Hypoxia: A Thriller, page 6
He was tall, with white hair and a reddish face. He almost resembled an angry Santa. And he was always talking to either the producers or Garth.
It was strange, she mused, as she made her way into the bathroom to fix her mascara. If someone didn’t know what was going on, they might even think that the white-haired mystery man was the one in charge.
Chapter Eleven
11
Three Weeks After Everest
Liberty Airlines Flight 510
Los Angeles to New York
“I’m sorry Ms. Burke, but we had to move you back into business. The plane’s overbooked.” The chipper flight attendant seemed much more devastated about the news than Sky was.
She had to stifle a laugh. It was the perfect ending to a perfect trip, and an apt metaphor for what her life had become. Downgraded. Everything she touched turned to dust.
She was back on the motivational speaking tour. Ever since the accident on Everest, they’d wanted her to talk about “self-actualizing amidst times of struggle.” It was the worst possible subject for Sky to discuss, forcing her to rehash Jacob’s death on a daily basis.
Outwardly, she maintained a certain level of poise and grace, claiming to have transformed the guilt into productivity. But that was a lie. She was an absolute wreck inside. There was not a single part of her that didn’t feel responsible, that didn’t mourn her friend every minute of every day. It was her fault that he had been there, that he had perished for a stupid TV show. There was no one else to blame.
“Ms. Burke?” the flight attendant said, snapping Sky out of her fog. “Is everything okay? With bumping you to business? We’re really sorry.”
“That’s fine,” Sky responded quickly.
“So you have two free upgrades for future trips, and, again, we’re really sorry for the inconvenience.”
“No worries.”
“I gave you a window seat, too!”
“Okay.”
A few minutes later, boarding started. Sky settled into the business class window seat, buckled her belt and shut her eyes. It would be a six-hour flight to New York. She could watch a movie, get a couple glasses of red wine and forget about life for awhile…forget about the fact that she had to get up in front of people and attempt to motivate them again. It was a laughable concept, one that would require massive amounts of creativity. After she got some sleep.
Sky had always been one of those rare people who could actually sleep on a plane. While the engines whirred, the plane ascended into the sunset, and the landing gear tucking into the belly of the aircraft, she napped.
It was the video game that woke her up.
Who the hell was playing such a loud video game?
Peeking through her eyelashes, she stirred as she noticed the old woman sitting next to her. The dreadful noise was emanating from what appeared to be an old Game Boy, which the woman played enthusiastically. Actually, the lady wasn’t just old…as Sky’s eyes came into focus, she could see that the woman appeared to be ancient. Some distant cousin of Methuseleh, perhaps. Her shocking white hair was thick and short, and her frame was stout. Her lips pursed and her hazel eyes glinted as she continued playing the game.
“Hey, could you maybe turn down that volume a bit?”
Methuseleh couldn’t hear, apparently. Shocking.
“Ma’am? HEY! The volume! PLEASE.”
The woman finally snapped out of her game fixation, turning to Skye with an apologetic expression.
“I’m sorry. I got caught up in this thing. Killing aliens.”
“What?”
“It’s this game. Just marvelous. You get to kill aliens.” She turned down the volume to an acceptable level, then put the game in her lap for a second. “Plus I can’t hear a damn thing anymore. And you’re right next to my bad ear.”
“Right.” Skye felt a bit guilty about chastising an old lady.
As she looked out the window, she could see that the pinks and blues outside had turned dark. The flight attendants and their cart were making their way down the aisle.
“Would you like anything to drink, ladies?”
“Double vodka!” Methuseleh said confidently.
After recovering from her shock, Sky realized that maybe this old bird had the right idea. It had been so long since she’d had any sort of alcohol. Ever since Everest, she’d been in the habit of not drinking because of her superstitions. But since that was no longer a concern…
“Double vodka for me, also,” Sky said enthusiastically.
