Flight 243 Is Down

By wayne mann

Consolidated Airlines Flight 243 crashes while landing at Charlotte Douglass International airport. Investigative reporter Dirk Johnston is at the airport covering an unrelated story, and witnesses the crash. Contrary to growing public opinion resulting from the crash investigation, Dirk does not believe that pilot error is the cause of the crash.
He develops contacts with air traffic controllers and Consolidated executives that leads him to a mysterious group of men known as "The Investors". His investigation uncovers a complex network of financial agreements that reveal that "The Investors" covertly control every aspect of Consolidated Airlines' operations.
As his investigation unfolds, he is convinced that this will be the most rewarding piece of journalism he has every created. Unfortunately he underestimates the resolve of "The Investors" to ensure that his story never sees the light of day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: wayne mann
• Release date: Jan 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458107756

wayne mann

Captain Wayne A. Mann has thirty-two years of experience flying for three different passenger and cargo airlines. He began his airline career during the "dawn of deregulation" in 1978. This law was intended to remove the economic restrictions on how much an airline could charge for its fares or what routes it could fly. Unfortunately this legislation had unintended consequences.Captain Mann has witnessed first hand the demise of the airline pilot profession and reduction in the safety culture of airlines that exists in the United States today due to deregulation.He has extensive experience in training and evaluating airline pilots, and resides in Culpeper, VA and Clarendon Hills, Ill.

Book preview

Chapter One

April, 1961

The beam of green light radiated through the mist blanketing the farmland surrounding the Springtown, Iowa airport. Protruding thirty feet upwards into the star-filled sky, the decades-old airport beacon marked yet another of its innumerable rotations with a grinding screeeeeech caused by a rusted section on its circular support track. The alternating green and white beams projected to the horizon, helping nocturnal aviators locate this rural landing field. Juxtaposed at the base of the lighthouse tower was an equally antiquated post World War II era aircraft hangar. Its shape was like that of a bratwurst sausage that had been cut in half lengthwise, and placed flat side down on the ground. The office of Midwest States Flying Service occupied a small corner of this dreary weather-beaten structure.

Thin slivers of light emanating between the metal louvers of the white Venetian blinds hanging across a window were the only signs of life inside the hangar at this late hour. Wilbur Rutledge, the twenty-five year old owner of this small but prospering aviation enterprise, sat at his desk beneath the window.

A black four-door sedan pulled quietly into the deserted parking lot and stopped in front of the entrance to the Midwest States’ office. Wilbur heard the car pull up.

He removed his thick glasses and placed them on his desk. He had spent several hours this evening, like so many others since his return from Washington D.C., reviewing the federal regulations governing the operation of aircraft he needed to acquire to expand his business.

He parted the louvers of the blinds and looked at the car. He was intrigued by the fact that although the car was parked with the headlights off, the engine was still idling. Two men in business suits with narrow brimmed hats sat motionless in the front seat. Their silhouettes were alternately highlighted as the beacon’s light passed above the car. It was as if they were deciding on their next course of action. Get out and enter the building . . . or drive away.

In perfect timing with another screech from the beacon, a dull orange glow illuminated the driver’s face as he slowly inhaled one last puff from his cigarette. He flicked it out the window, uttered a comment to the passenger, and turned off the ignition. Both men simultaneously exited the car. As they approached the glass entry door, Wilbur moved away from the window and into the lobby.

A counter stood between his office door and the approaching men. Under normal circumstances this counter served as a welcoming piece of furniture over which his employees conducted daily business affairs with customers. Tonight this well-worn structure felt more like a safety barrier between him and the approaching strangers.

Sliding glass doors adorned the lobby side of the counter, and served as display cases facilitating the sale of items ranging from flight paraphernalia to candy. The backside of the counter where Wilbur stood contained several drawers for storage of company documents. Before leaving for the evening, his secretary had locked the top cash drawer, which also secured the three drawers beneath it.

