Crash Diet

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

“What do you mean you don’t remember. The question is simple enough, Miss Ross: Did you, or did you not dump your payload?”

Irene felt the panic settle in as she searched her brain for an answer. “I remember being over a schoolyard. Everything was happening so fast. We were coming in at twice landing-speed and yet we needed to apply more power just to make the runway. And I had no controls. No braking capability, no way to steer– and there were all those children.”

“Miss Ross. Your account is fascinating. But please, once again, just answer the question. Did you dump your payload?”

Irene’s mind went blank and she buried her face into her hands. “I don’t remember,” she sobbed. “Oh God – I don’t remember.”

“If it pleases the court, I would like to play the cockpit voice recorder.”

The judge nodded and one of the young lawyers eagerly flipped a switch. Irene sat weeping and heard her own voice coming across the loudspeakers:

“Flight 232, this is Sioux Falls. We have you twenty-six miles out. Can you reduce air speed. Over.”

“Negative. Not without losing altitude. We need to maintain air speed, presently.”

“Roger. Dump your payload.”

“Negative, Sioux Falls. Over an urban area.”

“Roger. Keep her coming, Captain. You are cleared to land on any runway.”

“So you were instructed to dump your payload, is that correct?” The lady prosecutor was striding triumphantly, paying more attention to the reporters in the courtroom gallery than to the jury. “If it pleases the court, I would like to enter into evidence the transcript from the log of the ‘black box data recorder’ that was aboard Flight 232. It clearly shows that the aircraft crash-landed with a full load of fuel.”

The lady prosecutor went for the throat. “Miss Ross, how much fuel does a DC-10 carry?”

Irene felt the ground opening up under her feet. “22,000 gallons,” was her weak reply.

The lady prosecutor turned to the gallery. “22,000 gallons of jet fuel,” she repeated loudly, in case someone in the back row had missed it. She paused for affect. “Must have been a helluva barbecue,” she snickered.

“Your honor. Objection!” Irene’s defense council was on his feet.

“Councilor!” the judge shouted, pounding his gavel and proving he was still awake behind the bench. “Have some respect.”

The lady prosecutor turned smugly to her grinning hyenas and trotted her boney ass back to the prosecution table. “No more questions,” she barked.

It was over.

In the time it took to say “barbecue” Irene had gone from hero to has-been. From someone who had saved one hundred and eighty-six lives to someone who had killed one-hundred and eleven. The crowd, mostly parents of dead children, jeered as she and her attorney came down the courthouse steps. Their babies had died, and yet Irene, the woman responsible, had walked away from the crash site, unscathed. The parents needed someone to blame for their bitter grief and Irene was convenient. So while the reps and lawyers for the insurance company celebrated, Irene hid in her house and started working on a fresh bottle of vodka. And the more she drank, the more she clung to one faint hope: Sabotage.

What followed were weeks of mind-numbing investigation, debriefing and hours in a cockpit simulator where Irene tried endlessly to replicate the accident. The big question, and the one that had stubbornly remained unanswered, was why the right wing had insisted on rolling under?

And then came the hours in her analyst’s office. United had insisted she undergo psychological treatment. The doctor was an earnest young man with the unlikely name of Prod and Irene had surprised him one afternoon when she revealed that, since the accident, she had been attracted to young boys. It was an offhanded remark, almost a joke in Irene’s mind and certainly nothing to be taken seriously. But Doctor Prod glommed onto her comment like it held the promise of a Nobel Prize, or at least a book that would assure his future in psychiatry.

It was the first time that Irene first heard the term Age Gap Relationship: The seduction of young boys by older women. If Irene hadn’t felt a s****l rush before, she was struggling with her feelings now. The whole concept was wickedly perverse and all sorts of fantasies invaded her thoughts.

Irene pulled the bottle of vodka from the kitchen cupboard ten minutes after finishing her cup of morning coffee. She knew she shouldn’t and six months ago, the thought of someone sipping vodka at seven in the morning would have disgusted her. But now it seemed routine: Rinse out the coffee cup, open the bottle, pour in an inch and top it off with the same amount of soda– just to kick-start my day, Irene justified the drink.

But it didn’t end with one drink and by the time she made the telephone call she felt revved and reckless. “You ass. Did you f**k with my plane?”

“What’dya mean by callin’ me?”

Hanz was a distant love-interest but more to the point, he was an airline mechanic. “Never mind the horseshit, Hanz. Just answer the question. Did you screw with my plane?”

A big slow-witted man, it took him a moment to connect the dots. “Oh I get it. The expert guy at the courtroom. It was on the news. And you think I nicked your turbofan? You fuckin’ crazy b***h. You must have got a brain-full of that burning fuel.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my brain. I remember you threatening to kill me, just fine. You damage one of the blades with a hammer or run a hacksaw blade across the edge?”

“Man, you are crazy.” And Hanz slammed the phone down.

Crap, that didn’t go well, Irene thought. She had pissed him off right from the start. She should have sweet-talked him a little; should have offered him a little perk to see if the flame was still lit.