She reached for her purse.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” the flight attendant said, passing the drinks over. “You were both bumped from first class, so it’s on us.”
“Sláinte!” the old woman said, bringing her cup to Sky’s in a toast.
Sky took a sip of the vodka, the slight warmth in her throat comforting her like a toasty blanket.
“So are you Irish, then?”
“What, dear?” the woman asked, taking a generous gulp of her own drink.
“IRISH! Are you Irish? I noticed you said Sláinte. I’m Irish — well, my family is.”
“Oh, yes,” the woman giggled mischievously. “My parents were from Ireland.”
“And…where are you headed?” The alcohol was making Sky uncharacteristically chatty.
“Ah, going back to New York. I was on the coast doing some readings.”
“Readings?”
“What’s your name, dear?” the old woman said, suddenly looking at Sky with a penetrating gaze.
“Sky.”
“Uh-huh. Your real name?” The woman continued to stare into her eyes.
“Oh!” Sky laughed. “You got me. Sky’s a nickname. It’s Amelia. I was named after Amelia Earhart.”
Boom!
Immediately after Sky’s mention of Earhart, the plane hit an ominous air pocket. The aircraft lost some altitude, bouncing around wildly for a few seconds. Carry-on suitcases rattled in the overhead compartments.
Bing!
The seatbelt sign blinked on, as the pilot’s voice came on over the PA system.
“Folks, it seems like we’ve run into a bit of a storm here. I’m trying to find us some smooth air, but in the meantime, stay seated with your belts fastened. We should be out of this in no time.”
A few seconds later, the turbulence intensified. One of the overhead compartments, filled to the gills with overstuffed bags competing for room, busted open. Miraculously, only a small Hello Kitty carry-on fell out. The rest of the luggage balanced precariously on the ledge of the compartment, as the plane continued to dip and groan. Sky heard the engines roar as they cranked up to full speed.
“Flight attendants, take your seats,” the pilot commanded over the PA system.
“Damn. It’s really kicking up out there,” Sky said, holding on to her drink tightly and knocking back a quick gulp.
She’d never been afraid of flying, but she was determined not to lose any of her vodka. Who knew how long it would be before the flight attendants could serve passengers again. Flashes of lightning illuminated the plane’s wing, and the small window was being deluged with so much rain that it looked like someone was hosing down the aircraft.
“Ha!” the old woman cackled, completely oblivious to the weather. “Wonderful, just wonderful. Anyway, I’m Agnes Cecelia,” she said, offering her gnarled hand. “Palm reader to the stars.”
Sky practically choked on her drink as Agnes grabbed her hand with a viselike grip. “You’re a palm reader?”
“Yep,” Agnes said with an impish smile, finally releasing Sky’s hand. “Have you ever had your palm read?”
“No,” Skye laughed. “No, I haven’t.”
“What’s so funny?” Agnes asked, cocking her head to the side as she regarded Skye.
“Uh, nothing. It’s just…you know, I don’t really go in for that sort of thing.”
“You…what?” Agnes gestured towards her bad ear.
“I don’t believe in psychics…or palm reading. But I respect your profession, you know…it’s just not—”
“Give me your hand,” Agnes commanded, reaching out with her own gnarled hand once again.
“No!” Sky giggled. “It’s ridiculous.”
At that moment, the plane went from “heavy chop” to completely smooth air. The engines pulled back, and the storm screaming against the window settled into a soft whisper. Only the faintest flashes of light could be seen in the distance.
“If it’s ridiculous, then you have nothing to worry about, girl,” Agnes said in a low voice, her hazel eyes darkening.
Finally, the combination of Agnes’ indomitable spirit and the dash of vodka won. Skye gave the old woman her hand. She held it carefully, stroking it for a quick second before shutting her eyes.
“How old are you, Amelia?”
It was creepy. Skye wasn’t used to being called by her proper name.
“Thirty-nine. Aren’t you supposed to know that already, if you’re a psychic?”
