Flight 12

FLIGHT 12 – a serial novel by Travis Creel

[Author's Note: Should you read this story? I'll tell you about it, and you can decide.

If you are seeking quick gratification, this may not be your cup of tea. My aspiration is to create an erotic adventure story with identifiable characters and a compelling plot. It could be at home in either Authoritarian or Science Fiction - it's a bit of a hybrid. While the framework of the story is definitely sci-fi (of the 'what's going on here' variety), it's a human story with strong authoritarian elements - although these may not be immediately evident. I promise you plenty of sex, but be patient - Chapter One, for example, is all exposition.

"Flight 12" is a full-length, plotted-out novel. I've completed the first draft, so you need not worry that it will sputter to a halt in the middle when I get bored writing it. I won't post it all at once, however, as I plan to tweak each chapter (review for inconsistencies, improve the writing) before uploading.

The major inspirations for "Flight 12" were the American TV series LOST and an ancient myth. Familiarity with LOST is unnecessary – this isn't fan-fiction and has a vastly different plot, but if you know the show's basic premise you'll spot the influence. As for the myth: most characters are loosely linked to it, but as writing developed, myth-adherence took a back seat to plot construction. Nonetheless, if you want to play myth detective, there are a number of `Easter eggs'. I'll lay it all out afterwards.

Full disclosure: as in any adventure story worth its salt, danger is an element and occasional casualties may be incurred. When they are, it is purely to advance the plot and heighten suspense.

I hope you decide to read "Flight 12", and I hope you like it. – Travis Creel]

PROLOGUE – MONDAY, DECEMBER 31

ST. MORITZ, SWITZERLAND – JESÚS

The Board had objected to their Chairman attending in person. I considered that argument specious – the physical risk to myself was minuscule. But the optics were admittedly better if I subjugated my ego and remained here. Thanks to technology, we could all witness the moment – mere hours away – remotely.

• (Paolo) Congratulations, Jesús. After all those adjustments, The Project has finally arrived!

• Chicken-counting is premature, Paolo. Our Trigger Man could still nix this thing.

• (Simon) You're confident he will make the right choice?

• I'm optimistic, but there's no guarantee when free will is involved.

• (Ari) And if he doesn't?

• We start over.

• (Germán) It took years!

• (Falcon) It will go faster the second time.

• (Fred) It has to launch at midnight. Midnight precisely? What if he stalls?

• Thibaut, want to answer that?

• (Thibaut) The Project will launch at midnight if the Trigger acts within a twelve-minute window before then. He can't act too early, or even one second after midnight. If he does, The Project fails. The physics are very clear on that.

• (Dion) Midnight – our time or theirs?

• (Demetrius) Seriously, Dion? You don't know?

• (Dion) I'm too busy planning the launch party. Champagne, caviar, filet mignon.

• Better make it champagne and Eggs Benedict. Midnight on the island. Six a.m. here.

• (Arturo) Any clue as to which of us – ?

• The announcement will be made when the launch window opens, not before then. I know you're anxious, but you recognize why I can't make the reveal until then.

• (Ari) Jesús, you understand that if The Project fails, the Board may seek new leadership.

• . . . I'm well aware of that, Ari.

I'm also well aware of who you think that new leader should be.

THE ISLAND – SETH

It was seven minutes to midnight. The moment had arrived. This was the most consequential decision I would make in my entire life. And I wasn't even sure what the consequences were.

Would Jesús carry out his threats? Could I trust his word? He had lied before, but then he wasn't the only liar in the room, was he?

If I acted, it would alter the course of the world – unless it wouldn't. Maybe this thing would be a colossal failure. And then my actions would be merely tragic. They could cost me . . . everything.

But if I did not act, there would be dire consequences – if I could believe him. Immediate ones – and future ones.

To act, or not to act? Hamlet, I totally get you.

Hamish faced me, awaiting my decision. Jesús, on the monitor, peered at me intensely.

I took a deep breath, and spoke.

CHAPTER ONE – LET'S GO TO ARUBA

• • • • • • • • FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 30 (one month earlier) * * * * * * * *

CLEVELAND, OHIO – SETH

I needed the break. We both did. The last few weeks had had its ups and downs, and I was beginning to feel a little less secure about `us'.