A small bell attached to the door rang as the men entered. A piston-like device attached to the top of the door slowly closed it as another screech! could be heard from the rotating beacon. Wilbur discreetly unlocked the cash drawer and partially opened the second one down, exposing a Smith and Wesson .357 magnum handgun. Although it was within comfortable reach of his left hand, it was completely out of view of the two men as they stood on the opposite side of the counter.

Both men wore almost identical dark conservative two-button suits, white dress shirts, dark narrow ties, and black small brimmed business-style straw hats. The only hint of color in either ensemble was a small red and yellow feather protruding from the hatband of one of stranger’s hat. Although almost identical in dress, their physical appearance was quite different. The man with the feather in his cap was tall and thin. His accomplice was short and rather portly. A sort of Mutt and Jeff duo came to Wilbur’s mind as he evaluated them.

The shorter of the two men leaned on the counter several feet to Wilbur’s left with his back to the wall. He wasn’t facing Wilbur directly, but rather seemed to be taking up a position that allowed him an unrestricted view of the room, with his main focus on the door. In contrast, his taller counterpart stood directly in front of Wilbur with his back to the entryway.

Can I help you, gents? Wilbur inquired in a tone more cautious than curious.

We understand you are looking to expand your air freight business, the taller of the two men announced.

Well, yes, uh, that’s true, Wilbur stammered, taken aback by the fact that these total strangers would have knowledge about such confidential information. But how do you...

He was interrupted by the short man leaning against the wall. We represent . . . investors, the man began, putting special emphasis on the last word, who would like to help you expand your freight operations.

Well, I’m not looking for any investors, and I’ve already looked into my expansion options, and . . . Once again he was interrupted, this time by the taller of the two intruders.

Yes, I believe you spent two hours last week in the office of a Mr. William Bartok of the Civil Aeronautics Board in Washington, he interjected confidently.

Who the hell are you guys? Wilbur demanded, glancing down at the gun in the drawer. The mention of Mr. Bartok’s name caused Wilbur’s thoughts to drift back to his need for the meeting in Washington, as he struggled to find some reason for the presence of these men in his office.

Two years prior to the appearance of these mysterious visitors, Wilbur had been an accountant employed by a medium sized CPA firm in Des Moines, Iowa. He exerted most of his professional energies conducting audits and due diligence studies for banks that made commercial loans. Although he was well compensated for his efforts, the work was sheer drudgery, and he hated it.

On a whim, he had taken a flying lesson one crisp October afternoon. As he climbed above a scattered cloud layer, the panoramic views of the fall foliage left him totally exhilarated. From that day forward, he immersed himself in flying lessons and soon obtained his pilot license. He began to fly rather than drive to his auditing assignments throughout the Midwest. It was while examining the business practices of a small flying service in Springtown, Iowa that he decided to combine his auditing skills with his passion for flying.

Midwest States Flying Service had been a typical mom and pop fixed-base operation, or FBO in the aviation vernacular. The owner pumped gas, taught flying lessons, repaired airplanes, and flew an occasional charter. It was while flying as a passenger on one of these air taxi charters that rock and roll star Buddy Holly had been killed a few years earlier. Fortunately for Midwest States, the musical icon had been a customer of one of their competitors, and their business had actually benefited temporarily from the tragedy.

Midwest States was applying for a loan from one of Wilbur’s banking clients to replace the dilapidated World War II Quonset hut structure that housed its operations. Wilbur’s analysis of the enterprise’s operating margins revealed that not only could it not support the debt service for the hangar, it was doubtful that the company could continue as a going concern. As was typical in these types of businesses, the owner was a much better pilot than businessman.

Wilbur completed his audit by mid-afternoon of the second day of his visit to Springtown. He climbed into his rented aircraft parked adjacent to the dilapidated hangar and started the engine. He accomplished the pre-takeoff checklist, and as was the practice at small airfields with no air traffic control tower, took off without making a single radio transmission.

