Free Margaritifer Basin (Margaritifer Trilogy Book 1) by Gregory Gates Page B

“How many people work for your
company?”
    He stopped and turned with a broad
smile, “Including you and me? Two.”
     
     
    Tuesday, May 29, 2012
(T minus 1393 days)
     
    Jeff found a parking space for the
new Mercedes in front of the StarFlight Charter terminal at Bob Hope Airport in
Burbank. He’d spent a number of hours on the phone over the past few weeks
quietly beating the bushes at charter bizjet companies – trying hard not to
look like an employee raider – searching for just the right pilot. At first he
thought it would be easy, the world was awash in pilots, but he soon discovered
that wasn’t exactly the case. So while he was in the neighborhood, Jeff decided
to drop in on one of the largest charter firms in hopes of finding a pilot in
the industry whose brain he could pick.
    His desire was to find a pilot with
‘the right stuff.’ A military test pilot or current astronaut would be
preferable, but prying one loose from the government presented more than a few
near-insurmountable challenges. An ex-Navy or Air Force ‘jet jock’ was Plan B.
    StarFlight’s terminal certainly
seemed to fit the company identity, lavishly appointed befitting their ‘rich
& famous’ clientele, though, at the moment, sparsely populated. Alone
behind the rosewood and onyx counter, across the broad expanse of marble
flooring stood a young lady, crisply attired in a navy blue suit, but appearing
none too happy. As Jeff approached the counter he learned why. From an office
behind the counter, and in spite of the closed door, came the shrill voice of a
woman, clearly perturbed about… something.
    “You don’t pay me anywhere near
enough for this crap! I’m a pilot, not a goddamned twenty-dollar whore! That
son-of-a-bitch wanted to hump me on the fucking plane just so he could join the
Mile High Club!”
    Then there was silence, the other
participant in the debate apparently attempting to display some restraint. The
young lady behind the counter managed to muster the faintest of embarrassed smiles
as Jeff approached, but otherwise appeared frozen in terror. Jeff returned a
smile that was somewhere between knowing father and Cheshire cat, and stopped a
few feet from the counter. Waiting out the storm seemed to be the better part
of valor.
    “I don’t give a flying fuck what
the goddamned band calls themselves! Who cares? They’re just a bunch of doped
up grungy fuck-heads that, for reasons passing all human understanding, make
money by the barrel generating random noise! That fucking freak of nature is
lucky I didn’t rip his balls off and feed ‘em to him.”
    Jeff stood stoically, suddenly
thankful that he’d just got a haircut and was wearing an Armani suit, while the
counter attendant nervously rearranged a stack of papers in a manner that
demonstrated an uncanny appreciation of the term ‘random.’
    “Look at me, asshole! I’m a Naval
Officer with more time in jets than any of these other dickheads you’ve got
crawling around here and I’ll be goddamned if I’ll have a slimy little twerp
like you pimping me out to the dregs of humanity just so you can make a buck!”
    Jeff’s ears perked up. She
certainly sounded like the Tailhook variety of a Navy airdale, definitely had
command of the vocabulary.
    “Blow it out your ass! I’m done!”
    And with that the door flew open and
out stormed an elegantly proportioned young lady wearing a suit similar to that
of the counter attendant’s and sporting a flash of fiery red hair tied up in a
neat bun. She hurriedly walked to the end of the counter, nearly tearing the
counter door off its hinges, and then broke into a trot as she made for the
front door. Jeff gave the horrified counter attendant a smile and hurried off
on the redhead’s trail.
    Outside the building he raced to catch up. “Excuse
me! Would you hold up a second?”
    She ignored him and continued
trotting into the parking lot.
    “Please! If I could just have a
word.”
    She finally slowed a bit and