We didn't live together. I wanted us to. After Megan – and the less said about that, the better – I'd gone through boyfriend after boyfriend; even though I was far from sure, I felt like Abe was The One.

Mostly, I thought Abe felt that way, too. The trip to Indiana two weeks ago had clearly brought us closer. But it hadn't solved it; there was something else troubling him, close to the surface. He'd snap at me for little things like asking if he'd gotten the research data from Ann Arbor. ("No, I haven't! Just leave it the fuck alone!") I felt like it was more than the stress over his father and frustration over his dissertation.

And then he didn't go with me to the Pearl Jam concert last Friday night. Sure, they're getting on in years, and Abe's tastes and mine have always diverged, but he usually accompanies me when a favorite band of mine is in town, and I let him drag me to the symphony and even (sigh) the opera. But this time he said no, without citing a reason. Which left me both annoyed and suspicious.

On Monday, Ann Arbor sent notice that they would release the data he had been seeking on December 10th. Which meant he could make no further progress until then.

Perfect time for a break, I told him. Get your mind off it, fly somewhere and bask in the sun. Saturday's your birthday, we need to celebrate it. Lately I'd been seeing a multitude of advertisements plugging Aruba; special offers kept popping up on my laptop. It seemed like the perfect spot for a romantic getaway.

• Look, there's nothing urgent at the office – I can take a few days off. How about a long weekend someplace warm? Leave Friday, back Tuesday. Refresh, re-establish, enjoy each other – without a thought of anything other than sun, sand, and Sex on the Beach.

• The drink or the activity?

• Depends on what kind of beach.

I could hear his grin over the phone.

• And where might this beach be? Florida?

• I was thinking Aruba.

• Kinda far, but attractive.

• Good, `cause I've reserved flights and a hotel there.

• . . . Nice of you to consult me beforehand.

• Reserved does not mean paid for. Free cancellation within 24 hours. I wouldn't commit without checking with you.

• What if I don't decide within 24 hours?

• Then I'll cancel and rebook when you make up your mind.

Abe took 21 of those 24 hours before making up his mind. But he did. So this morning we were off to Hopkins, thence to fly to Miami, thence to connect to American Airlines flight 462, direct to Queen Beatrix Airport, Oranjestad, Aruba. Huzzah.

COCKBURN, TURKS AND CAICOS – SETH

It was past hurricane season, but tell that to global warming. The pilot announced that, in order to avoid Tropical Storm Viv, we would take an initial course to the east. Abe joked about this leading us into the Bermuda Triangle – less funny when the pilot announced that due to mechanical problems we needed to make an emergency landing. We set down at JAGS McCartney Airport at Cockburn, on the island of Grand Turk. Abe posited that it was named for both Mick Jagger and Paul McCartney, but a plaque inside the tiny airport informed us that it was actually named for "James Alexander George Smith McCartney". His parents must have had a hard time deciding on a name.

Bad news: it would take at least 24 hours to fix the (undisclosed) mechanical problem. American couldn't furnish a replacement plane earlier than that, but a new regional carrier, ZTA (Zen Tropical Airways, which sounded both exotic and relaxing), could supply a plane that would take most of us to Aruba, departing in 75 minutes.

MOST of us? Well, ZTA's plane had fewer seats. Those left behind could take ZTA's regularly-scheduled 7:00 flight to Santo Domingo, for which plenty of seats were available. Unfortunately, the next plane from there to Aruba wasn't until tomorrow morning. They couldn't separate out the checked baggage, so it would all go on the first flight.

They solicited volunteers without bothering to bribe us with cash or free future flights. Guess how many there were. You got it: zero. So then they announced the protocol they would use to determine who got on the direct flight.

The first two priorities were logical: those with medical conditions and families with children. Then came the wacko move: ZTA claimed they had to give women priority over men, according to their operating charter. Their husbands could join them, but no other male traveling companions. No boyfriends, bosses, brothers, or whatevers. The rest of us were left seething, contemplating lawsuits, and wondering how the remaining seats would be filled.

They started calling names, and it became obvious they were selecting passengers in descending order of age. Given that I was a month shy of 29 and Abe a day shy of 25, we seemed destined to be leftovers.

I was surprised to see a man with graying hair remain behind. He was at least in his upper forties and spoke with an English accent. After they called the last name, he strode to the desk to complain. I was sufficiently close to eavesdrop.

