Tomorrow's Flight

By M.E. Ellington and Steven Stiefel

THE PRESENT: Paleontologists excavating the bones of a juvenile Tyrannosaurus rex unearth modern human skeletons and a piece from an aircraft, stripped of all identifying markings, buried in Cretaceous terrain. Scientists from both paleontology and crash investigation r

• Language: English
• Publisher: MESS-Flicks Ltd. MESS Publishing
• Release date: May 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9781399987066

Book preview

TOMORROW’S

FLIGHT

TOMORROW’S

FLIGHT

A Novel

By M.E. Ellington & Steven Stiefel

MESS Publishing

Copyright © M.E. Ellington & Steven Stiefel (2020)

The rights of Martyn Ellington (M.E. Ellington) & Steven Stiefel to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with section 77 and 78 of Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this

publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue for this title is available from the British Library.

Written by M.E. Ellington and Steven Stiefel

Editing and proofing by Steven Stiefel

Book design by Kimberly Richey

Cover concept by M.E. Ellington

www.martynellington.com

www.mess-flicks.com

ISBN 978-0-578-93851-6 (paperback)

www.tomorrowsflight.com

For the 607

A sincere thank you to everyone—you know who you are.

— M.E. Ellington

For The Writing Group from Hell

They suffered through 65 million years of multiple drafts.

— Steven Stiefel

PART I: DISCOVERIES

Diary entry #76

I have come to realize that the monsters cannot see us when we’re still, and so they must locate us in other ways. Perhaps they can smell us: They come for our flesh when we leave our safe haven. Only fire seems to turn them away. They’ve taken many of our group. So few of my new friends remain. I have grown stronger, I realize, as my own end approaches. It is, I think, the recognition that every human faces: you will die. Many have no idea how or when, but my fate has become clear to me over the past several days.

Tonight, as dusk descended, I stoked the fire alone before I took cover inside our shelter. It’s crucial that the fire burns until dawn, and so I built it large with the slow-burning wood we’d gathered over the previous days. Some have died or gone missing during the days when we were out gathering water or the wood to fuel the fire that protects us at night. Yet, tomorrow we must gather more.

As the fire grows, I hear one of the monsters roar. I know I will live, at least, to see the sun rise in the morning. But I now believe that I will die before I should in an inexplicable time and place. No rescuers will ever come for us. After all, several weeks have passed. If any saviors were able to reach us, surely they would have come already. We have been gone for far too long for any of them to consider they can still rescue us. They must now view us as a recovery mission, should they even know we’re missing.

As much as I struggle against it, I also try to make my peace with this unimaginable reality. But isn’t that what every person faces, every day, no matter where they are? The only difference is that I can think of nothing else. And so I continue to record every thought and event, no matter how insane. I have lost the ability to tell which is more crazy: my thoughts or the events I have witnessed.

Chapter One

Desert Dig

1

Andrea Alejandro took her 30-minute break from the main dig site. Rather than return to the shelter at the central campsite to rest and have a cool beverage, she trekked farther from the dig site, blinking against the hundred-degree heat in central Nevada. She followed the ancient deposit of earth, newly exposed after the spring’s enormous desert flood. None of the other paleontologists or graduate students had made time to look at the rest of this strata. They’d arrived three days before, and all their efforts had gone into establishing the camp and beginning the dig. But Andrea was as curious about what remained buried as she was about what they had already discovered.

Even though she still owed a revision of her dissertation to her committee, Andrea had taken this post-doc position in the worst possible environment. It was an exciting opportunity to excavate creatures from a period long before humans existed. It was also another way to work with her mentor, Professor Susan Lavey, who’d been called to the site to lead the team in exhuming the bones of the prehistoric beast. The femur of what appeared to be a juvenile Tyrannosaurus rex had been exposed by the erosion from the atypical rain and flooding. And it was also a way to distance herself from Megan, who had ended their three-year relationship to marry a man just as Andrea had finished her coursework.

A month before, a local rancher had reported finding a large bone revealed by the spring’s torrential floods. Ah, the blessings and curses of climate change, Andrea thought. Treasures of the past had been revealed as the contemporary habitat suffered its traumas. Perhaps the Earth was shifting into another era unbeknownst to those living in the present. Andrea believed that the planet was at the end of an epoch or another mass extinction: on the cusp of something new that was nearly impossible for any human to bear witness to in real time.

