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The nurse planned to go with the injured man on the first ferry to Nuku'alofa in the morning, as he needed much better care than what she could provide at the hotel. We wound up staying with him all night - having rescued him twice, I wasn't letting him out of my sight, and Laughlin was apparently similarly inclined. We slept in shifts, but it wasn't especially restful. As Laughlin and I accompanied the nurse down to the ferry in the morning, I noticed that the closing ceremonies of the conference were going on in the hotel. So much had happened, I'd almost forgotten it was still going on.
"We should just go ourselves," Laughlin observed. "We can grab our things, make it back here before the ferry leaves, see this guy to a hospital and get to the airport with plenty of time. I'm anxious to get back to the States and try to find out something on that ship."
I nodded reluctantly. "I suppose they're not likely to make a move on him in broad daylight.... And their old ploy won't work this time." I had already made sure the nurse knew not to turn him over to any more so-called relatives.
We made it to the cabana and back in record time, even with the brief delay caused by my burying Stroeker's pistol so no one else would (hopefully) find it. I was still pretty keyed up from the events of the previous night, so I kept expecting something to happen, but the trip to Nuku'alofa, and then the local hospital was completely uneventful. The man remained unconscious the whole time, and turned out to have serious internal injuries, but the doctors seemed guardedly optimistic about his chances. It turns out the nurse was right about him being a Protestant missionary - he apparently had left Nuku'alofa several weeks before and disappeared. I felt relieved that at least someone knew who he was, and that he might survive. Poor man.
As we left the hospital for the airport, I realized that Laughlin and I would likely be parting ways soon. Once we landed at LAX (if not before in Honolulu), I'd be off to New Orleans, and he'd be off to...wherever wealthy billionaires go when they aren't attending strange conferences on tropical islands. We'd spent so much time together over the last few days, and gone through some rather...intense experiences. It seemed odd to think that I'd probably never see him again. But why would I? The circles of a Federal Agent and a wealthy eccentric don't tend to overlap, except if the latter is committing a crime, and that's not the way I'd want our paths to cross again.
Curious, I asked where he was flying to after LAX. I was more than a little surprised when he responded, "Actually, I was planning on changing my ticket to go into New Orleans. I want to know what happened to those artifacts."
I couldn't help raising an eyebrow at that. I knew he'd talked about learning more about the Proud Ariane, but I had assumed he'd just hire someone to do it. "You still feel like you're connected to them in some manner, then?"
"Yes. But more importantly, artifacts are my business. What better adventure is out there right now?" He smiled.
"Involving artifacts? Probably none," I admitted. "You do realize that the ship won't dock for weeks, though."
When we got to the airport, the place had the atmosphere of a party, with natives placing leis over our necks and merchants hawking coconut shell trinkets and native crafts. Laughlin asked for my ticket, saying he wanted to get seats together. The flight looked to be pretty full, so I was a bit surprised when he returned successful. I was even more surprised when we boarded the plane. It was extremely crowded, as I'd suspected it would be, but it turned out we were sitting in first class. Of course. I should have guessed he wouldn't be flying in coach. I wondered how much it had cost him to upgrade my tickets, but decided I didn't want to know. There was not much I could do about it now.
I'd never flown first class before, and it was pretty incredible. Far better than my flight in from Hawaii had been. The nine hours passed surprisingly quickly, as did the three-hour layover in the VIP lounge in Honolulu. When we boarded the 747 for LAX, first class was even more impressive. I felt a twinge of envy. What must it be like to travel like this all the time?
I had meant to stay awake on the flight - it was unlikely I'd ever fly like this again, and I wanted to enjoy it. But it had been several nights since I'd slept well, and somewhere in the middle of the flight, I dozed off.
And I dreamed.
The sound of horse's hooves. A terrible storm lashed a coast. Fantastic lightning shattered the night. Within the storm clouds were tiny figures, winged and dangerous.
The sound of horse's hooves again. A man stood on a cliff overlooking the sea. Creeping forms slithered toward him up the hill. He held in his hand a strand of beautiful white pearls, which he clasped and then threw out to sea.
The sound of horse's hooves, now trotting. A ring of dark stones stood on a level plain. In the sky beyond, streamers of light and dark tugged at enormous floating islands.