Irene stood. Noticed there was still an inch of vodka left and knocked it back.

Brad English had introduced her to Hanz at an airline function. The two of them were supposedly friends, though Irene couldn’t fathom it. Why would a dashing young pilot befriend a troglodyte like Hanz? But Irene, not into human dynamics, had shrugged it off. Hanz was a dull, heavy duty guy with hard-planed, square features. Irene liked big men and, not being much of a conversationalist, Hanz didn’t waste much time before herding her into the bedroom. And that suited Irene just fine. It was meaningless s*x: raw and gutsy.

Irene had never met a guy that could keep going for an hour, and, with the help of the lubricant she kept in the bedside table, she would c*m a dozen or more times before he finally reared up and made a mess all over the bed sheets. It had been wild and woolly s*x with no holds barred.

But the big surprise was the call from his wife.

Mrs. Hanz had talked easily about her relationship with her husband, had spoken like the two of them, she and Irene, had a common interest, which in all honesty, they did. The woman was direct, even poked fun at the dumb bastard and had Irene laughing as they discussed the big man’s shortcomings. But they both agreed that Hanz knew how to please a woman where it really counted. Irene found herself liking the woman’s earthy approach to marriage and when the invitation was extended, she agreed they would get together for dinner.

Looking back on it, Irene should have guessed there was more to it.

She expected dinner would include the two of them and was surprised to see Hanz sitting at the table sipping some sort of lethal peach brandy. But his big boned wife kept the conversation light and her roast chicken was delicious. After several peach brandies, Irene began to unwind and even enjoy herself.

It was after dinner that Mrs. Hanz took Irene aside. “He’d like to watch us undress each other.”

She said it so casually that at first Irene had laughed. “I’ll bet he would.”

“Yes. He gets like this from time to time.”

Irene felt a cold sweat rise across the back of her neck. The woman wasn’t kidding. She intended to undressed Irene for her husband. “Right here in the kitchen? I– I don’t think I can do that,” Irene stuttered.

“Sure you can. He’ll make it fun for the both of us. Here, let me get your zip.” And to her horror, Irene’s dress sagged loosely about her shoulders.

Feeling like a balloon that had abruptly deflated, Irene looked to where Han’s still sat at the table; his expression closed. He rolled his glass, more intent on nursing his brandy than watching his wife strip Irene’s dress off.

“No. Don’t,” Irene finally found her voice. But her dress was already gathered about her ankles and when she made a grab for the woman’s hands as they came up for her underpants, Irene discovered just how strong a women can be. The lace was ripped from her hips and as Irene began to struggle, the woman picked her up bodily and plopped down in a kitchen chair. She spun Irene around on her knee and holding her with one hand, brought the other down smartly across Irene’s bottom.

It stung like hell!

“We’ll teach you how we do things in the old country,” the woman scowled and Irene yelped.

“Aaaagh!” Irene struggled against the arm that held her in a steely grip.

“Will you behave?” The woman laughed. “Ah there. Let’s see what we’ve got.” And to Irene’s utter horror, she felt her thighs being pried apart. The woman ran a finger down along the crease and finding the flesh yielding, forced a finger deep. “Oh Hanz. You found a nice one. She’ll do.” And to Irene’s dismay, another finger was inserted alongside the one already working the tightness from her crotch. “Come, Hanz. I’ll hold her. Give her a couple of strokes to take the stiffness outta her.

How could this be happening? Irene heard the crumpled sound of his heavy work pants landing on the tiles. And suddenly the blunt end of his p***s was prodding at the delicate tissues. Irene envisioned the size of him: Long and thick. Attributes that she had found attractive. But this was a different kind of s*x. One she wasn’t prepared for.

Hanz grabbed her by the hips and forced his way into her body.

She wanted to scream, but couldn’t find air enough to breathe. Her lungs labored and she bore down, doing everything she could to manage the hurt and humiliation. The pain was deep in, remote and inaccessible.

For once in his life, Hanz relieved himself quickly, pulled out, leaving behind a dull throb, like a brick wedged in her guts. “The big woman laughed. “Hanz. You’ve c*m all over yourself. Go and clean up.” And she rolled Irene off her knee and onto the linoleum. Irene lay withering, a cheek against the cool tile, fighting the cold sweats and trying to keep the vomit down.

“It would have been me,” Mrs. Hanz said by way of explanation once he had closed the bathroom door. “Now if you’re a smart young thing, you’ll grab your clothes and get out of here before he comes back.”

Irene needed no further encouragement. The thought of Hanz returning and finding her still face down on the floor was all the incentive she needed. Irene scrambled to her feet and took a step toward the door.

She looked back at her dress, lying in a crumpled heap. She hesitated, heard a movement from the bathroom. f**k it. She didn’t need it and wearing nothing but a half-bra, Irene ran, got behind the wheel of her car and backed out the driveway. Irene desperately wanted to be safe at home and soothing in the luxury of a hot tub of water, but she forced herself into keeping well below the speed limit. It was maddening, but tonight was not the night to be stopped by a cop.