While the rest of the crew worked on the primary site, Andrea was drawn to a pile of rocks and rubble unearthed about a quarter-mile away. The sedimentary rock indicated this was a strata of equal age, probably contemporary with the Cretaceous period, which had ended about 65 million years before. One of the rocks, chalkier than the others, called her attention.

She began to dust and pick at it. The brow of a skull began to emerge. To all appearances it was a human being, no more than 5,000 years old. Andrea paused for a moment to consider this, her heart racing, before she resumed digging. A few minutes later the ridge and eye sockets were conclusive. The more Andrea brushed, the more modern the skull appeared. She could tell the skull was female because of the relative thinness of the bones and the sharp ridges under the eye sockets. Andrea could almost envision the woman’s face.

While it was impossible to explain, Andrea had already begun to speculate how a modern woman could be buried in more than 65 million years of Cretaceous detritus.

2

I found the remains of a contemporary woman, Andrea called to Professor Susan Lavey as she rushed into the campsite. She’s buried in the Cretaceous strata we’re excavating. You have to come see her right away!

The tenured paleontologist wasn’t surprised to hear one of her favorite students say something that others might find a bit unhinged. Susan wished that Andrea understood the art of discretion a little better. This particular failing had been a factor in undermining her advisee’s ability to complete her degree, the professor believed.

Dr. Lavey followed Andrea, wondering why the younger woman, swathed in a shapeless flannel shirt, didn’t seem to feel the heat the way the rest of them did.

Dr. Craig Iverson, a young professor newly assigned to the dig site, took note of Andrea’s boisterous return. He came from another university, brought in for his expertise in juvenile dinosaurs, and the funding team had required that he be included. Uninvited, Craig trailed after Susan and Andrea as they walked toward the new find. Susan was not generally suspicious of people, but she was concerned about Craig’s angle. She knew he had an agenda that differed from all of the others assigned to this site, but she didn’t know what it was. Yet.

Here she is, Andrea said dropping to her knees.

Susan looked at the bones that were entrenched in earth that appeared not to have been otherwise disturbed for eons.

She’s modern, Andrea said. And from what I can see she appears to be fully subsumed in ancient clay. Something very strange happened here.

I can’t disagree, Susan said, contemplating.

The earth is obviously ancient. Which makes your conclusion impossible. Craig Iverson towered above Andrea, and Susan noted that the athletic man had positioned himself so that his shadow didn’t protect the younger woman from the sun’s intense heat. Andrea’s compact form, solid but small, remained focused. She didn’t turn her broad heart-shaped face toward her accuser.

Susan placed a hand on Andrea to prevent the eruption of anger she could feel bubbling within the younger woman. I’d say you’re both correct. This appears to be a modern woman buried in ancient earth. And that is, of course, impossible, based on what we know to date.

Well, what do we do about that? Andrea asked, her anger temporarily quelled by her professor’s support.

We have to consider it, Susan said.

Facts before conclusions, Craig added. Always.

I stated the facts, and I didn’t draw any conclusion other than to say it was strange, Andrea said.

You’re ABD, right? the male professor commented, shorthand for a student who had finished her coursework but whose written work had not been approved by her committee. Craig was not asking a question, but making an accusation. He was calling Andrea out for her committee’s request to rewrite or turn to another topic before she would be granted her PhD.

Dr. Lavey tightened her grip on Andrea’s forearm, willing the young woman to silence. The senior professor believed that Andrea would finish her dissertation after they completed their work at this site. I’m Andrea’s committee chair, Susan said, looking up at Dr. Craig Iverson.

Yes, I read that in the briefing.

What briefing? Susan asked. I don’t believe any of the rest of us were offered a ‘briefing.’ She watched a fleeting look of panic cross Craig’s smug, handsome face. He wasn’t shy about using his physical attributes to attract the attention of the female undergrad interns. He wore cargo shorts and a tight tank top, typically the uniform of the male undergraduates Dr. Lavey tended to dislike most.

I was just given a rundown on all the personnel, Craig said, because I come from a different university. He turned and began to walk back to the campsite.

Andrea reached out and gave her supervisor’s hand a slight squeeze of thanks, but Susan didn’t respond to it. I understand, Susan called after Craig, as evenly as possible. Otherwise you would be at a disadvantage. Now, she knew it was important to make Craig think her a friend because she was sure he was an enemy.

