Open Skies

By Thomas Block

Jack Sawyer is an ex-airline pilot turned into a reluctant private investigator. Recommended by his estranged wife Susan, he finds himself looking into the death of an airline copilot: officially, the man's death was an accident but there are suspicions that could hint at something else. With his estranged wife and a growing caste of other friends and acquaintances in tow, Jack sets out to track down the real reasons behind the mystery and possible murder - a humorous, insightful and exciting adventure!



Media Reviewers have said:
•"A chilling climax...Open Skies is his best!"
•"Before we get to an unusual climax, there is action galore!"
•"Tense, smart and especially appealing..." Liverpool Daily Post
•"For the whodunnit fan looking for something different...good reading."
•"A super story, a chip off the old Block!"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Block
• Release date: May 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476447162

Thomas Block

Thomas Block has written a number of aviation-oriented novels, many which have gone on to acquire best-seller status in numerous countries. His novel writing began with the publication of "Mayday" in 1979. That novel was rewritten with novelist Nelson DeMille in 1998 and remains on DeMille's extensive backlist. "Mayday" became a CBS Movie of the Week in October, 2005. Several of the other novels by Block include "Orbit" (a top bestseller in Germany, among other nations), "Airship Nine", "Forced Landing" (also done as a radio serialization drama in Japan), "Skyfall", "Open Skies" and his latest novel, "Captain". Thomas Block is still writing both fiction and non-fiction, and his novels are available in ebook, print and audio editions. Block's magazine writing began in 1968 and over the next five decades his work has appeared in numerous publications. He worked 20 years at FLYING Magazine as Contributing Editor, and as Contributing Editor to Plane & Pilot Magazine for 11 years. Block became Editor-at-Large for Piper Flyer Magazine and Cessna Flyer Magazine in 2001. During his long career as an aviation writer he has written on a wide array of subjects that range from involvement with government officials to evaluation reports on most everything that flies. An airline pilot for US Airways for over 36 years before his retirement in April, 2000, Captain Thomas Block has been a pilot since 1959. Since 2002, he has lived on a ranch in Florida with his wife Sharon where they board, compete and train horses. Complete information is available at http://www.ThomasBlockNovels.com or through the author's additional website at http://www.FlyingB-Ranch.com. For Facebook users, complete information about Thomas Block Novels can also be found at two interlinked Facebook sites: http://www.Facebook.com/Captain.by.Thomas.Block http://www.Facebook.com/ThomasBlockNovels.

Book preview

Open Skies

Thomas Block

Copyright 2012 Thomas Block.

Smashwords Edition

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without written permission. A print edition of this novel is also available at most online retailers. The characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment and may not be either resold nor may copies be given to others. To share with others, please purchase additional copies at Smashwords.com. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

A print edition of this novel is also available at most online retailers.

Other Books by Thomas Block

(see the author’s website at http://www.ThomasBlockNovels.com for details)

Mayday

Orbit

Forced Landing

Airship Nine

Skyfall

Captain

Open Skies

Ridi, Pagliaccio, sul tuo amore infranto.

Ridi del duol che, t'awelena il cor.

(Laugh, clown, over your shattered love.

Laugh at the pain poisoning your heart.)

Canio, Act I - Pagliacci

Ruggero Leoncavallo

You may take the most gallant sailor, the most intrepid airman, or the most audacious soldier, put them at a table together - what do you get? The sum of their fears.

Winston Churchill

PROLOGUE

Captain Ned Lange was so furious that he could hardly focus on the array of lighted flight instruments in the airliner's panel, a flight panel that was no more than twenty-four inches directly in front of him. I've told you already – more than once, for that matter – that I want to begin the descent to ten thousand! Lange said in an emotion-filled voice. "I want to begin that descent right now!"

Sure, yeah, okay, First Officer Jay Bridges responded as he shifted himself slightly in the copilot's flight chair of the darkened airliner's cockpit. Trying to be helpful, that’s all, Bridges added, in a sarcastic tone. That's why I suggested we stay at cruise altitude. If you don’t want help from me, that’s fine. You’re the captain.