Sky couldn’t resist tossing a little sass the old woman’s way. She’d woken her up from a deep sleep, after all. And it was her fault for insisting on the stupid palm reading. But Agnes Cecelia seemed completely oblivious to Sky’s insult.
“Interesting,” she sighed, gasping as she brought the hand closer to her and inspected it. “I remember your namesake. Earhart. She died when she was thirty-nine.”
“Thanks a lot!” Skye tried to laugh it off, but something about this wasn’t funny. “Hopefully our plane doesn’t crash like hers!”
Agnes took a break from stroking Skye’s hand. “I did my spiritual homework. This particular plane will not be taken.”
“What?” Skye had a case of the giggles again.
Spiritual homework? This lady was a real kook. But she was not a dull person to spend a few hours with; that much was certain.
“You are right to worry about danger with planes right now,” Agnes replied. “It is written. We do not have to worry about this plane. After all, I have seven years left, or…” She gestured towards the vodka. “Five years, depending upon how much I drink.”
“That…doesn’t seem very scientific,” Skye noted, taking another gulp of vodka.
“Well, you have your science and I have my palms,” Agnes said with a chuckle. “You’d be surprised how many dead scientists I know.”
“How much time do I have left?” Skye asked, in a fit of temporary insanity. She must have been drunk already, she figured. Why else would she give so much power to the old woman?
“It depends…” Agnes whispered, leaning close. The overhead reading light reflected off her impossibly white hair. “Death has surrounded you in this life, but you already know that. You have many, many trials ahead of you. Many obstacles to overcome.”
Skye shook her head, taking a gulp of the vodka. “You’re probably seeing my job. I am…uh, was a mountain climber. But I’m finished with that now, so...”
And Agnes shook her head sadly. “I’m so sorry to tell you this, my dear, but your mountain hasn’t even begun yet. You face a serious opponent.”
Sky was dumbstruck. How many more mountains could one person take? She hated everything the woman was saying, but something inside of her was compelled to ask a question.
“Do I even have a chance?” she squeaked, her throat tightening for a split second.
“Yes,” Agnes said evenly, looking at the palm closely. “There are some paths that can work. But you will have to do things you never dreamed possible, and you will hate yourself for some of them if you succeed. This is your blessing and your curse. You are a kind soul that will sometimes operate in the shadows, for the betterment of others.”
A chill ran down Sky’s spine. She knew she shouldn’t be letting this crazy old woman affect her like this.
“Alright.”
“Stock up on your energy,” Agnes replied. “You’re going to need everything you can get.”
“Will do.” Skye took another sip of her vodka, and all of the strangeness started to fade a bit.
Agnes released her hand, finally, and she felt as though she could relax. Sleep was calling her name once again. She settled back into her comfortable seat.
“Earhart! Heh!” she heard Agnes saying as she drifted off. “Now that was a progressive one. Not everyone knows this, but she had two men. TWO! One wasn’t enough for her, you know. I think the second one satisfied her more, you know, sexually speaking. And so she told them both. She was honest about it—take it or leave it! ‘I want the husband and the boyfriend,’ she said. My motto is live and let live, ya know?”
“Amen,” Sky murmured as she started to doze off, all of the tension escaping her body.
“Who are we to judge?” Agnes continued to ramble. “My husband, God rest his soul, drove me nuts. I think a lot of people would be happier in these hippie types of relationships. Anyway, now they pretend like she was a nun of some sort, or a saint or something. But she had a husband AND a boyfriend…”
Sky’s head sunk into the comfortable chair as Agnes continued to ramble, the warm haze of vodka pulling down her eyelids. It had been a long journey thus far.
Chapter Twelve
12
Middle of the Pacific Ocean
Latitude 22° 14' 54.3444"
Longitude -134° 17' 48.75"
5:30 a.m.