***

As the group of three returned to the main dig, they heard a growing hubbub. Two of the undergraduates had just begun to unearth what appeared to be the tail section of a commercial airliner buried in the same strata of ancient earth several yards from the first dig.

3

Bruce Ackland pulled into his parking space a few minutes early for work. This allowed him to flash his security badge and enter the building precisely at 7:45 a.m. He both prided himself on his punctuality and found it a hopeless indication of a long life poorly lived. He also hated to enter the building early, giving more of his life than he already had to his infernal occupation: Bruce was a Senior Air Crash Investigation Officer at the National Transportation Safety Board, headquartered in Washington, D.C.

At his desk several minutes later, Bruce leaned back in his ergonomic seat. He scratched his ungroomed beard and then pushed his fingers under his glasses and rubbed his eyes, willing himself to become more alert. He’d just completed the ten-day investigation of a small private aircraft that had somehow managed to get tangled in power lines, killing the pilot and his two passengers.

Now that this investigation was finalized, Bruce leaned forward, beginning to take stock of his unopened email. He knew his inbox was full of reports that he needed to fill out to close the file on this case and a multitude of other mindless tasks.

Bruce had spent his life figuring out how people had died. Often, he wondered, what was the purpose if you couldn’t save them? Others pointed out that this work was important, leading to greater airplane safety in the future. But the crash investigator felt as though he was little more than an undertaker putting together a funeral rather than a scientist discovering important secrets for the survival of others.

The problem, his late wife Thelma used to tell him, was that Bruce was very good at his job. He’d had a long career in determining the reasons and excuses why planes and helicopters landed in unscheduled ways.

His young co-worker appeared in his doorway. Samir Glaver had been hired only two years before, and he was still eager to please the powers that be. Bruce had lost all motivation for this Sisyphean task more than twenty years before.

Glad you made it back, Samir greeted him.

One day I won’t, Bruce said gruffly. I’ll be the guy on the plane.

It was a ritual that they played out at the end of nearly every investigation, a bow to the Gods of the Air who knew much more about why airplanes crashed than they ever would. It had started as a joke, but now it had been endowed with a certain ritual of importance, a replacement for the Stations of the Cross from the religion Bruce had given up years ago.

I had a really unusual call yesterday. Samir sounded far too excited for Bruce’s taste this early on a Wednesday morning.

Surprise me, please, Bruce said. I don’t think I can bear another lake-landing-and-dredging event.

I can do that. You’re not gonna believe this one, Samir assured him. I haven’t told anyone else. I wanted you to know first.

As much as Bruce liked Samir, he did find the young man’s enthusiasm both morbid and annoying. Bruce considered that he’d somehow become an old guy who wanted to scream, get off my lawn! at his excited co-worker. Jesus, Thelma had been right about him, he was an annoying old fart. She’d maintained that up until her end, despite her obvious love for him.

A team of paleontologists working in central Nevada uncovered what seems to be a large piece of the tail from a commercial airplane. It doesn’t correspond to any missing flight, and it has no identifying markings, Samir said.

Okay, that’s a good one, I gotta admit. Did Westwood put you up to this? Bruce asked, a little unsettled by such an implausible claim.

No, it’s real, I swear! It seems that they uncovered it while they were digging up dinosaur bones exposed during a flood. The smaller, younger guy twitched with nervous energy, his face expectant. Samir pulled printed photos out of a folder.

Bruce felt the muscles in his face change into a heretofore-unknown expression, his brows and cheeks clenching in an unfamiliar way. That’s not possible. How can there be a tail section of an airliner we don’t know about lying next to the bones of a dinosaur from millions of years ago?

Samir shrugged. I dunno, boss, but they say there is, and paleontologists know about these things. They sent these photos, and they want us to come check it out.

Samir tried to show him the printouts of the photos, but Bruce waved them away. Is it in the same type of earth or is it just ‘next’ to the bones?

The paleontologist I spoke to assured me that the plane tail was in ancient earth, and they were puzzled by it, too.

So why do we both need to go check it out?

Because I don’t have the experience to identify a piece from an aircraft without any identifying markers.

Bruce couldn’t help himself. So if you’re of no value, then why do you need to accompany me?

Because of your attitude, boss. You’re going to hate every minute of this one. And you have an obvious confirmation bias.