Get me a lower altitude, Captain Lange repeated, not knowing what else to say. It was unlike Lange to lose his temper with a copilot – a highly unusual event for him, something on a par with having his aircraft struck by lightning. Lange hunched forward in his flight chair and, other than an occasional glance toward the copilot, he continued to studiously avoid looking toward the young man who sat to his right.

Sure thing, boss, Bridges responded. He reached slowly for the microphone on his side of the cockpit to request the lower altitude from air traffic control.

I've got my reasons to start the descent, Lange said aloud, more to himself than to Bridges, as he nervously ran his fingers through his thinning grey hair. Stay cool, don't let this bastard keep getting to you. Lange knew that he was making a big deal out of what was ultimately an insignificant decision to begin taking the jet airliner down at that particular moment. He also knew that he really wanted to find some way to work comfortably with this copilot because he disliked – no, more to the point, he absolutely dreaded – any need for personal confrontation. Being non-confrontational was a personal trait that normally worked well for him but, at the moment, it was a trait that was getting poor results. I want to get below the clouds as early as we can. If we do, maybe we can get a visual approach, Lange said as he continued to try to justify, at least to himself, his mild outburst.

A visual approach? To Chicago? They never give visual approaches.

Maybe tonight they will, Lange answered, after taking another deep breath to control himself. Even though this particular copilot's reputation had long preceded him, Lange was still taken aback – shocked, actually – by the young man's continued outlandish arrogance and belligerence. Like some of the other captains had told him, there was absolutely no reasonable way to work with Jay Bridges. He was nothing but a loud-mouth trouble maker who was purposely doing everything opposite of what Lange wanted. The Captain glanced across the Boeing cockpit and saw that the copilot held his microphone in his hand but had yet to pass on the request for a lower altitude. "Request that descent right now, Lange ordered again, in as calm a voice as he could muster, but then added one more word to make his command sound more acceptable, at least to him. Please."

Whatever you say, boss. Bridges reached for the microphone that hung by his side, slowly raised it to his lips, then pressed the button and began to transmit the request. Bridges had been intentionally goading this captain, prodding him, pressing the man's obvious limitations and tolerances the way a deep sea fisherman might toy with a hooked sailfish in order to have it squirm a little longer. And Bridges knew damn well that he was doing it for the same basic reason – the pure sport of it. Annoying captains like Lange was a far more interesting way of spending time in the copilot's seat than endlessly scanning flight instruments. For Bridges, this trip was almost turning into fun. Chicago, this is Trans-Continental seventy-one. We are requesting a descent to ten thousand.

Roger, Trans-Continental, stand by, a tinny voice answered through the cockpit speaker.

Captain Lange kept his attention totally on the flight instruments in front of him, knowing for certain that if he looked over at his copilot there would be that constant and irritating smirk on his face. That would be another frustration that he wouldn't know how to handle. Thank God this was the last segment of today's series of flights and that it was already well into darkness – in the dimly lit cockpit, Lange was spared those details of the copilot's constant insolence. Yet just as the young man's reputation had suggested, none of the things Bridges had done so far seemed overt enough to merit an official complaint. They were, admittedly, nothing but small irritations. The problem was, there had been what seemed like hundreds of them – he was intentionally being difficult.

Lange pressed the autopilot control button. A low two-tone horn sounded in the cockpit, to announce that the autopilot had been disengaged. Lange then began to hand-fly the Boeing 737 jetliner, his fingers gently massaging the plastic angles of the control wheel while he held the airliner level at its cruise altitude and airspeed.

The jet was gliding effortlessly through a smooth deck of solid clouds; the world outside the cockpit windows was a constant veil of black. For a few moments, Lange allowed his disquieted thoughts to subside as he sat mesmerized by the very familiar pattern of what the flight instruments and the sensations through the flight controls were telling him about the condition of the airliner under his command. He could feel the undercurrent of power from the engines as it worked its way through the airframe – the ship's pulse – and his thousands of hours of flight experience told him instinctively that all was routine.

Trans-Continental seventy-one, descend and maintain ten thousand. Proceed direct to Chicago Heights, an anonymous voice from air traffic control said through the cockpit speaker.

Seventy-one's going down to ten thousand, direct to Chicago Heights, Bridges answered laconically into his microphone.

