Chapter 4 - THE GENERAL IN FIRST CLASS
His name was General Thomas Keane.
Retired.
Sixty-seven.
Former deputy commander of the aviation task force I served under.
Seat 2D.
First class.
When Jillian quietly showed me the passenger manifest, I almost laughed.
Keane.
Nine years.
And twenty feet of cabin had separated us without my knowing.
“Do you recognize him?” Jillian asked.
“Yes.”
“Friend?”
“No.”
Enemy was too simple.
Keane had pinned a medal on my uniform.
Then six months later signed the report that ended my career.
The mission happened off the coast of North Africa.
We were told an abandoned warehouse contained weapons.
My flight struck it.
Four American intelligence contractors died inside.
No one told us they were there.
The official investigation blamed communications failure.
I accepted responsibility anyway.
My career ended quietly.
Two years later, Chicago offered me a different kind of cockpit.
One with no rules pretending to be clean.
Now someone claimed Keane intentionally put those men there.
“Bring him forward?” Aaron asked.
“No.”
“Why?”
“If he’s behind this, we bring him into the cockpit and hand him exactly what he wants.”
“What if he’s the target?”
That possibility mattered.
Someone might not be using me against the plane.
They might be using the plane against Keane.
I asked Jillian to observe him.
No confrontation.
She returned five minutes later.
“He’s awake.”
“Nervous?”
“Everyone’s nervous.”
“Anything unusual?”
“He asked why we changed course before anyone announced we changed course.”
Aaron looked at me.
“He knows.”
Maybe.
Then Jillian added:
“He also has a secure satellite phone.”
Civilian passengers did not casually carry functioning satellite phones in flight.
Keane did.
I told Jillian to invite him forward under the excuse of assisting with a security matter.
He entered ten minutes later.
The moment he saw me, he stopped.
“Hayes.”
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Too little surprise.
“You knew I was onboard.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked toward Aaron.
“Who is he?”
“The pilot trying to keep us alive.”
Keane studied the cockpit warnings.
“What happened?”
“You tell me.”
“I have no idea.”
“Someone knows my callsign.”
His face changed.
That one landed.
“Who?”
“They’re using HF.”
Keane looked genuinely disturbed.
“What did they say?”
“That my final mission was a setup.”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then:
“It was.”
Aaron looked at him.
My entire body went rigid.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“Who set us up?”
Keane looked older suddenly.
“Not here.”
I laughed without humor.
“We’re in a crippled aircraft over the Atlantic. I’m struggling to imagine a more appropriate venue.”
He rubbed his face.
“The warehouse was an unauthorized CIA site.”
“And?”
“The four contractors discovered an illegal weapons pipeline.”
“Whose?”
He looked directly at me.
“American.”
That silenced me.
A covert group had been moving seized weapons into private operations overseas.
The contractors found evidence.
Someone wanted the evidence gone.
My squadron was given false targeting intelligence.
I delivered the strike.
“You let me take the blame.”
“I kept you alive.”
My vision narrowed.
“Careful.”
“They wanted every pilot involved eliminated.”
“Who?”
Keane glanced at the cockpit door.
“A network that called itself Meridian.”
My blood froze.
I knew that name.
Not from the Navy.
From Chicago.
Three years earlier, my criminal organization had intercepted shipments belonging to a shell company called Meridian Global Logistics.
Weapons.
Military-grade.
We stole two containers.
Then the company disappeared.
Keane continued:
“You became a crime boss, Warren, and accidentally stole evidence from the same people who destroyed your career.”
Everything connected.
Then the cockpit phone rang.
Cabin interphone.
Jillian answered.
Her face drained of color.
“What?”
She looked at me.
“Norah is gone.”
I was out of my seat before she finished.
Seat 8B was empty.
Teddy bear gone.
No struggle.
No scream.
The passenger beside her said a flight attendant had taken her forward because her father asked for her.
No flight attendant had.
Then my encrypted phone buzzed.
A photograph appeared.
Norah inside a dark service compartment.
Crying.
Holding Bear.
The message beneath it read:
May you like
BRING KEANE TO THE AVIONICS BAY.
ALONE.