Bruce paused, considering this. Central Nevada? he asked. It’s miserable there this time of year, isn’t it?

You’ll hardly notice the difference, Samir retorted. You’re miserable everywhere you go.

Bruce began to chuckle in spite of himself. Get the fuck out of my office.

After some negotiations with the upper brass, withholding the unusual pieces of information that the plane contained no airline markings and it was buried in ancient earth with dinosaur bones, Bruce was able to convince the head of his department, Jeff Westwood, that both he and Samir were needed at this apparent crash site. God help him, Bruce knew he couldn’t face this one alone. And it was time for young Samir to learn the level of suffering this job required.

***

Bruce and Samir boarded a flight to Las Vegas early the next morning. The plane they were on hadn’t crashed so far: Bruce looked out the passenger window as they began to descend into cloudless, turbulent sky, preparing to land at McCarran. Would it be that much worse, he wondered, if this plane went down before the investigation began? The odds of a commercial aircraft crashing had grown considerably longer since he had begun his career. Nevertheless, his fears had increased. After all, many of the flights he encountered were crashes, most of the others being flights to those crash sites. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a flight to a vacation site.

The information his department had provided over the past decades had led to improved manufacturing standards, drastically reducing mechanical failures. Jesus, he thought, I’ve worked my whole life to make myself obsolete.

Nevertheless, Bruce knew his job was secure. While planes rarely failed, those at the controls often did. The senior crash investigator gripped his armrests as the plane descended. He’d never bought a lottery ticket because he lived in fear of defying the odds. No matter how much he strived to make flying safer, he had always believed he would die on a plane.

Still, Bruce couldn’t help but take a moment to savor the irony of who would be sent to investigate the tragedy of this death.

Diary entry #17

We crashed nearly 24 hours ago. It is impossible to believe that no one has come to rescue us. The survivors begin to mutter conspiracy theories: Our government has done this to us as a thought experiment. We have traversed time and space. None of us knows the truth. But something truly odd has happened, beyond the rough flight and terrifying landing.

Despite our varying levels of sanity, injury, and anger, we cannot help but notice the beauty of our surroundings: lush and tropical. We have left the Pacific Northwest, but we are not in the Western desert. We are not in the fertile Midwest. We are not in the humid bayous of the South. We are not in America, it seems. We are somewhere else. But where are we?

And why has no one come to rescue us after this much time?

Chapter Two

Departure

1

William’s red-eye flight was scheduled to depart just after midnight, still three hours away. At home and waiting for his rideshare driver, William drank a cup of coffee and then added another splash of vodka to the remains. He planned to stay awake on the plane throughout the night, and he was fine with appearing at his business meeting a little disheveled. Maybe he’d have a couple more drinks en route.

He’d just been hired by Nike to work in the communications department. When his current company had overlooked him for promotion he’d gone large, applying for his dream job. This fuck-you attitude was new to William, and he was enjoying the ride.

After he lost out on a promotion to a younger co-worker, he wondered if he was washed up at 34. Two weeks later his boss had called him into his office and asked him to coach young Kody on syntax and grammar. Apparently, Kody was tremendously advanced in social media communication, but he’d neglected to master the written nuances of his mother tongue. Jesus, William thought, Kody didn’t even spell his own name properly. Hadn’t that been a clue to his bosses before they promoted him?

William took a look at himself in the mirror as he slipped a few necessary toiletries into his computer bag. He’d shaved that morning, but he was a twice-a-day shaver. He didn’t care, wanting to look a little roughed up—bleary-eyed and stubbled—when he arrived. He was beginning to develop a bit of fat under his chin, he thought, losing his youthful looks. So far, so good.

The rideshare driver alerted him that he was approaching, and William dumped his coffee and a hefty dose of vodka into his to-go cup. Then he headed to the door, protecting his drink more than the computer bag slung over his shoulder. He’d brought no baggage. After all, he’d be home by tomorrow afternoon, and he had no plan to sleep during the night while he was writing his lengthy FU emails.

In the meeting, he would give his two-week notice, knowing that he’d be summarily relieved of his position, cashed out by HR, receiving all the pay for vacation days he’d never been able to take, a huge point of disagreement between him and Katrina. He’d canceled so many vacations and dinners with her because of work that she’d eventually responded in kind, cancelling their wedding when he didn’t get his long-promised promotion. He liked to muse that she had decided to marry semi-literate Kody in his stead.