Lange smoothly pulled back the twin jet's throttles and gently nosed the airliner into a smooth descent. Normally, at this point he would have been very involved in the technical aspects of what he was accomplishing – watching the hands on the altimeter unwind methodically, scanning the other panel gauges to be certain that they were indicating precisely what he wanted them to.

Yet tonight, Lange felt that none of those technical variables could keep his attention focused for more than a few seconds at a time. No matter how hard he tried, Lange couldn't shake the intense, gnawing intrusion into his normal flying routine that the young man who sat beside him had become. He's a damned distraction. He’s going to make me commit an error. Everyone will say it's my fault, even though having him in the cockpit was the reason. Being personally accountable for a mistake with his flying was something that was totally intolerable to Ned Lange – he dreaded that possibility even more than he dreaded having a personal confrontation with the people he worked with.

The Boeing jet was already passing through sixteen thousand feet on its descent when Lange finally made up his mind about what he would do next about Jay Bridges. Lange was, in his mind, a very reasonable and a very patient man – a respected senior captain with an impeccable safety record and a reputation to match. He knew that he was considered to be somewhat over-cautious, even timid at times, by some of the copilots – but that was the sort of reputation that he could live with. Being held responsible for an error on his part was something he could not live with, especially with only twenty-five months to go before retirement.

The hell with him, I’ll just do it. It’s the right thing to do. The decision had finally been made: Lange would officially report Jay Bridges – it was an obligation he felt to his fellow pilots, to his company, the airline's passengers and, most of all, to himself. Bridges' insolence was a constant annoyance and that, in itself, became a distraction. Anything that caused Ned Lange to be less than totally focused on his duties was something that he knew he had to deal with, no matter how unpleasant that task was.

Eleven thousand, Bridges mumbled, making one of the many company-required call-outs that he considered a ridiculous waste of time. If it were up to Bridges he would not bother with any of those asinine official technicalities insisted on by men like Captain Lange – rules made by doddering old farts who had long ago forgotten how to fly, if they ever knew.

Thank you, Lange responded automatically. Even though it was within his rights to remove the copilot from his trip as soon as they landed in Chicago, Lange decided against anything that dramatic – for the sake of the company and its ability to maintain the published schedule. Lange decided to suffer along with Bridges as his copilot for the one additional segment they were scheduled to fly tomorrow afternoon – a non-stop from Chicago to Miami. But then he would go directly to Captain Davenport's office and tell the chief pilot that he would not, under any circumstances, fly another trip with Jay Bridges assigned to his cockpit. Lange felt that coming from him, the complaint would undoubtedly get Davenport's full attention. I’ll be doing the company a favor.

Leveling at ten thousand, Bridges announced drily. You want any altitude lower than this, or is this altitude good enough for you?

We'll stay at ten thousand.

Whatever you say, boss, Bridges responded coolly, once again getting in the last word.

Lange ignored him. Instead, he began to think about the descent and landing at O'Hare, the limousine ride to the hotel and – thank God – the moment when he would have the opportunity to close the door on the young man who had sat next to him today from Miami to Philadelphia, Boston, and now into Chicago. By the time of their arrival back at Miami tomorrow afternoon, Lange silently vowed that Bridges would mean nothing to him except a bad memory – and he promised himself that this time he would not back down, something that he was inclined to do. Lange would, no matter what, report Jay Bridges to the chief pilot.

I won't be going to the hotel with you, Bridges said, leaning towards the captain while he spoke in a raised voice over the ambient noise in the airliner's cockpit.

Oh? As much as Lange didn't want to make unnecessary conversation with this copilot, he wanted to take the long limousine ride to the hotel with him even less. That so? Lange said, as he raised an eyebrow in the copilot's direction. This bit of information might be good news.

Tell the front desk that I'll check in later, Bridges announced. I've got business at the airport.

Sure. Lange smiled for the first time since their midday departure from Miami, then glanced up from his flight instruments and out of the cockpit window. At that moment the airliner popped out of the enveloping overcast and, lying sprawled ahead of them across the entire width of the windshield, the unending array of lights that was the city of Chicago and its suburbs made itself dramatically evident against the blackness of the night sky and the solid overcast above them.