There was a layer of scattered clouds two thousand feet above the ground. Wilbur climbed to an altitude just slightly above these puffy vaporous formations and reveled in the spectacular view. All the way back to Des Moines he fantasized about how much more fulfilling his life would be if he could operate a successful flying service, as opposed to living the lucrative but excruciatingly tedious lifestyle of an auditor.

He spent his spare time the following week further analyzing the financial condition of Midwest States, and could see no hope for the survival of the distressed operation. It suffered from the worst possible combination of being both a low volume and low margin operation. The only exception to this guaranteed equation for failure was its air charter activities.

Although the demand for this type of service resulted in only two or three flights a month, the profit margin was such that Wilbur believed if he could somehow increase the volume of charter activity, the company would become profitable. He spent much of his free time contemplating ways to build up the charter business.

In an effort to maintain good business relations with is banking clients, he would occasionally take them for an airplane ride. After one of these flight, his passenger commented that banks around the country were beginning to use the services of aircraft charter operators to shuttle canceled bank checks between branch offices and various Federal Reserve depositories. Although the service was expensive, it was cost effective for the banks as they were able to save millions of dollars in interest expense by reducing the amount of time these checks floated between their banks and the federal clearing houses. Reducing the time it took these checks to clear their respective banks was also proving to be a very effective tool in apprehending fraudulent check artists, as it was now possible to discover the location of one of these paper hangers only a day or two after they began writing hot checks.

As he and the banker drove away from the airport, Wilbur inquired how often his bank would charter these flights. When he responded, Five nights a week, Wilbur realized that he could make Midwest States Flying Service profitable if he could secure contracts from banks to fly canceled checks each night. He quickly created a business plan that would enable him to obtain the financing necessary to purchase Midwest States.

Although reluctant to do so, the owner of the company had grown weary of the hand-to-mouth existence under which he struggled to make ends meet, and agreed to sell the company to Wilbur. He was able to secure several charter contracts, and the business flourished.

As the company’s reputation for reliability spread throughout the Midwestern banking industry, its routes soon extended as far west as Denver, east to Chicago, north to Minneapolis, and south to Kansas City. In addition to bank checks, Midwest States soon began to carry newspapers from big cities to the smaller towns along their routes. Undeveloped film and auto parts soon joined the list of items that benefited from overnight air delivery. As the freight loads increased, Wilbur needed to acquire larger aircraft. He was stymied in this effort by the restrictions placed on airfreight operations by the Civil Aeronautics Board.

In an effort to receive the certification necessary to operate larger aircraft, Wilbur had gone to Washington D.C. to speak with an official of the CAB. He was informed that it was next to impossible to obtain such a certificate. As he was wading through the quagmire of regulations required by the certification process, the two mysterious visitors appeared.

As we said earlier, we represent investors that want to help you expand your operations, the shorter of the two men interrupted Wilbur’s thoughts.

Well, since you are so well informed, perhaps you are aware that it is next to impossible to obtain a certificate from the United States government to operate the size of aircraft I need to do that. Now who are you guys and what do you want? Wilbur placed his hand on the edge of the drawer containing the gun.

What if you didn’t need a certificate to operate in the United States? the tall man responded. The alternating manner in which each of the men spoke to Wilbur was clearly designed to have the intimidating effect of making him feel outnumbered. Wilbur felt the .357 magnum would even the sides if necessary.

Mr. Rutledge, are you aware of your government’s military involvement in Southeast Asia? By now it was apparent the tall stranger with the red and yellow feather in his hatband was the leader of the duo.

You mean that Gulf of Tonkin incident? Wilbur feigned a limited knowledge of the obscure conflict in Vietnam.

That has something to do with it, said the short man.

Mr. Rutledge. Our investors are looking for individuals like yourself to lend their expertise to a very lucrative airfreight enterprise in Southeast Asia, said the tall man. Wilbur noticed the continued emphasis on the word investors. If you decide to lend your expertise to this venture, I can assure you that you will have the opportunity to operate a fleet of large freight aircraft at a very impressive profit.

But why are your investors so interested in doing business with me?

