kay tip?"

"I told you," Sally smiled, "being good gets you stuff."

"But... just for doing my job?"

Sally inclined her head. "You don't want it?"

"Don't want it?" Mack exclaimed. "You gotta be kidding."

"Oh, don't listen to him." Wendy cut in. "Poor old Travis thinks we're still back in Kansas. Don't you, mate? Sally. Please tell Mister Carter we're both very grateful."

"Miss Stamp," Sally sighed, "he's too busy wheeling and dealing. Trust me, he's already forgotten about it."

"Forgotten about it?" Mack shook his head. "One hundred grand?"

Sally took out her phone and tapped up the calculator. "Trav," she said wearily, "guys. Do you know how much the company has made today?"

Mack and Wendy shook their heads.

"Well let me put it this way," Sally said, tapping away, "if you lined up every Travis and Wendy in the world... may god have mercy... one meter apart, and tipped each and every one fifty-k, the queue would have to be around 20 kilometers long to equal the day's profit. So don't worry, kids. Mister Carter's not gonna starve."

"Well," Mack frowned, "now you put it that way."

"Would it be rude to ask?" Wendy said, "Who are our guests? I mean, Mister Carter seems to be in very high spirits. Are they friends of his?"

Friends? Sally snorted with laughter at the very idea. "If it were anyone else asking." she said, then let it ride. "Those Chinese dudes just took ownership of the well."

"Well?" Mack echoed.

Sally pointed at the green and yellow deck. "Oil well, Travis, the thing you're standing on. Do keep up, there's a good boy. Mister Carter just lost it in a hand of poker."

"He lost an oil well?" Wendy said. "In a game of cards?"

"He lost three, actually. Those rigs we went to yesterday."

"Seems pretty up-beat for having lost his wells." Wendy observed. "I would'a been pissed."

"To the max." Mack concurred.

"You win some, you lose some." Sally said airily, slipping her phone into the satchel.

"And did he?" Mack asked. "Win some?"

Sally looked around in a quandary. She liked this pair. Out of all Carter's hired help, the tall, good-looking ex-Marine and his willowy blonde partner came with no airs or graces. No obsequious forelock-tugging nor fawning servility. Nor fear and trepidation for that matter, given the wealth of the passengers they regularly carried. Professional, dependable, always willing to go the extra mile. The sort, above all, who could hold their nerve in a storm. "Look. I shouldn't really tell you this, but Mister Carter just picked up Tierra del Fuego."

"Tierra..." Mack frowned.

Sally gave a nod. "Del Fuego."

Mack and Wendy traded frowns, Wendy silently mouthing, 'What-the-fuck?'

"Isn't that a country?" Mack asked.

"Well," Sally said, making ready to leave, "it belongs to one. Argentina. Or it did, till Mister Carter got hold of it."

Wendy held her hands out. "How does someone... 'get hold'... of a country?"

"No idea." Sally shrugged. "I'm not in real estate."

"But..." Mack pressed, "that place is full of people, right?"

"Not many. One fifty, one-sixty kay."

"Well," Mack floundered, "what do they have to say? About some a foreign billionaire 'getting hold' of their land?"

"They don't know." Sally replied. "Besides, who cares if they did? Trav. You gotta get it through your thick head. We're ALL owned in one way or another. All of us. Except the owners. Look, guys, it's been fun chatting, but I gotta hustle."

"But, Sal." Mack said, barring her path. "What does someone... anyone... even Mister Carter... want with a country?"

"What do you think?" Sally huffed a tad impatiently.

"But... but... it's someone's home."

"Look. Who do you think runs those joints? Right. Corrupt old men. Con-artists and lawyers and greasy politicians. The sort who'd sell their own grandmothers for the right price. Or, in this case, their own country. A billion dollars here, a billions dollars there, sling em' a few gorgeous young girls. Add a dash of corporate law and... voila... fine print buried so deep in the law of the land the average punter would never know. And even if they did... well... I can guarantee they wish they didn't."

"And you're cool with that?" Mack asked.

"I don't HAVE to be." Sally said testily. "What I think, what ANY of us think, is of utterly no concern. The world today is owned by the leviathans. End of story."

"Leviathans?" Mack blinked.

"Me and my big mouth." Sally said under her breath. "The trillionaires. Who own most of the planet."

"There are actually trillionaires?"

"Five or six, yes. One of them owns your country, Wendy. Along with much of the Pacific.

Wendy crossed her arms. "Bullshit."

"If you say so." Sally shrugged.

"Come on then, who is it?"

"Now that," Sally flatly replied, "I CANNOT tell you. The name wouldn't mean anything to you anyway. These are the leviathans we're talking about. They live in a different universe."

"But they're actual people?" Mack pressed. "Right? Not... like... a corporation or something?"

"Depends who you ask." Sally shrugged. "They actually view themselves as a species of god. Literally. And by all normal standards they are. There is nothing they can't own. There is nothing they can't do or have."

Wendy narrowed her eyes. "Except immortality. They're all gonna die. I've seen it."

Sally started with surprise, as if Wendy had touched a nerve. "They're working on that as we speak. Now, really guys, I gotta go."