Tell the hotel I'll check in some time after midnight.

Certainly. Lange was by now absolutely beaming; he had the airport lights of O'Hare in sight, his copilot wouldn't be taking the long limousine ride with him to the hotel, and by five o'clock tomorrow afternoon the chief pilot would be getting an official report as to what kind of son of a bitch this young man really was.

Trans-Continental Seventy-one, cleared for a visual approach, follow the US Airways jet on a two mile final, the Chicago air traffic controller transmitted.

Yeah, okay, follow US Airways, Bridges transmitted back in a bored voice.

As Lange steered the Boeing airliner towards a landing, he felt proud of himself for making the decision to report the copilot – a decision that was contrary to his basic nature, but one that he now felt an overwhelming obligation to carry out. Captain Ned Lange was quite certain that he was doing everyone a giant favor; First Officer Jay Bridges was simply too ill-suited to continue being employed as a copilot for Trans-Continental Airlines.

<>

The glare of floodlights across the tarmac created valleys of shadow in and around the parked aircraft on the ramp at Chicago's O'Hare Airport. Jay Bridges ambled slowly between the areas of reflected light and the patches of dark shadow between them; he glanced at his expensive gold Rolex one more time, trying to make out the position of the hands in the dim glow that reached the spot where he was.

It was almost midnight, which meant that Zarrillo was now nearly half an hour late. Bridges cursed the man, then glanced around again as he wondered which direction Zarrillo might be coming from when he finally did get around to showing up. That moron. He’s making me wait here for no damned reason. Bridges tilted his flight cap further back on his head while he continued to look around the deserted airport ramp.

Although Trans-Continental leased several gates on the east side of the Terminal B concourse, there were only three aircraft currently parked there: the Boeing 737 that Bridges had flown in from Boston nearly two hours earlier, plus two of the company's Boeing 757 jets. While Bridges had earlier paced around the nearly empty ramp, company mechanics had moved two other Trans-Continental Boeing 757s from the concourse gates to the maintenance hangar on the far side of the field; Bridges expected that the mechanics would be back for the other three airplanes shortly, and he hoped that Zarrillo would show up before they did.

Bridges leaned against an unused baggage cart, taking care that he wasn't getting his pilot's uniform dirty. He took off his flight cap, ran a comb through his styled mane of blond hair, then carefully put his flight cap back on.

The ramp in front of Bridges was completely devoid of personnel since it had been over an hour since the last flight of the night had parked and all the duties associated with that incoming flight had long since been accomplished. Motorized tugs, carts, service trucks and vehicles of all types were parked in various spots; everything on the ramp was motionless, except for a cleaning truck approaching out of the darkness on Bridges' left.

Bridges watched as the truck's headlights swept across the black tarmac. The driver was moving the vehicle ahead slowly. Finally, he swung the big truck around at the rear end of the Boeing 737 and maneuvered the vehicle carefully to a spot beneath the airliner's rear service door. The truck's engine then revved as the driver engaged the hydraulic lift controls that would raise the body of the vehicle above its frame.

Two sets of large steel scissors driven by gleaming silver hydraulic struts slowly lifted the truck body, raising it high into the night sky. Within half a minute the cleaning truck's body was set at the same height as the airliner's rear service door, held up by the raised steel scissors that were part of the truck frame. At that point, the truck's lights and engine were shut down, with the raised body of the vehicle locked upright in its fully extended position about a dozen feet above the truck's cab and tires. Once again, the ramp area returned to silence and to relative darkness. Bridges looked at his Rolex: it was now three minutes past twelve. Where the hell is Zarrillo?

That you? came a voice from the other side of the baggage cart Bridges leaned against.

Bridges turned. Nice of you to finally show up. He took a step towards the front of the baggage cart, to meet the shadowy figure that was emerging from the other side. I'm tired, I need some sleep – gotta work tomorrow, you know. I gotta fly with that asshole Lange.

Yeah. I know. Louis Zarrillo stepped out of the darkness and into the dim reflected light from a gang of floods a hundred yards away. But this is important.