James Murphy had been seasick for an entire day. The life of a sailor was definitely not for him. Of course, it hadn’t helped that the ship had been barreling through the choppiest water he’d ever seen in his life. All in all, it had been a tremendously crappy trip.
He’d woken up two hours before breakfast was supposed to be served, not that he would have been able to eat anyway. His arm muscles throbbed from the repetitive motion of tossing the fake plane pieces into the water. Fogarty had spared no expense with this project. Every tiny detail, every little rivet and scrap of fuselage had been constructed perfectly to imitate real wreckage.
As Murphy ducked out of his small room, he decided to get some fresh air. One of the other guys on the ship had told him that staring at the horizon would help him with his seasickness. At this point, he was willing to try anything. The anti-nausea medication didn’t seem to do anything but make him tired. And, he hated to admit it, but the manual labor was exhausting. He and his co-workers were used to sitting at desks all day, not competing in strength contests.
Murphy decided to check out the aft deck, hoping that he could settle his stomach before the workday began. Opening the door, he could make out the faint outlines of the horizon on the ocean. The sun was just starting to rise over the choppy water. He stepped outside and inhaled the salty air deeply, hoping that it would do something to settle his stomach.
As he steadied himself with a rail, he noticed some movement by the edge of the deck. It was the Icelandic guys—he could tell from a mile away. With their thick, tall builds, they weren’t hard to spot. It had been difficult to communicate with them. They didn’t speak any English, and the only person on Project Scorpius who spoke Icelandic was none other than Frank Fogarty.
They were hauling something over the side of the boat. Murphy wondered why they’d started so early; there were only a few more pieces of fuselage to toss over, then they’d all head back to Hawaii. Murphy couldn’t wait. This trip had been a real downer for him.
The Icelandic men called out to one another, and in the increasing light, Murphy caught glimpses of what they were tossing. These items were definitely more colorful than fuselage. Then he got it. Luggage. They were tossing suitcases into the water.
But why? Murphy furrowed his brow. No one had mentioned anything about luggage being a part of this operation. He supposed it made sense. After all, most plane crash debris would contain passenger effects of some sort.
He used the rail to shuffle towards the side of the boat and get a closer look at the piles of luggage. Some of the suitcases had tags on them. Flight 203. HNL—the airport code for Honolulu. It was impressive that they’d gone to all of this trouble, Murphy thought. Creating fake tags—Fogarty sure didn’t miss a beat.
Then suddenly he was struck by a thought. What if the tags were authentic? What if the luggage was real?
A chill ran down his spine. If the search and recovery team found a passenger’s luggage, wouldn’t the family and friends have a rough idea of what was in their bags? They would know if something fake had been planted. The bags had to be real.
It explained why the Icelandic guys had been put on this part of the project, a part that no one else on the team knew about. They were planting evidence. Who knew what Fogarty had told them. He’d probably fed them a whole different story than what he’d told Murphy and the rest of the guys. The story about the Russians and the surface-to-air missile was a lie.
It was all a lie.
The more Murphy thought about it, the more convinced he became that the plane had landed somewhere safely. But the bags had been recovered and sent back to persuade the American public that the official story of Flight 203 was true. How could they doubt it after this? With the evidence of the lost passengers right in front of their faces? Murphy didn’t even put it past Fogarty to plant some human remains.
“Holy shit,” Murphy muttered.
He couldn’t stop shivering, even though the air was warm. Just what the hell sort of project were they all working on? Had the crazy O’Halloran widow been right this whole time? There really was a conspiracy. Murphy’s concerns about nausea started to evaporate as the reality of the situation set in. They were all part of something truly evil. He’d never wanted to get off a boat so badly in his entire life. He made his way back to the door, using the rail for support.
The implications of what he had just seen were too overwhelming. He didn’t even want to think about it.
Putting his arm out to open the door, he was almost knocked over when someone on the opposite side pushed it towards him. Murphy stumbled back a few feet, barely stopping himself from falling on his ass.
