Point of Contact

Jack’s carry-on was a hand-tooled leather messenger bag for his Kindle, iPhone, and iPad. At home he showered again and changed into business-casual attire. He preferred comfortable athletic wear on long flights like this, but he was representing Hendley Associates and decided to dress it up a little bit. It was going to be a long seven-hour flight that started in Washington and landed in London tomorrow morning, where they would switch airplanes and catch an even longer thirteen-hour flight to Singapore.

In flight hours it was less than a day, but because of the time changes they landed two calendar days after they departed Dulles International. In Jack’s mind that meant fitful hours of uncomfortable boredom interrupted by bouts of intermittent sleep and the inevitable onset of jet lag, coming and/or going.

Yeah. Fun.

At least the security-check lines were short this time of night and they passed through quickly, making their way to Terminal A to catch their flight. The flight was full but mercifully not oversold, and they boarded shortly after the first-class passengers. Hendley said he couldn’t spare the company’s luxurious Gulfstream G550 for the flight over and certainly couldn’t leave it parked on a tarmac for ten days waiting for the return flight. That meant flying commercial, and Rhodes’s executive assistant wasn’t able to secure upper or first class on this last-minute booking.

Jack couldn’t help noticing Paul’s pronounced limp as he made his way down the aisle through the first-class cabin, then the upper-class section, and finally toward their premium-economy-class seats. He offered to carry Paul’s heavy duffel, but Paul politely declined. “Window or aisle?” he asked when they arrived at their row.

“Doesn’t matter. Whatever’s best for you,” Jack said.

“Same for me.”

“It might be better for your leg if you can stretch it out. The aisle might be the way to go,” Jack offered.

“If you really don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” Jack set his carry-on in the overhead compartment and slid into the window seat as Paul heaved his bag onto his empty seat and unzipped it, pulling out a small down pillow and an inflatable neck pillow before zipping the bag back up and tossing it into the same compartment. A few impatient passengers huffed in line behind him until Paul finally fell into his seat with a big sigh of relief.

They both buckled up, Paul shoving the small pillow behind his lower back. He saw Jack watching him. “L4–L5 disk degeneration.”

“Must not be comfortable.”

“It’s hard to sit for long periods of time.”

“I get antsy myself,” Jack offered. Just twenty hours and fifty-nine minutes to go, he thought.

“I should probably tell you now that I’m not a very good flier,” Paul said.

“Nervous?”

“Airsick. Well, and nervous.”

“My dad hates flying, too.”

Jack tried to keep from rolling his eyes. It was going to be a very long flight.

“I brought some Dramamine from home.” Paul shook the pill bottle. “It’s beyond the expiration date, but it should still work.” He craned his head around. “Maybe the stewardess can get me some water.”

Stewardess? Geez, when was the last time this guy flew on a plane? Jack wondered. “I’m sure the flight attendant will be glad to get you some.” Jack pushed the call button and a handsome middle-aged woman appeared a few moments later with two small glasses of champagne on a tray and passed one to each of them.

“Welcome aboard, gentlemen. My name is Sally. Is there anything else I can get you during boarding?”

Jack lifted the glass. “How do we rate?”

“It’s our way to say thank you for flying premium economy.”

Jack admired the bubbly in his hand. Suddenly the wide leather seats seemed a little more comfortable. “When you get the time, would you mind getting my friend a bottle of water? He needs to take his medicine.”

“Sure thing, soon as we get everyone settled in.”

“Thanks.”

Paul sighed with relief. “I should’ve taken it in the terminal, but I was afraid we were going to be late.”

“It’s not a problem.”

Jack raised his glass for a toast.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Paul’s glass trembled slightly as he sipped from it.

Five minutes later the flight attendant reappeared with a bottle of water and Paul downed two Dramamine — he took an extra one because they were old. Fifteen minutes later the plane screamed down the runway and clawed its way up into the night sky, Paul’s hands clutching the armrests in a white-knuckled grip. A few minutes later they leveled off and Paul relaxed.

“You don’t mind flying?” Paul’s face was pale and clammy.

Jack wanted to say he preferred jumping out of planes rather than sitting in them, preferably HALO or HAHO. “You know you’re more likely to die in a car wreck than a plane crash, right?”

“Not a big fan of car wrecks, either.”

“How’s your stomach? Feeling queasy?”

Paul thought about it. “I don’t feel any turbulence. I think I’m good.”