Pushing between them, Sally set off across the helipad, shaking her head, mentally scolding them, and herself. Watching her go, they sat down side-by-side in the Agusta's open door.

"Leviathans." Mack said.

"Is she for real?"

"Is Sal a straight shooter?" Mack asked rhetorically, then gave a nod. "Straighter than Annie Oakley. With laser sights."

"What's it called again? The country?"

"Tierra del Fuego. Land of smoke. Off the southern tip of South America."

"What's he gonna do with it?"

Mack looked pointedly around at the 40-odd thousand tons of high-grade steel and brute-technology surrounding them. "Anything he likes."

***********************************************************************************

Sally asked them to meet her in Houston on their day off. "Umm..." Mack hedged, "I'll need a car."

"Just bring the chopper."

"The 139?"

"The Power. The 109. Wanna keep it a couple of days and go sight-seeing? I'll block it out."

"Sure." Mack said, tempted once again to pinch himself.

"Cool. Tomorrow at ten. Let me check with Liu Pei's people. Maybe you can use his pad. It's walking distance to the café."

They took the scenic route next morning, Wendy practising her straight-and-level, turns, climbs and descents, already adept at handling the machine. Then Mack took over for a low-level run along the beach, reliving his days as a gunship pilot. Around 0930, they sailed down on finals to a roof-top pad in downtown Houston, where they shut down, before taking a lift to ground level, pulling up to the sidewalk café at ten on the dot. In a scene straight out of Breakfast at Tiffany's, a stylish young woman, 100% Hepburn, five-foot nothing of pure-bred gamine, sat alone at a wrought-iron table, eyes invisible behind a pair of Manhattan shades. Extending a slim, smooth arm, she checked her smart-watch as Mack and Wendy drew up. "A-aaaaand... mark!" Sally beamed. "O-ten hundred on the knocker."

"It's just 'ten hundred', Sal." Mack said, about to sit. "You don't need an additional 'O'."

Sally stuck her bottom lip out, "Naww... what's the matter? Don't I even get a kiss?"

Waving off, Mack and Wendy rounded the table before launching into spirited tussle. Every time a pair of puckered lips came within an inch of the target, their owner was dragged bodily away, while Sally sat grinning like a child on Christmas morning. "Kids, kids..." she admonished, "there's no need to fight over me. But don't let that stop you. Here," she crooked a finger, "Trav, you take my right cheek, Wendy, you take the left."

Task complete, they took their seats as a waiter appeared, ready to take their order. Job done, as the girl hurried off, Sally showed Mack her phone. "I saw you did a beat-up."

"Following us on Flight-Trak, huh?" Mack sniffed, trying to brazen it out. Much of what they'd done was not strictly legal, or even vaguely for that matter, but it was a billionaire's aircraft and they were on a private flight. "Isn't that stalking?"

"Just a fan."

"There's a fine line between stalkers and fans." Wendy announced blithely, "A judge explained it to me."

Head down, helpless with laughter, Sally sat with her shoulders shaking while Mack, immune to his pal's humour, looked around. This was the very same cafe where Sally had first spruiked the job. "Well this is auspicious." Mack said. "This is where we first met, isn't it?"

"That's right." Sally nodded, wiping her eyes. "My favourite haunt. During those odd moments I can actually get away."

"So..." Mack said, "I guess the first one was the 'intro'. Is this the 'outro' then?"

"Outro?" Sally squinted behind her shades. She looked at Wendy. "What on Earth is he talking about?"

"Oh," Wendy said dryly, "don't' worry about him. It's just his guilty conscience."

Sally shook her head. "Sheesh! No, it's not an outro, Trav. I mean, you still have the use of your legs. No. I asked you here because want you to do me a favour."

Mack pointed at himself. "Me?"

"Both of you. Look, next week is Mister Carter's birthday. It's a big one. His 80th."

Mack and Wendy stared at her, slack-jawed. "Mister Carter?" Mack exclaimed. "Is EIGHTY?"

"Next week." Sally nodded.

"But..." Mack stammered, "his... he... by the looks of him his still in his fifties."

Sally took a sip of her brew. "Remember what you said, Wendy? No matter how rich they are they can't have immortality? Well you're right. They can't. Not quite. Not yet. But it won't be long, and in the meantime..."

While Mack sat shaking his head, Wendy took a breath. "You know, fine. I'm not even surprised. Not from some of the things I've seen."

"That's my girl. Trav?"

Mack thought back to some of the things HE'D seen. Young men, some in their teens, the flower of the country's youth, fit, smart, disciplined, in their absolute prime. Torn to shreds. Burnt, bullet-holed, blown-up, irreversibly disfigured. Broken weapons bound for the scrap heap, all in the name of some squalid political game, and all for the want of the few million dollars it cost to stay out.

"Trav?" Sally said. "Penny for your thoughts."

Mack shook his head. "Yeah... nahh... I guess it only makes sense."

"Of course." Sally nodded. "I mean, what would you do? What would any of us do if we had the means? And, of course, they have the means. For anything you can imagine. But, back to the subject. Next week. I see you guys have a few days off."