Only after he’d collected his pay and was on his return flight back to Portland would he send his FU emails.

***

Thirty minutes later, William’s rideshare pulled up to the curb at the departure sign at American Cruise Airlines.

Thanks, William said to his driver, trying to hand the older man a 20 before clambering out of the immaculate Prius.

I cannot accept cash, the driver said. You can tip me on your app.

William wanted everyone to share in his newfound good fortune, but Katrina had always said he was a good-karma kill before she broke off the engagement. He wanted to prove her wrong.

Okay, I’ll do that, William said.

Much appreciated! Please don’t forget, the driver called as William began to make his way toward the airport entrance.

Hey, watch where you’re going, mutherfucker!

William turned to see a short muscular man with tattoos yell at the Prius he had just exited. His rideshare driver swerved around the man, but a Toyota Land Cruiser plowed into the car he had just left. His driver appeared to be uninjured, cursing and screaming at the people rushing from the other vehicle.

Come on, Bruce, get a fucking move on, a young woman draped in flannel called to the old guy trying to squeeze out of the passenger seat, the door partially wedged against the Prius. I’m doing the best I can, Andrea. The large older bearded man finally made his way through the tight passage.

The two men and two women from the Land Cruiser ran at William, the younger Indian man pushing William aside without a word. The older woman mumbled a quick apology, and the older man trailed behind.

William wondered why they all seemed so crazed. A little rattled, he made his way into the airport. He finished off his vodka coffee, dropping his empty cup in a trash bin. He had a hunch he was going to need quite a bit more booze and caffeine to get him through this trip.

It didn’t occur to William until he was on the plane with his phone shut off that he had forgotten to give his driver the good-karma tip. William would do that as soon as the plane landed.

2

Dalton wanted to go to college on an academic scholarship, but his father had insisted that he also apply to schools that would consider offering him reduced tuition or a full-ride based on his archery ability.

Years ago, when he was eight, Dalton’s parents had taken him to a carnival where he’d displayed such an amazing ability to puncture balloons with tiny darts that they’d signed him up for archery classes. Over the years, he had impressed his instructors with his clear vision, accurate aim, and steady hands.

And so Dalton had agreed to go to summer archery camp at the University of Georgia between his junior and senior years in high school, knowing full well that only a few universities offered scholarships for this medieval talent.

Upon acceptance, the university had sent him an aluminum arrow that must have cost at least a hundred bucks. The arrow was engraved with the dates and location of the camp. The camp director had requested that all participants bring the arrow with them for reasons that would be disclosed sometime after they arrived.

Dalton was a lithe guy, and it had taken all of his 17 years for girls to finally start to take notice of him. Rachelle Wynn had recently started following his Instagram stories and Snapchats. She was probably the best-looking girl in his class. Dalton spent a lot of time considering the shifting rankings of female beauty based on physical attributes, personality, and intelligence. And, of course, reciprocal attention—that instantly made a girl more attractive to him.

Dalton had long thin arms that were just beginning to develop the indentations of growing musculature. He weighed a buck forty at 5’ 10". And he had told his parents, as much as he loved them, that he wanted to fly to Atlanta alone. Jesus, it would be really pathetic to show up at archery camp with your mom and dad.

***

Before he left, Dalton downloaded books he wanted to read on the flight. His goal was to become an archeologist or biologist, or maybe a geologist. He didn’t quite understand all the distinctions between these sometimes overlapping fields. But he knew he wanted to study how the world worked or, perhaps, how it had worked eons ago.

As his parents drove him to the airport he received a text from his best friend Allison: You gonna miss me? She was too much like a sister to be girlfriend material.

Don’t be Cupid. I’ll hit you back, he typed, using his thumbs. Then he added an arched eyebrow emoji, his symbol for her nickname for him: Archy.

3

Sarah entered the airport, noting that security had wrestled four people to the ground, holding them with hands cuffed behind their backs. Security dogs frothed nearby. What crime had they committed? Maybe they were drug dealers? The captives didn’t look like terrorists, but it was impossible for her to imagine anyone being a terrorist. And yet one of her greatest fears was encountering terrorism while flying.

My name is Bruce Ackland! One of the men yelled at the security officer. I’m a Senior Air Crash investigator.

