The four men sat in Newark International Airport waiting to board their plane, totally oblivious of each other. Disaster would bring them together in a way not one of them ever expected.
The day started out hot and humid with a thick fog over New Jersey's leaden skies.
Four men, Mayor Todd Elkins, age 48, from a tiny Georgia town, Charles Carson, PhD, age 59, a New Hampshire scientist, Victor Rothby, age 54, an Ohio car dealership owner and Emerick Pickard, age 61, an oilman from Texas, sat reading newspapers, toying with their smart phones or munching on fast food, airport cafe breakfasts.
They awaited Flight 699 to San Diego by way of Houston.
Carson pulled out a ream of research papers and poured over them, while Pickard sashayed over to the flight board to check on the flight status.
Elkins watched Pickard's expression of disgust when the words "Delayed" didn't change to "Now Boarding."
Victor Rothby buried his nose in a newspaper.
After about one hour of frustration, a public address system announced loudly,
"Flight 699 is now boarding."
Carson and Pickard were flying first class, courtesy of their respective businesses.
Carson was Vice President of Genomics, an R and D company bent on finding a way to reproduce genes of the country's brainiest.
Pickard was President of his own oil company, Allied Petroleum.
Todd Elkins, served two terms as mayor and Victor Rothby, owner of V and J Auto Emporium, flew business class.
Slowly, passengers boarded and waited. Another twenty minute delay.
"You'd think this airline would be able to get a plane off the ground on time," Carson told Pickard.
"Can't say as I disagree," Pickard said.
"Name's Pickard, Emerick Pickard. Most folks call me "Rick," he added.
"I'm Charles Carson."
The two men shook hands perfunctorily.
The plane finally took off and headed west to its destination. Pickard sat in the seat nearest the window. Carson...on the aisle.
In the business section, Elkins and Rothby sat side-by-side avoiding each other's glances. Strangely enough, their vibes flew back and forth like race cars speeding down a track. In the rest of the seats, other men and women, mostly in business attire shifted in their seats impatiently.
Finally, the airline captain announced takeoff, to the relief and delight of all aboard.
Rick Pickard sat silently considering what he should tell the boys back at Allied about the meeting he'd attended in New York. He was sure they weren't going to be thrilled with the information he had on one of their biggest oil competitors, Janus Oil. Or, the final decision he made to resolve Allied's problem with Janus.
For several years, Rick knew Janus was after a hostile takeover of a dozen small Texas oil companies. He always believed Allied was not in their sights. This would mean a struggle to keep the vultures from picking at Allied's bones. He glanced over at Charles Carson.
Carson looked up from the paperwork momentarily.
"Looks like a lot of paperwork there. Almost reminds me of my desk back in Houston," Pickard said.
"You're in oil, then?" Carson asked.
"Yessir. Been in oil since my great granddaddy found it on our 2,000 acres ranch back in the late 1800s. Gushers. That's what made my state great," Pickard boasted.
"I'm a scientist. I'm VP at Genomics. These are really proprietary research papers. If you're in oil, I don't think I have to worry you'll try to steal these," Carson said.
"Steal papers with all that scientific who-hah on them? Wouldn't bother, sir."
"Where are you headed?" Carson asked.
"Back home to Houston. Got a family there. You know...wife, two sons and one beautiful daughter," Pickard boasted.
"I have just one daughter. My wife is a financial manager on Wall Street. She travels a lot," Carson said.
"Well, I need to get back to my reading. I'm making a presentation to the US Dept. of Health, in San Diego," Carson said.
The two men went back into the long silence of their first meeting.
An hour passed as they flew toward Houston. It would be at least another two hours before the plane landed, passengers disembarked and the plane took off again for San Diego.
The flight attendant began to roll a refreshment tray down the aisle of business class. It wasn't quite the bag of peanuts and can of soda pop the coach class was served. First class, of course, would be served a sumptuous brunch of their choice.
"Can I offer you gentleman light refreshment?" the attendant asked.
"Yes. I'll have the roast beef sandwich," Rothby said.
"I'll have the chicken salad on rye," Elkins said.
"And what will you have to drink? We have coffee, tea, soda pop, fruit juice or water."
"Definitely, coffee for me," Rothby said.
"And me, as well," Elkins said.
The two men sat munching their sandwiches.
"My name's Victor Rothby. Guess I should have introduced myself earlier on," he said.
"Mayor Todd Elkins here," Elkins said.
"You're a town mayor or somethin'?" Rothby asked.
"Yes. You?"
"Dealership owner, cars and pickups mostly," Rothby said.
"Ladies and gentlemen. We're going to experience a bit of turbulence. When the attendants have cleared your trays, please buckle your seat belts. We are heading into a minor storm over Oklahoma," the captain announced.
"If I didn't know better, I'd swear this Flight 699 was star crossed," Carson told Pickard.
"Another problem?" Rothby said to Elkins.
"Sounds like it," Elkins replied.
"Devil, if this plane isn't the worst yet," Rothby said.
A minor storm over Oklahoma had the Captain and crew on alert. They'd seen these things come and go before and it never amounted to more than a wrinkle in one's brow. Captain Thomas Brinton and his co-pilot, Jay Decker, kept their eyes peeled on their instrumentation.
"Not to worry. This time of year, these things happen all the time," Brinton reassured Decker.
