Chapter 22 - Confrontation on the Tarmac
The autumn clouds hung low and bruised over Lake Erie, spitting a bitter, needles-sharp mist across the asphalt of Burke Lakefront Airport. By three o'clock that afternoon, our twin-engine Baron was tied down at the general aviation ramp, and Arthur’s black town car was tearing through the perimeter security gate with a court-signed emergency writ resting on the dashboard.
Across the tarmac, parked beneath the towering floodlights of the Great Lakes Air Cargo freight terminal, sat the beast: a weathered McDonnell Douglas DC-8 cargo jet, painted in dull gray and orange, its four massive turbofan engines dripping with rain. A crew of half a dozen ground mechanics in grease-stained coveralls were scurrying around the number-two engine pylon, hastily tightening access panels with pneumatic wrenches.
Standing near the mobile boarding stairs, holding a clipboard and barking orders into an expensive smartphone, was Victor Ross.
He was wearing a tailored camel-hair coat that shielded him from the biting lake wind, but the icy composure he had displayed during the congressional hearings in Washington had frayed around the edges. When the headlights of our vehicle swept across him, he froze, dropping his phone to his side.
I stepped out of the vehicle first, my Army aviator leather jacket zipped tight against the chill, my boots striking the wet tarmac with deliberate, unhurried cadence. Arthur flanked me on my left, his legal brief held like a drawn sword.
"Ross!" Arthur’s voice cut through the whine of the auxiliary power unit like a gunshot. "Step away from that engine cowl!"
Ross forced an arrogant, dismissive smirk onto his face, though his eyes darted nervously toward the private security guards lingering near the hangar door. "Arthur. Major Braddock. To what do I owe the displeasure? If this is another one of your sanctimonious foundation publicity stunts, save your breath. The press isn't here to film you."
"We don't need the press, Victor," Arthur said, stopping three paces from the lawyer and presenting the embossed federal document. "This is an immediate cease-and-desist order issued by Senior District Judge Miller of the Northern District of Ohio. All operational clearances for Apex Fleet Services hardware are suspended pending metallurgical analysis. Step down your crew."
Ross didn't even look at the paper. He tucked his hands into his camel-hair pockets and let out a cold, wheezing laugh. "Judge Miller’s jurisdiction applies to passenger transport under Part 121, Arthur. Perhaps you forgot to read the recent regulatory carve-out for contract supplemental freight. This aircraft is operating under a Part 125 private carriage exemption. Your little piece of paper is toilet paper until Monday morning at ten o'clock."
"It won't make it to Monday morning, Ross," I said, stepping past Arthur until I was standing inches from Ross’s polished leather shoes. The scent of expensive cologne couldn't mask the nervous sweat coming off him. "You installed the serial-number-four hundred series junction boxes on that forward starboard pylon. The copper casing is substandard alloy. At continuous takeoff thrust, the thermal expansion will fracture the wiring harness within twenty minutes of climb-out. You will trigger an uncontainable electrical fire in the exact same manner that nearly killed three hundred people over Gander."
Ross’s eyes narrowed into slits of venomous hatred. "You think you're untouchable because the internet turned you into an overnight saint, don't you, Major? A lucky housewife who caught a break on an icy runway. You don't know the economics of this industry. If that plane sits on this ramp overnight, the supply chain penalty is two million dollars. My investors will not pay that penalty."
From the cockpit window forty feet above our heads, the side window slid open. An older man with a weathered face and a gray mustache leaned out into the rain, looking down at the commotion. His epaulets bore three gold stripes.
"Hey! What's the holdup down there?" the pilot shouted over the roar of the APU. "Tower gave us our departure slot for twenty past the hour! If we miss the window, the squall over Ontario shuts down our clearance!"
"Ignore them, Captain!" Ross shouted back, waving his arm aggressively toward the stairs. "Secure the main door! Prepare for pushback!"
I didn't argue with Ross. I turned away from him, walked straight to the base of the boarding ladder, and planted my boots on the lowest rung.
May you like
"Major Braddock, touch that ladder and I will have airport police arrest you for federal trespass!" Ross screamed, his voice cracking with shrill desperation.
I looked down at him over my shoulder, my gaze colder than the Arctic ice of Keflavik. "Call them, Victor. Tell them Quinn Braddock is standing on your wing. Let's see whose side the police take when they get here."