• Excuse me, I didn't hear my name. Sir Edward Niemann?

Sir Edward? We had a British knight on our flight?

• (agent) I'm sorry, sir, your name's not on the list.

• Obviously, you were giving preference to older passengers. I should have been selected.

• Sir, the plane is completely full. I can't bump someone already on board.

Sir Edward looked like he was going to say, `Oh, yes you can,' but must have decided he was too English to make a scene. He sat down next to a young man no more than twenty, who looked to be his son. The boy had a long mane of red hair, an unkempt beard, and a face that connoted immaturity, impatience, and intransigence. And he was clearly peeved. While Sir Edward appeared British to the core, the young man spoke with an American accent. Perhaps they had migrated across the pond when he was a boy.

• Why did you do that?

• I should have been given priority. I am a KBE, after all, and older than all these left-behinds.

• You're that anxious to get away from me.

• Don't be obtuse. I would have insisted you board with me. Fathers traveling with children.

• I'm not a child. I'm nineteen. I can look after myself.

• Evidence to the contrary, Leo.

• Fuck you, Dad.

A heartwarming family scene.

There were about twenty other leftovers – all under forty, many of them hot, several of them gay, according to my gaydar. Then again, my gaydar is often overoptimistic.

I felt the need for chat, but had to be careful; Abe did not need to witness me jabbering with a sexy guy who might well be gay. Abe himself was deeply ensconced in his kindle, reading a set of short stories by Agatha Christie. He liked that sort of thing. No accounting for taste.

There was a chubby guy nearby who was safe. Even if he was gay, he certainly didn't attract me.

COCKBURN, TURKS AND CAICOS – HARRY

I knew this trip was a mistake. What was I thinking – I'm going off to Aruba to find fun and romance? I'd seen lots of ads promoting snorkeling in Aruba, and I'd thought: all those tropical fish – wow, that would be spectacular, wouldn't it? Once I got there, I'd go snorkeling!

If I could work up the nerve. I didn't exactly look great in swimming trunks. Why was I even thinking of going to a beach resort? Why did I book a place recommended as gay friendly? One look at me in swimming trunks would evoke suppressed giggles or unsuppressed scorn. Like my entire life. Face it, Harry, you're a failure at the age of twenty-seven.

The gods were trying their best to send me that message. First I nearly miss my flight to Miami. Then we have mechanical issues and have to emergency-land. Then they load up a plane to Aruba and I'm not on it. Someone up there is telling me I'm not supposed to go.

Got the message, guys.

So here I am with two dozen men, most of whom set my hormones ablaze. One in particular – five-o'-clock shadow, rugged face, rugged body. I could easily see him as a shirtless bartender at the Tinderbox. Not that I've ever been in the Tinderbox myself. But I've been across the street sometimes, fantasizing.

And he was barely three feet from me. I needed to avert my eyes.

• Just how you wanted to spend your vacation, huh?

What? Was he speaking to me? There was a dude next to him, but he was buried in a kindle, and my fantasy man was looking straight at me. Apparently thinking, "We're stuck here for a while, might as well break the boredom by chatting with the nearest available human." Which, alas for him, was me.

• Yes, I'm thrilled. When I booked, I specifically asked for the Mechanical Problems Special. Also, I'm collecting small airports of the world and now I can check JAGS McCartney Field off my list.

That was my defense mechanism kicking in. Humor. Jolly fat man image, you know. What else was I to do when this gorgeous hunk was talking to me?

• I hope you got a discount.

• On the contrary. I paid extra. You didn't book the Mechanical Problems Special?

• I like to be surprised.

Oh, god, look at that smile. I could melt. Maybe if I melted, I'd be slim enough that he'd find me attractive. Stop it, Harry, just revert to jovial sidekick mode.

• Well, I'm glad they could surprise you. I also purchased the Rejection Add-on, so that I wouldn't get picked for the first flight.

• I think you got your money's worth. (extending a hand) Seth Herrick.

• (oh, we're doing introductions?) Harry Mancini. Not to be confused with Hairy Mankini, which I am sometimes called. Because I look great in a mankini, I'm sure you can tell that.

• Are you hairy?

• You'll never find out.

Omigod, did I just say that? Like I'm flirting with the dude.