Let’s just say you posses many of the qualities that we are looking for in a business partner.

And just what might those qualities be?

Well, for one thing, you are a very astute businessman. In the two years you have owned this company, you have successfully managed the rapid expansion of your operations from the occasional use of one small twin-engined aircraft to a fleet of ten airplanes operated by a staff of loyal pilots and mechanics. Your reputation for reliable service has made you a leader in the overnight airfreight business west of the Mississippi. Your ability to accomplish this expansion represents just the type of managerial skill we are looking for, he added in a manner reflecting supreme confidence in his knowledge of the history of Wilbur’s company.

And how might I ask do you have such detailed knowledge of my business acumen?

Let’s just say our investors have relationships with several of the banks that you have worked for in the past. They speak very highly of your ability to manage an expanding aviation enterprise. Your location here in this small Midwestern town also provides the discreet business profile that our investors demand. And finally, we judge you to be a financially aggressive individual, as well as a man that is willing to serve the needs of his country in time of war.

War! Wilbur exclaimed. The last time I checked, we had an Air Force that provides military air freight services, or have your investors overlooked that minor detail?

This is going to be a different type of war, the short man answered. Mr. Rutledge, have you ever heard of an airline called Air America?

Can’t say I have.

Perhaps we should step into your office and sit down while we discuss our investors’ proposal, the tall man suggested.

Wilbur was reluctant to give up the advantage afforded him by the concealed handgun and protective barrier of the counter. He was struggling for an excuse to prevent the men from entering his office.

Don’t worry Wilbur, you can bring that .357 you have in the second drawer behind the counter. I believe you bought it from Bob’s Gun Shop last June. And if it will make you feel more comfortable, here are the bullets you no doubt assumed were still in the weapon. The short man spoke in a reassuring tone as he nonchalantly tossed six bullets on the countertop.

Wilbur stared at the bullets twirling around on the counter as if he were witnessing a magic trick.

You see, Wilbur, we have attempted to be very thorough in our investigation of you. As for the money you will need for this enterprise, here are the names of two of your bankers and their home phone numbers. You can call them this evening, and they will confirm their willingness to assist you in this endeavor.

Wilbur averted his stare from the bullets as one by one they ceased spinning on the countertop, and attempted to read the names on the paper. Realizing he had left his glasses on his office desk, he looked up almost apologetically and said, I’ll have to get my glasses to read this.

Good, said the tell man. Why don’t we step into your office and discuss the details of our proposal?

As he walked around the end of the counter, he motioned for his shorter counterpart to move toward the lobby door.

Wilbur glanced briefly at the bullets and decided that if these men worked for whom he thought they worked for, he would probably never have a chance to use his gun, even if it was loaded. The tall man rounded the end of the counter and walked toward Wilbur, gesturing condescendingly toward the office door. Wilbur closed the drawer concealing the pistol and walked toward his desk. He had a foreboding sense that his life was about to be forever changed.

Chapter Two

April 2008

Jordan Scott awoke at his home in Columbus, Ohio at his usual 6:45 a.m. He nudged his wife Shelby for the first of the two or three encouragements it took to get her out of bed each day. As he walked down the hall towards the bathroom of their modest two-bedroom home, he knocked on the door of his nine year old son’s room. Rise and shine J. J., he said as he opened the door and turned on the light. He continued walking toward the bathroom to shower and shave.

His morning hygiene ritual completed, he left the bathroom wearing slacks and an unbuttoned dress shirt. He entered the smaller of the two bedrooms in his ranch style house, and pulled the covers off half-awakened son. He placed a shirt, underwear, and jeans at the foot of his bed

He walked down the hall to where Shelby still lay in their bed...more asleep than awake. He pulled the blankets halfway down her torso, placed his hand on her hip, and gave her a nudge...rolling her back and forth ever so gently. There was a time in their relationship when she would have reached slowly for his hand, grasped it lovingly, and pulled him down toward her.

Today she responded scornfully, Knock it off. I can get myself up in the morning.

