Chapter 6 - The Reception at Gate B12

The Boeing 737 taxied slowly along the frozen tarmac of Chicago O'Hare International Airport, turning onto the inner taxiway toward Terminal 1.
Inside the cockpit, Tyler Holloway was wiping cold sweat from his neck with his uniform tie.
Through the curved windshield, he could see Gate B12 approaching.
Then Tyler’s foot slipped completely off the rudder pedal.
“What the hell is that…?” First Officer Brian Miller murmured, leaning forward over the glareshield.
Lining both sides of Gate B12 was not a routine ground-handling crew.
Surrounding the jet bridge in a tight, military tactical blockade were six black Ford Police Interceptors from the Chicago Police Department Airport Operations Section, their blue and white LED lightbars flashing violently against the falling snow.
Parked beside the police cruisers were two armored Suburbans bearing the gold emblems of the Federal Aviation Administration Office of Security and Hazardous Materials Safety.
And standing directly beneath the jet bridge door, surrounded by four private security officers in tailored dark suits, was sixty-two-year-old Captain David Keller—the Chief Executive Officer of Horizon Continental Airlines.
Beside David Keller stood Marcus Vance—the Chief Flight Operations Director—his face gray as wet cement, holding an unsealed executive termination folio.
The aircraft rolled to a halt.
The ground power units connected with a concussive mechanical thud:
CLUNK.
The engines wound down, their high-pitched titanium whine dying into the freezing winter air.
The chime sounded: DING.
The main passenger boarding door at the front of the aircraft was thrown open from the outside by two armed Chicago police officers.
David Keller marched through the threshold, stepping straight into the forward galley.
He didn't look at the passengers. He didn't look at the luggage racks.
His eyes locked onto Vanessa Vance, who was currently cowering against the first-class wardrobe, weeping in raw, hysterical pandemonium:
“Officer Thorne,” David Keller barked to the lead Chicago police lieutenant standing beside him.
“Take Vanessa Vance into custodial custody for Felony Embezzlement of Corporate Property and Transnational Wire Fraud.”
Vanessa shrieked as cold steel handcuffs snapped over her manicured wrists behind her back:
SNAP. CLICK.
“Marcus! Help me!” Vanessa wailed toward her brother standing in the jet bridge: “Tell them I didn't know the credit card was stolen! Marcus, do something!”
Marcus Vance didn't look at his sister.
Marcus was staring at the floorboards, his hands trembling violently, his career completely destroyed.
The reinforced cockpit door swung open.
Tyler Holloway stepped out onto the galley floorboards, his captain’s cap clutched against his chest like a shield, his face twisted in desperate, groveling supplication:
“David! Mr. Keller! Thank God you’re here!” Tyler stammered, his voice climbing into an octave of frantic panic: “There was an operational misunderstanding on the flight deck! My wife—Audrey—she’s on board, she’s suffering from postpartum psychosis! She’s been threatening me for months—!”
David Keller took one slow, deliberate step forward.
The CEO towered over Tyler by three inches.
He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't shout.
David reached out with two gloved fingers, seized the gold four-stripe captain’s epaulets on Tyler’s right shoulder, and ripped them clean off the uniform fabric with a violent, concussive tearing of threads!
RIIIP.
Then he reached across, ripping the four gold stripes off the left shoulder:
RIIIP.
“Tyler Holloway,” David Keller announced, his voice booming through the cabin like an artillery shell.
“Under the executive authority of the Board of Directors of Horizon Continental Airlines:
You are stripped of your command, your commercial flight rating is suspended under federal emergency declaration, and your employment is terminated with extreme prejudice for gross professional misconduct, endangerment of flight operations, and fraud.”
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David tossed the ripped gold epaulets onto the galley floor, stepping aside, pointing down the center aisle:
“And your landlord is waiting for you in Row Twenty-Eight.”