If you are reading this, I have been murdered.
As a senior stewardess, sometimes it is my job to check people onto the plane. Each traveller hands me their boarding pass and I slide it under a scanner and let them board the aircraft. Today, before our pre-boarding check-in, I received a phone call from our airline administration center.
A husky man’s voice came on the line. “Are you Carolyn St. Vincent?”
“I am.” I cleared my throat. Why was a stranger using this phone line? An ominous feeling consumed me and my free hand started twitching.
“Are there any passengers who have been earmarked on your computer as having military or police training?”
I scanned the console. Two men and one woman had military boarding flags. “I see three priority flags.” I hoped that these service people would be receiving a special first-class upgrade as sometimes happens. Deep in my gut, I knew that this was not going to happen today.
“Deny them entry onto that aircraft!” The man’s voice was harsh. I scanned the crowd milling around. As usual, all of the priority-three boarders had formed a wide disorganized queue, even though they still had a long wait. All this did was delay the boarding, because they blocked the path of the priority ticket holders. I did see one man in camouflage and he had kind eyes. He did not look like a security threat, much less a terrorist.
“What shall I tell them?” I gritted my teeth and started chewing on my cheek. I despise taking the wrath of disgruntled passengers over situations that are not my fault.
“Those three may not board this flight. Put them on any later flight. You may even bump other passengers from those flights if necessary.”
“But…”
“That is all.” The man hung up. I spotted a woman in a sharp navy outfit and regal bearing. I could imagine being friends with a woman like that. I called the three of them to the front desk and explained the situation. I was grateful for their calm response as I rebooked their flights. The rest of check-in went as normal. I secretly enjoy helping the families with little ones board first. They look so tired but always offer sincere gratitude for my assistance.
“You’ve got a call.” My assistant Amy told me. “It’s the hospital.”
I turned over economy boarding to Amy and took the call. “Yes?”
A woman with a very nasal voice spoke each word in staccato. “Hi, I’m calling from Central County Hospital where we have been keeping your mother under observation.”
“Yes! Is she all right?”
The emotionless voice sounded like she was reading from a script. “There’s been a setback. I highly recommend you come by today as she may not have long to live.”
I barely remember finishing the call and arranging for another flight steward to handle flight 680. What I do remember is the black SUV with darkened windows that followed me.
I made some abrupt turns that seemed to loose my pursuers. My jazz station was interrupted by an emergency broadcast. Flight 680 had just been seized by terrorists.
Here I sit, next to my unconscious mother writing this. She is indeed teetering on death’s door. I can see through the glass mirrors. In the hallway, men in dark suits are walking towards me….