• Some people call me Harry Manthini, because on occasion I have a tendenthy to lithp.

And why did I say THAT? I haven't lisped since I was four. For some reason, I just announced that I'm gay. Good going, Harry. Shut up before you embarrass yourself further.

• Where you from, Harry?

• Philly.

• We're from Cleveland.

Yeah, I figured he was part of a we'. The dude with the kindle heard the we' and looked up. He took one look at me, nodded politely, and went back to his kindle. Ah, no worries. No chance his partner was flirting with anyone cute. Just talking to the fat guy.

• Abe's not feeling social at the moment. Too interested in solving mysteries. Apparently, in the first story, Poirot solves a doggie kidnapping. No wonder he can't tear himself away.

• Well, I'm going to tear myself away to catch a quick bite. Nice to meet you, Seth Herrick.

• Nice to meet you, Harry Mancini.

I wasn't hungry, but a fat guy in search of food was always a credible exit strategy. I needed to escape Mr. Seth Herrick and the anti-social Abe. Both of whom turned me on, for different reasons.

Hey, maybe the three of us could bang around Aruba together. Share margaritas in a hot tub, go to a nude beach, hire some cabana boys for the night.

And, to paraphrase Dorothy Parker, maybe the Statue of Liberty is located in the middle of Lake Ontario.

COCKBURN, TURKS AND CAICOS – SETH

• Did you make a date?

• Don't be mean, Abe.

• He was obviously drooling all over you.

• Did you observe me drooling all over him?

• I think you have better taste than that. Now if you started chatting with HIM, I'd be worried.

`Him' was a muscular, heavily-tattooed Black who looked like he could play offensive guard for the Cleveland Browns. The only man in the room I couldn't easily take in a fight.

• No, you wouldn't. He's not my type at all. He's your type. Should I buy him for your birthday?

• If he's not too expensive.

• I'll ask.

Abe smiled and returned to his kindle.

Moments later they announced that we leftovers were all booked on ZTA Flight 12 to Santo Domingo. Tomorrow morning, we would fly to Panama City on Copa, change planes, and be in Aruba by mid-afternoon. Twenty-two hours late. But Abe and I would still have three days together. Surely we were past the worst of it.

I mean, what else could happen?

COCKBURN, TURKS AND CAICOS – BARRY

Captain Barry Russell at your service, although in a certain private space, I was known as Sir Barry, and I was the one being serviced. In my spare time I'm a bdsm dom, with a mostly male clientele.

ZTA was the only carrier that ran this route direct. Santo Domingo to Cockburn and back again, twice daily. I had the day off tomorrow – it was my birthday, and I planned to spend it in Santo Domingo, where I had resettled after Paloma had divorced me. I had a client booked and I intended to paddle him into ecstasy (mine, if not his).

But then this text appeared on my phone: FLY LEFTOVERS TO ARUBA TONIGHT.

My pupils dilated to twice their normal size: It was from HIM. Fuck – NOW? It had been so long since he had contacted me, I was beginning to think I'd escape, maybe he'd forgotten or changed his mind. One job, he'd said, one unspecified job he would send me via text. When I received it, I was to comply immediately. There was a carrot-and-stick involved. The carrot was cash – considerable cash. The stick was – well, terrifying. I had no choice if I valued my life.

The problem: In barely an hour, I was piloting ZTA Flight 12, which would transport the leftovers, among dozens of others, to Santo Domingo, but no further; the only ZTA flight bound for Aruba had already departed.

HOW DO I GET THEM THERE? NO SCHEDULED ARUBA FLIGHTS.

The answer came back: FLIGHT 12.

Dammit, Flight 12 doesn't go to Aruba. But I knew what he was capable of: Failure was not an option. I texted ZTA.

REQUEST PERMISSION TO CONTINUE FLIGHT 12 TO ARUBA. CAN YOU COORDINATE WITH ATC?

ATC was Air Traffic Control. The response was almost immediate:

FLIGHT PLAN TO ARUBA HAS BEEN APPROVED.

Shit – he'd already arranged it? He wasn't fucking around. Now I had to procure a crew. Flight attendant was no problem: With just 24 passengers, I only needed one, and Percy, a nice-looking Jamaican new to ZTA, was amenable. But co-pilot Phil was a tough sell. To get him to agree, I had to offer him MY overtime pay in addition to his, and remind him that the beaches of Aruba were packed with seduce-able women.

