OUR
New World 555
16:24 GMT/11:24 EST
In the thirteen years she’d been a flight attendant, Mariella Ponti had flown with all kinds of pilots. There were those like
her husband Tony—decent guys who got along with everybody—and there were the ego-driven jerks who thought they were God’s
gift. Now there were the Boyds, too, the scabs, the strutting young captains, cocky and arrogant. Maybe it took that type
to do what they’d done. “Full of themselves,” as Tony had said, when they’d simply come too far too fast. It took all Ponti
had to be civil to them. Boyd didn’t even look like a pilot; he looked more like a yuppie executive—at the opposite end of
the spectrum from Emil Pate. Emil was a guy you’d immediately guess was a pilot. Something in the eyes, and in the way he
moved, spoke, acted when he was in the cockpit.
Ponti thought about it as she waited for the coffee to finish brewing. Scabs or not, there were more of Boyd’s kind these
days, fewer of Pate’s. At Westar there’d been a group of them—Tom Locke, Deke Keller, “Hug” Matthews (she’d never even known
Hug’s real name)—mostly ex–Air Force, Navy or Marines. They were proud, not arrogant. She’d never felt slighted by them, or
offended by their antics. They believed in working hard and playing hard, and on the ground they’d all been pretty crazy—Emil,
too, before he’d gotten married. He had been so different then, always smiling, laughing, always a story to tell. He’d pulled
stunts on layovers, and chased the girls—he’d chased her a little, in a polite sort of way, she remembered now with a smile.
But he was a pilot, completely professional. She’d always felt a little easier when someone like Emil was flying the plane.
Not today, though. It was so wrong, she thought as she slid the coffee carafe out of the machine. How could Jack Farraday
have done this to the ones who had stayed? He had to have known they’d end up crewed with the strikebreakers. It had to be
hurting Emil Pate terribly. Was that why he’d seemed so surprised to see her, though? She’d noted the look in his eyes. Maybe
something else was bothering him, besides Boyd.
Ponti poured coffee, added creamer, and dropped in a plastic stirstick. Then she pushed open the folding door to the cockpit
again and handed the coffee forward to Boyd.
“Still okay, Emil?”
“Fine.” He didn’t turn his head.
She stepped back again but hesitated, watching Pate’s big, square, brown hand move to do something, then move again. His dark
hair was long on his neck, longer than that of most pilots. Suddenly, remembering her husband’s agonizing, his sleepless nights,
the whole awful year just past, she felt acutely sorry for Emil Pate, who was older and had probably lost a lot more. Maybe
in Phoenix there’d be an opportunity for them to talk.
“What are you doing for lunch?” she asked, touching Pate’s shoulder again.
Before Pate could answer, Boyd turned his head, smiling at her. “We’ve got an hour and a half. You girls got any ideas?” His
eyes leered at her smugly.
“No big plans,” she said, trying not to encourage him. We’re just thinking of going for a burrito at the Mexican place on
the A concourse.”
“Sure,” Boyd said. “Sounds good. All three of you going, right?”
“How about you, Emil?” she stepped forward again and touched his shoulder. “You interested?”
Pate turned his head the other way again, to look out the side window. “Yeah, maybe.”
Ponti stepped back, sorrier than ever. It seemed he didn’t want company. But she’d make him go with them, she decided. And
while Boyd was trying to start something with the others, she’d find out what was the matter. “Okay, guys,” she said.
“You need anything, just holler.”
“Okay,” Boyd said. “See you later.”
First class was booked to eight—about normal for an off Saturday. Senator Sanford and his aide
New World 555
16:24 GMT/11:24 EST
In the thirteen years she’d been a flight attendant, Mariella Ponti had flown with all kinds of pilots. There were those like
her husband Tony—decent guys who got along with everybody—and there were the ego-driven jerks who thought they were God’s
gift. Now there were the Boyds, too, the scabs, the strutting young captains, cocky and arrogant. Maybe it took that type
to do what they’d done. “Full of themselves,” as Tony had said, when they’d simply come too far too fast. It took all Ponti
had to be civil to them. Boyd didn’t even look like a pilot; he looked more like a yuppie executive—at the opposite end of
the spectrum from Emil Pate. Emil was a guy you’d immediately guess was a pilot. Something in the eyes, and in the way he
moved, spoke, acted when he was in the cockpit.
Ponti thought about it as she waited for the coffee to finish brewing. Scabs or not, there were more of Boyd’s kind these
days, fewer of Pate’s. At Westar there’d been a group of them—Tom Locke, Deke Keller, “Hug” Matthews (she’d never even known
Hug’s real name)—mostly ex–Air Force, Navy or Marines. They were proud, not arrogant. She’d never felt slighted by them, or
offended by their antics. They believed in working hard and playing hard, and on the ground they’d all been pretty crazy—Emil,
too, before he’d gotten married. He had been so different then, always smiling, laughing, always a story to tell. He’d pulled
stunts on layovers, and chased the girls—he’d chased her a little, in a polite sort of way, she remembered now with a smile.
But he was a pilot, completely professional. She’d always felt a little easier when someone like Emil was flying the plane.
Not today, though. It was so wrong, she thought as she slid the coffee carafe out of the machine. How could Jack Farraday
have done this to the ones who had stayed? He had to have known they’d end up crewed with the strikebreakers. It had to be
hurting Emil Pate terribly. Was that why he’d seemed so surprised to see her, though? She’d noted the look in his eyes. Maybe
something else was bothering him, besides Boyd.
Ponti poured coffee, added creamer, and dropped in a plastic stirstick. Then she pushed open the folding door to the cockpit
again and handed the coffee forward to Boyd.
“Still okay, Emil?”
“Fine.” He didn’t turn his head.
She stepped back again but hesitated, watching Pate’s big, square, brown hand move to do something, then move again. His dark
hair was long on his neck, longer than that of most pilots. Suddenly, remembering her husband’s agonizing, his sleepless nights,
the whole awful year just past, she felt acutely sorry for Emil Pate, who was older and had probably lost a lot more. Maybe
in Phoenix there’d be an opportunity for them to talk.
“What are you doing for lunch?” she asked, touching Pate’s shoulder again.
Before Pate could answer, Boyd turned his head, smiling at her. “We’ve got an hour and a half. You girls got any ideas?” His
eyes leered at her smugly.
“No big plans,” she said, trying not to encourage him. We’re just thinking of going for a burrito at the Mexican place on
the A concourse.”
“Sure,” Boyd said. “Sounds good. All three of you going, right?”
“How about you, Emil?” she stepped forward again and touched his shoulder. “You interested?”
Pate turned his head the other way again, to look out the side window. “Yeah, maybe.”
Ponti stepped back, sorrier than ever. It seemed he didn’t want company. But she’d make him go with them, she decided. And
while Boyd was trying to start something with the others, she’d find out what was the matter. “Okay, guys,” she said.
“You need anything, just holler.”
“Okay,” Boyd said. “See you later.”
First class was booked to eight—about normal for an off Saturday. Senator Sanford and his aide
Similar Books