Jordan withdrew his hand as if trying to avoid the bite of an agitated dog, and walked back down the hall to the bathroom.

Facing the mirror over the sink, he buttoned the front of his shirt, and began tying his tie. He grinned to himself as he recalled the whimsical description of the three phases of sex in a marriage a friend at work had related to him the day before. According to the friend, the first phase of sex in a marriage is the car sex phase. This is typified by the fact that romantic encounters occur in such impulsive places as cars, elevators, the office, etc. As the relationship matures, you transition into the room sex phase. In this intermediate stage of the relationship, you confine your amorous activities to various rooms in the house, or perhaps a motel room. The final phase is referred to as the hall sex phase. At this juncture, you have evolved emotionally to the point where you pass your mate in the hall and she says, Screw you, to which you respond, Screw you too!

Jordan knew his marriage was definitely in the second phase. Based on the resentful tone in her voice this morning, he wondered if the hall sex phase was not rapidly approaching.

He gave one final tug to the full Windsor slipknot of his tie, buttoned down his collar, and returned to the bedroom to check on Shelby’s progress. She was still lying there with the pillow over her head. Impulsively he decided to tickle her left foot, which was protruding from beneath the blanket. She sprung up from the bed in a half seated position, threw the pillow that had been covering her head at him and hissed, Screw you asshole!

She didn’t even wait to get into the hall, he thought as he dodged the incoming pillow and left the bedroom.

As he walked toward the kitchen, he compared the frustrations with his marriage to those of his career. As the Director of Flight Operations and Safety for Consolidated Airlines, he struggled daily with the conflicting agendas of upper management’s demands to reduce the costs of flight operations, while at the same time maintaining a reasonable level of safety

Pilot training expenditures were particularly problematic for him. A cost conscious Director of Flight Operations would do all he could to reduce training time requirements. However, Jordan knew that any effort to reduce these costs could have a negative impact on the quality of training, and thereby diminish the level of safety. He relied heavily on the recommendations of the flight training department personnel to ensure his pilots received appropriate training.

By its very nature, managing the agendas of both Flight Operations and Safety created a conflict of interest. Jordan could never understand why upper management had chosen to combine these two conflicting initiatives into one office. He was not about to confront his superiors on this issue for fear that they would replace him. He had worked too long and hard at many lesser positions in this company to induce a confrontation that might put his job at risk.

Jordan began his career at Consolidated working on the ramp loading baggage. He worked nights and weekends while attending college during the day. Although he deplored the drudgery of loading and unloading freight, he was nonetheless enthralled with airline operations.

As he placed bags on the conveyor belt transporting them into the cargo hold of an aircraft one cold rainy evening, he was reminded of the joke about two neighbors discussing their vocations. One neighbor comments that he is a carpenter. The other neighbor replies that he drives the truck that is used to service the lavatories on airplanes at the airport. The carpenter comments in disgust, You mean you spend your entire day pumping shit out of airplane toilets? Why don’t you come to work with me and learn a more rewarding skill like building houses? In a state of utter disbelief his neighbor responds, What, and get out of aviation?

Jordan did not get out of aviation, and his reliable work ethic was recognized and rewarded as he was promoted to ramp supervisor. After graduation from college he was promoted to manager of ramp operations and then station manager. As his financial situation improved, he enrolled in flight school and obtained a Private Pilot license.

Through contacts he made in the Consolidated flight training department, he arranged for free training in the company flight simulator and eventually obtained a rating to fly the 737. With that accomplishment added to his resume, he was promoted to his present position when the previous director retired.

His mind sifted to preparing breakfast as he entered the kitchen. He turned on the small TV in the corner of the counter space. The Channel Six morning news show appeared on the screen, and he began to make coffee.

As the first person in their household to awaken each morning, he had established a ritual of preparing breakfast for his son and Shelby. Jordan liked the Channel Six morning feature segment that presented unique breakfast food recipes. A jovial fellow known to the viewing audience as Mr. Breakfast