Decker was new to the airline and the route from Newark to San Diego was not as familiar. This was his dry run. Brinton was the seasoned pilot who'd been working for the airline for almost fifteen years. He was the best pilot for Decker to fly with. The two men had a "father-son" work relationship by all accounts.
It wouldn't matter. In less than one hour, only the plane's black box would live to tell the story of Flight 699.
Brinton had a bad feeling. He'd seen storms over the midwest many times before. But, there was something peculiar about this one. Generally, he could fly above or below the storm, depending on conditions. The fog ahead was also familiar. It was usually the precursor to heavy rain ahead. It was the wall of fog that was different. Brinton shifted in his seat.
"Decker, this fog is a bit different than I've seen before. Best we prepare for a landing at the next airport."
"You think there will be a problem?" Decker asked.
"This is the oddest fog I've ever seen. More like a mass of linen sheets. Too too much opacity to them," Brinton said.
"Should I contact the tower for instruction now?" Decker asked.
"I'll do it. I need to ask a couple of questions after I sift through their instructions," Brinton said.
"I'll go and prepare the attendants with a heads up," Decker said.
"Yes. Just don't start a panic."
"No sir. I surely won't."
Decker knew that a seasoned pilot like Brinton being worried about fog was bad news. How bad, Decker would soon find out.
As Decker walked into the outer cabin, three attendants were standing facing him with worried expressions on their faces.
"Oh now. It's just fog. We'll land at the next airport as soon as we have instructions," Decker said.
"How bad is the fog, really?" Business class flight attendant, Josh Howard asked.
"Bad enough for us to detour to the nearest airport. But, not bad enough to panic passengers," Decker reassured him.
"Should we announce to the passengers their will be a flight detour?" Annie Owens, the coach class attendant asked.
"The captain will do that soon as he has landing instructions," Decker said.
"Are there any other instructions for us in the meantime?" Calista Henning, first class attendant asked.
"No. Just keep everyone calm. They are already on edge from the delayed flight in Newark," Decker advised.
As soon as Decker opened the door to the pilot's cabin, he felt turbulence: a slight bump like going over a small hill.
"I've gotten landing instructions. We're to head for Boise Airport. We'll depart from there to Houston as soon as we get clearance from the tower," Brinton said.
"Boise? Why not Tulsa?" Decker asked.
"We too far out of the range of a landing at Tulsa. I don't want to chance a shift in direction to Tulsa that might make this fog situation worse than it is," Brinton said.
Decker sat with a sinking feeling in his stomach as he looked out at a fog so thick, it was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead of the nose of the plane. Within five minutes, the fog became thick and soupy and began to swirl around in front of them.
Brinton decreased altitude hoping the fog was only in the upper atmosphere.
"You know something? In all my fifteen years as a pilot for this airline, I can't recall a single incident like this one," Brinton said.
No sooner had the words fallen from his lips than the plane began to lose altitude faster and faster.
"What's wrong?" Decker asked.
"Oh my God! We're inside a twister. We're losing altitude," Brinton said.
He made an announcement that would never be heard on the PA system.
Carson and Pickard stared at each other, as they watche fog swirling outside the plane window.
"I think we're going to crash," Carson said, shocked.
"Why doesn't the pilot do something?" Pickard asked.
Soon everyone in first class knew what was coming. The sound of the first class rumblings spread to business and coach classes like lightening.
The whistling sound of the faster descent suddenly made friends of perfect strangers.
"Looks like I'll never get back to Houston after all," Pickard said.
Carson had a worried look on his usually stone-like countenance.
"Looks as if my paper on isolating intelligent genes won't be presented. It would have been a major scientific breakthrough. Think about it. Whole future generations of super-intelligent children," Carson muttered.
In business class, Elkins and Rothby ticked off the moments to their final end.
"If I'm gonna meet the Big Man upstairs, I want to go out with a clean conscience," Elkins said.
"What do you mean?" Rothby asked.
"My mayoralty was a lie, beginning to end. It was a facade created by outside donors to my campaign, who literally bought me the job," Elkins said.
"You do what you have to do to win. That's why my business is so successful. Oh sure, I didn't always play by the rules. No one in my business ever did either. How else was I going to take care of my family?" Rothby asked.
"You saying you made deals that weren't on the up and up?" Elkins asked.
"Up and up? More like down and dirty," Rothby said.
The expression on both men's faces reflected their fears.
Carson spoke again.
"This paper. Some of it is based on theories that are not really new," he said.
"What do you mean?" Pickard asked.
"I copied many of the experiments from the Nazis. Some of their techniques were so far ahead of the times. It occurred to me that maybe they were too far ahead. Maybe, now was the time to revisit them," Carson said.
"Before this plane lands, I want to tell someone and get this off my conscience," Pickard said.
"What do you mean?" Carson asked.
"Allied Petroleum? My company? I sold it to the Arabs for one hundred times more than what our competitor tried to get it for...under a hostile takeover," Pickard said.
"So? What's wrong with that? It's just good business," Carson said.
"Not really "good" business. The Arabs I sold it to were tied to revolutionaries out to take all US oil interests over completely," Pickard said.
First, business and coach class cabins went black as Flight 699 disappeared into the cyclonic center of the fog, taking four men with skeletons in their closets with it.
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