Better be. Bridges looked at Zarrillo; he, too, was wearing his Trans-Continental pilot's uniform, although Zarrillo's jacket had the captain's four stripes on each sleeve rather than the copilot's three. What trip you on? Bridges asked.

No trip, I came to talk to you.

Then why the costume? Bridges asked, pointing to Zarrillo's uniform.

Don’t play stupid, it’s the best way to get past security and the best way to get on the ramp. You know that as well as I do. Zarrillo took off his flight cap and wiped away some sweat from his forehead, then shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot as he periodically glanced around in the darkness. He put his flight cap back on. We don't need to be challenged by ramp guys playing cop.

Hell, we don't need to be standing here, either. Bridges took another step forward. We could've met anyplace – a bar, a restaurant, a whorehouse ...

Listen, this is important, Zarrillo said again, edging himself a half step backwards to be even deeper into the shadows. There's problems. We've got to talk about them. Big problems.

Big fucking deal. Bridges gave a low, contemptuous laugh. You always were a chicken-shit – if you didn't have me to hold your hand, you never would've made your first score.

But there's problems. I... I'm not too sure exactly what we should at this point...

So, what kind of goddamn problems? Bridges took one more step forward, around the edge of the baggage cart and out into the open ramp area beside it. And what the hell are you afraid of – so far, you haven't told me a ...

From behind Bridges, a man in a dark suit stepped out of the darker shadows and swung down with a metal pipe. The end of the pipe caught Bridges on the left side of his skull; his flight cap was flung aside and rolled several feet across the ramp. As he was hit, the copilot's legs instantly buckled and he fell heavily to the ground.

Pick him up. Put him in there, the man in the dark suit commanded as he stepped back into the deeper shadows alongside the baggage cart.

Jesus Christ. Zarrillo stood over Bridges' body, shifting his glance between where the young copilot lay on the tarmac and where the man who had hit him with the pipe was standing in the shadows. You were supposed to talk to him – that’s what you told me!

There's no talking to him. We both know that. Pick him up.

I . . .

Pick him up.

Although Zarrillo did hesitate for another moment, he finally complied. He always did. Zarrillo grabbed hold of Bridges' body, then dragged him over to where he'd been instructed.

Lay him on that baggage cart. Then get his hat.

Why?

Do what the hell I tell you, dammit. Get in beside him, the man said, ignoring the question as he stepped towards the motorized tug that was connected to the cart. We're taking a ride.

Where to?

The man in the dark suit didn't answer. Instead, he slid into the driver's seat of the motorized tug. The tug's engine was started. The man waited a moment until Zarrillo had retrieved the copilot's flight cap and had come back. As soon as Zarrillo sat down legs-astride on the baggage cart, the man began to drive the tug and cart slowly forward.

From where Zarrillo sat on the baggage cart, he could see that they were moving towards the company Boeing jet that was still on the ramp. Zarrillo glanced down at Bridges and could see, even in the dim light, that the copilot was breathing deeply, heavily. Stupid bastard, he never knows when to shut up. He deserves this.

There was a gash on Bridges' head, but he didn't seem to be bleeding badly. Maybe now you’ll learn, you asshole, maybe you’ll shut your big mouth.. Zarrillo fumbled with Bridges' flight cap while he thought the situation over; he had reluctantly agreed that Bridges was always saying far too much to far too many people and that he could easily be jeopardizing everything. Evidently, what Bridges needed at this point was to be shown that these guys were serious, that they weren't going to keep taking his line of shit any more.

The motorized tug jerked to a stop. Take him off the cart. Lay him over there, the man in the driver's seat said in a low voice.

Zarrillo blinked. He had been instructed to lay Bridges on the flat bed beneath the raised portion of the cleaning truck. Why?

It'll look like an accident.

Oh. Zarrillo slowly nodded. I see. If anyone were to ask, Bridges would be able to say that he slipped and fell on to the truck bed. That would be his explanation for the cut on his head. Only he would know that it had been his first – and last – warning.

The man in the dark suit said nothing. Finally, he pointed again. Put him there. Now. Lay him across the bed rails, like he slipped and fell into them.

Zarrillo glanced around him. The ramp area was deserted, although he could hear the cleaning crew inside the Boeing as they moved around, the shifts of