The sound of horse's hooves, in full gallop.
I awoke suddenly, and people were screaming.
I realized that I had been awakened by a loud screeching sound and a sudden buffeting of the plane. Then I felt the pressure drop and an oxygen mask dropped down in front of me. I immediately put it on, then looked over at Kyle as I checked that my seatbelt was tight. "What's going on?" I shouted over the noise. My hands gripped the armrests in an effort to minimize the buffeting.
"I don't know," Kyle shouted back, putting on his own mask. He leaned over and put his mouth near my ear, whispering loudly. "It felt like a bomb!"
Something clenched hard in my stomach and stayed that way. The ride was turbulent for many minutes, and the cabin was filled with the sound of people crying and praying. Flight attendants moved through the aisles, making sure everyone had their masks and seatbelts on, then strapped themselves in as well. I maintained my grip on the armrests, and after a few moments, Kyle put his hand down on top of mine. It was surprisingly comforting. It's hard to avoid thoughts of your own mortality when you have no idea if you're going to live or die in the next few minutes, especially when there's absolutely nothing you can do about it. But at least if I died, I knew I wouldn't die alone.
Finally, after what felt like forever, the voice of the Captain came over the intercom. "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the Captain speaking. The aircraft is under complete control, and I want to assure you that you are safe. We've lost cabin pressure, and we're descending to 5,000 feet, where we should be able to breathe normally. All systems aboard the aircraft are in working order, so please remain in your seats and we will be landing at Los Angeles in about two hours."
Kyle turned to me. "I don't believe in coincidences."
I shook my head, still feeling a bit shaken. "Do you think they want us dead that badly?" I asked, pitching my voice low, so as not to be overheard.
He shook his head. "I don't know. I seriously doubt the cult has access to that kind of technology. I guess we'll have to wait until we land to find out more."
"If we land." I looked out the window, trying to see if I could spot any damage, but I couldn't see a thing. I could hear the wind shrieking past a hole somewhere in the fuselage, though. Everyone could.
I was silent for rest of the flight, staring out the window. I tried to project a calm appearance, except for the life of me I couldn't seem to relax the tight grip I had on the armrests. My mind kept going over what had just happened. Had it been an attempt to kill us? And if so, by who?
The plane landed safely at LAX, surrounded by the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, and we all exited via large inflated ramps onto a foam-covered runway. Looking back at the plane, I saw a gaping hole in the lower fuselage, about four feet across, revealing the open cargo compartment. It was clear that whatever tore through that metal had done so from the inside out.
As ambulances began taking some passengers away, the police guided those of us not in need of medical attention toward a table where people were being asked to show identification. Suddenly, Kyle gripped my arm and pointed. Visible inside the gaping hole in the airplane was one of Lenny Stroeker's crates from Tonga. I stared at the hole for a few moments in surprise, trying to determine if the crate was damaged, or if there were more. Unfortunately, the angle of the hole didn't allow me to see more than just the one, although it looked OK. "I guess he didn't intend to transport them by ship, after all," I commented quietly.
At that point, a police officer asked Kyle and I for our names, addresses and some identification. Kyle provided his first, and was told that the airline was putting passengers up in a hotel. The police were going to search everything in a nearby hangar, and any luggage would be returned the next day.
I provided my identification next, my brain finally starting to kick into gear. According to protocol, I should report in to the scene commander, who would likely be the Assistant Special Agent in Charge for Los Angeles, in a case like this. I'd have to explain why I was on the plane, at the very least. And tell them the significance of the crate I'd spotted
The police officer spotted the badge in my wallet and looked up at me. "You were a passenger, Agent...Roman?" At my nod, he continued, "The Bureau guys are over there by the white hangar."
Kyle looked at me at that, and nodded acquiescence. "Look me up after? I won't be staying in this hotel," he said, indicating the ticket the airline agent had given him. "I have a house on Mulholland. Call my office and they'll give you the address." He handed me a card with his international number on it.
"All right," I affirmed, and he followed the stream of cleared passengers towards a waiting bus. Retrieving my wallet from the officer, I tucked Kyle's card into it and headed over to the white hanger.
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Last modified on January 27, 2016 by Kris Fazzari.