Sarah hadn’t flown since she was young, but she had forced herself to gather the courage to board a plane to Atlanta, where her mother now lived. Her husband Hassan had asked for a divorce earlier that week, and she didn’t know who else to turn to. And so she’d booked the next available flight.

Seeing the people under arrest increased her anxiety. Even though she had expected something like this, she wondered why an air crash investigator was being arrested at an airport.

Sarah was a poet and memoir writer, but she made her living teaching at a community college. For a teacher, she was shy in the classroom, often receiving disappointing student reviews from the more aggressive students who demanded better grades than their work deserved. She’d found it difficult to explain to a financially strapped student who wanted to become a medical doctor that her writing was merely average for a college student. Sarah’s department had supported her when this student had formally challenged her grade.

Sarah took her place in the line for screening.

Did you pack your bag yourself? The TSA agent asked.

Yes, of course, Sarah answered.

Could anyone have tampered with it?

I don’t think so, she said. I never let it out of my sight, but I guess you never know.

The TSA agent looked at her sharply, and Sarah then realized she’d spoken incorrectly, as Hassan had so often told her she did. But she had only been honest! Someone could have tampered with her bag. It truly wasn’t something out of the realm of possibility. She felt like bursting into tears, but the agent waved her through. Sarah was able to fight the desire to cry, but her chest continued to pound.

After she passed through TSA screening, she made her way to her gate, finding a seat as far away from other people as possible. She began to write in the journal she had bought the day before, recounting her thoughts about the people who had been arrested and what that portended.

***

When they called her group number, Sarah approached the gate. She could see the enormous aircraft parked outside, waiting for its passengers. She trudged ahead slowly, like a cow in line for slaughter.

Welcome to American Cruise Airlines, a friendly flight attendant said to Sarah a few minutes later as she boarded the plane.

She looked at the Asian woman’s nametag: Lindsey. Thank you, Sarah said, trying to still the panic she continued to feel.

Sarah made her way down the aisle to her seat in the same row where an attractive man with a couple days of beard growth sat slumped against the window. She struggled to raise her heavy carry-on bag into the overhead bin. The man glanced at her, but he didn’t offer to help.

Sorry, he said as she made her way into her seat. I was in my own world. I should have helped you.

Sarah tried not to respond to this, but she had a strange affinity for a man who readily admitted to a personal failing after the fact rather than one who played hero-to-the-rescue, as Hassan always had. There aren’t very many people on this plane, she said, a little proud of herself for neither condemning the unshaved man nor accepting his apology. Isn’t it odd that we’re seated in the same row? Considering how few people there are on this flight?

Not really, he said. This is the exit row. We’re the ones the airline has deemed able-bodied, capable enough in the event of impending tragedy.

He was a bit caustic, she thought, but he had taken note of her, now sitting up in his seat. He seemed a little loose, maybe a bit drunk. I wouldn’t know what to do, she said, realizing that she liked his large nose, muscular forearms, and the small amount of fat below his chin. He was still handsome, but likely a few years past his prime.

Nor would I, he said, flashing his white teeth with a genuine smile. But the flight crew will tell us soon, and we’ll nod our heads and agree without bothering to listen to them.

We will? she said. I haven’t flown in years. Why would we do that?

Because these are the best coach seats on this wretched plane, and we want to keep them. We’re lucky this plane has so few people on it. After the pilots and the flight attendants we’re the next in charge.

Sarah wasn’t sure that she liked the man’s attitude, both friendly and teasing. But he was attractive, even compelling. He leaned back against the window, closing his eyes. She took out her book, hoping to read until the plane reached altitude. But she found her mind wandering back to the events of those arrested in the airport and Hassan’s request for a divorce. Instead, she took out her journal, and she began to add another entry.

4

No matter how many times he flew, Marcus always worried during takeoff and landing. After he left the armed services, he’d needed a job. He was hired by the FAA, and they assigned him mostly to American Cruise Airlines flights, believing this was the best fit. Years before that Marcus had played football at Ole Miss, but he’d never been able to make it beyond the practice squad in the NFL. Back in the day that had equated to dick bubkis in terms of pay.

After he married Gloriana and they’d had their first baby, he’d given up football and joined the army. After two more babies and an equal number of tours of duty in Afghanistan, he’d left the military, signing on as an Air Marshall for the U.S. government. He was proud of his current status, but he was forbidden from mentioning it when he was flying. This was difficult for Marcus because, as some liked to