After he finally agreed, I passed on the news:

CREW IN PLACE. ALL SYSTEMS GO.

And got two words in response:

GOOD BOY.

"Good boy." Like I was the sub. He knew better.

One troubling question lingered: How had he known about the leftovers?

BETWEEN SANTO DOMINGO AND ORANJESTAD – STAN

You don't meet many young guys named `Stan' these days – unless they're Polish. My full name is Stanislaus Kowalczyk, which gets me teased.

I put up with it. I put up with a lot – like my wife Magda. I'm taking a vacation – FROM her. Supposedly, we're meeting up in Cartagena after I spend a week in Aruba and she spends a week in Peru, but I half doubt she'll show up and half doubt I will.

In Santo Domingo, they made us deplane. When we reboarded, we were assigned new seats, which seemed stupid. A half-hour into the flight, the flight attendant passed through the cabin with a list, checking it against our names; he didn't like where I was sitting.

• Sir, you're in the wrong seat.

• Excuse me?

• You're in 8D. Your seat is 8C.

• (looking across the aisle) He was in 8C. So I sat here.

• (flight attendant, to 8C) Excuse me? Mister Onslow?

• (Onslow, annoyed) What?

• (flight attendant) Would you switch seats with this gentleman? You have your seats reversed.

• (Onslow) I like the left side.

• (flight attendant) You're supposed to be on the right.

• Listen – what's your name?

• (flight attendant) Percy.

• Percy, does it matter? We both have seats, we're in the air, what's the problem?

• (Percy) The problem is that you're in 8D, not 8C. He's supposed to be in 8D.

• (Onslow) Oh, for fuck's sake.

• (Percy) Sir, it's important.

• (Onslow) Why?

• (Percy) It just is. Please.

I looked at Onslow, and he looked at me. This little scene was acquiring the attention of others, and we both decided that the course of least resistance was to just get up and switch seats. So we did.

My new neighbor, in 8A, was a smallish twenty-year-old named Al Casey, who looked fresh off the farm from Iowa, but actually was a Costco clerk from Syracuse. He leaned over and whispered to me:

• Looks like someone forgot to take his OCD meds.

• Life is too short to fuss about such things. It doesn't matter.

Actually, it did matter. But that wasn't something Percy could have known – or so I thought at the time.

BETWEEN SANTO DOMINGO AND ORANJESTAD – SETH

It was dark, about nine, when it happened. The fasten-your-seatbelt sign flashed, the pilot made an announcement, and the handsome flight attendant zipped down the aisle making sure we were all strapped in. He had barely strapped in himself, directly facing Abe, when the first jolt hit.

Jolt was an understatement. Had my seat belt not been securely fastened, I'd have bounced out of my seat and banged my head on the overhead compartment. For starters.

As the plane shuddered violently, anything unsecured went flying. Abe's kindle sprung from his hands and flew across the cabin. Drinks, freed from their cups, drenched the nearest surface. Safety guides and magazines stored in seatbacks whipped around as if caught in a whirlwind. Overhead bins popped open. My carry-on fell and hit me on my right cheek, drawing blood. I wrapped my right arm over my head, both to shield it and to press my shirt fabric against the wound, to stop the bleeding.

Abe's right hand reached across the aisle to grasp my left, as we oscillated up and down several more times. I wanted to vomit and felt like it was just a matter of time.

I forgot all about vomiting the second I heard the sound. Like something had snapped. It turned into a crackle, not unlike the sound of metal accidentally placed in a microwave.

I watched in horror as the fuselage itself seemed to bend, as if it was trying to fold itself in half. The middle aisle bulged upward a foot or more, as the floor took on a sort of boomerang shape. There was a loud pop, and then suddenly a visible fissure in the aisle, like an earthquake splitting the ground along a fault.

Abe's hand flew out of mine as the entire left half of the plane broke away. We were held in our seats by seat belts or maybe we could have stayed together as we died.

For there was no doubt we were going to die. I only hoped I would lose consciousness before we hit the surface of the ocean. And that Abe didn't suffer.

[COMING UP NEXT: CHAPTER TWO – THIS IS NOT ARUBA]