Exchanging a glance, Mack and Wendy gave a nod.

"Well, how would you feel about working instead? You can say 'no'... this is a personal request... but I was sort of hoping you'd step up as duty crew."

Wendy sagged almost imperceptibly. She'd arranged to meet some girl scouts, to work on her CPR badge. "Why us, may I ask?"

Ever sagacious, Sally picked up on the blonde's reluctance. "Cos' I know I can trust you. Why, Wendy? Have you got other plans?"

"Sorta' kinda', to tell the truth."

"If you can take a rain-check I'll put the catch-up on the company tab. Travis?"

Mack shifted uncomfortably. He'd been hoping to lay the matter of the French girl to rest, along with the French girl. And Anna, if she'd be in it. "To be honest, I had one or two matters pending."

"Same deal." Sally said. "Trust me, guys, I'll make it worth your while."

"Well..." Mack began as coffees arrived and Sally put a finger to her lips. She knew, only too well, paparazzi were hiding nearby, watching their every move, cameras poised behind the heavily tinted windows of un-marked SUVs. Journalists posing as waiters, hoping to pick up some scandalous snippet. "You know," Mack said, once the waiter had withdrawn, "if this was coming from anyone else."

"Then what?" Sally asked, propping her chin on a dainty little fist.

Mack shot her a disarming smile. "I'd smell a rat."

Sally shook her head. "No rats, honestly. But difficult passengers and lots of flying. Mister Carter's hosting a party on Lightwave Horizon. East of Corpus, far enough away that the media can't follow. The party itself should go for a week, though there's bound to be a few hangers-on. Of course, the whole family's involved and a number of V... V... VVIPs."

"V, V, VVIPs?" Wendy frowned. "There's such a thing?"

"Oh, yes." Sally nodded, "which is why I'm asking you guys. The previous lead-pilot spilled the beans on one of our guests. Just to friends... but they told their friends and they told theirs and then the media got hold of it. And all of a sudden there's an international incident. With Royalty involved. I need a crew who can be absolutely discreet-"

"Who hate the media." Mack said darkly.

"And don't gossip." Wendy added.

"Right." Sally nodded. "And who won't fly the airplane into the ground on the orders of some drunk, impatient VVIP."

"So," Mack frowned, counting off on his fingers, "you need a crew that's totally discreet, who hate the media, hate gossip, and-" he said as Wendy joined in, "don't wanna die."

Sally snapped her fingers. "Those are the guys, exactly!"

"And you wanna know if we can recommend someone?"

Sally smiled a bright, white smile, running her fingers through her short dark hair. This was shy she loved these guys. "So, what do you say? For your old Aunt Sally?"

"She means 'Arrnt'." Mack explained to Wendy.

Wendy looked at him, miffed. "Well why didn't she say so?"

"Right," Sally said, plainly mystified, "so, how about it?"

"Oh," Wendy said, throwing disappointment to the wind, "what's a couple of broken hearts between friends?"

Sally arched her eyebrows. "Yours?"

"Two little girl scouts."

"And an astrophysicist." Mack added, "And a housekeeper. Though for once they won't even know I just stood them up."

"I'm sure you'll make it up to them sooner or later." Sally sighed. "Does that mean you're in?"

"I guess." Mack nodded, then he and Wendy exchanged a fist bump.

"And just think," Wendy said brightly, "we finally get to see what a real-life V... V... V... V... VVV-VIP looks like."

***********************************************************************************

The first flight didn't go so well. On finals to the Lightwave, Mack spotted powerlines and when he tried to climb out, more and more of the chopper-killers leapt out of nowhere overhead. Then a mountainside reared up, dead ahead, too steep to out-climb. Impacting the ridge, nose-down, almost vertical, Mack kicked the aircraft around and set off down the slope on the skids, like some high-tech, out of control toboggan. Then Wendy ran into the cockpit, tore open a drawer, and rifled the contents to pull out a huge silver handgun. Mack ran after her across a dun, dusty square, where a body lay burning. Barron Shipley materialised, fighting Mack for the pistol, as the magazine fell out, scattering hundreds upon hundreds of rounds all over the ground. A caution light winked on, in yellow letters 2 feet high, blaring 'START', to the steady beeping of an audio warning.

Pushing upright, Mack silenced the alarm and sat for a moment smacking his lips. Zero-dark-thirty, 5 a.m., time to hit the pool for a kilometre or two before the day's festivities. Scuffing in flip-flops down the stairway to the terrace, towel around his neck, goggles in hand, he saw a lone figure at the poolside, testing the water.

Halfway to the edge, Stewie the cat sashayed over in an intercept. A dyed in the wool cat-hater, Mack looked around for lurking witnesses then scooped the feline into his arms and nuzzled its furry belly. What right, Mack wondered, did cats have to smell so good, and was that why they'd been nicknamed after womankind's sweetest treasures? Purring up a storm, Stewie licked Mack's temple with his rough, raspy tongue as Wendy got to her feet, flicking water from her fingertips. "Naww... look, Pest. Your old Uncle Travis is giving you a cuddle."