Chapter 14a

Jake's urge to panic was very great as he stared at the smoke and flame billowing from the engine on the right wing, as he felt the seemingly uncontrolled yaw to the right, as he felt the nose of the aircraft starting to drop. Panic seemed a perfectly natural response. Based on the screams of the passengers around him, based on the painful way that Helen was clutching his arm and the terrified whine coming from her lips, it seemed like panic was all the rage. He very nearly succumbed to it.

But then the yaw suddenly stopped, returning strictly forward flight to the vehicle. The nose came back up a little, settling them into a gentle climb. The other two engines continued to roar comfortingly, kicking up a little in noise level, but sounding otherwise normal. Jake took another look at the engine on the right wing just in time to see it enveloped by a cloud of white vapor. This cloud went on for ten seconds or so. When it cleared, the engine was still smoking but was no longer aflame. Slowly, he began to realize that catastrophe was not exactly imminent. Though he understood that something had gone terribly wrong with the aircraft he was in, and though he had never wanted so badly to be on the ground as he wanted it right at that moment, he began to think that maybe things were going to be all right.

"We lost an engine," Jake said to Helen, his voice soothing. "That's why we nosed down and turned to the right like that."

"Whu... whu... what?" Helen blabbered.

"C'mon, hon," he said. "You're the flight instructor. Logic it out. You lose your right side engine on a DC-10 during a climb and you've suddenly lost a third of your thrust. Your nose is gonna drop when that happens. And the plane is gonna yaw right because the remaining thrust suddenly becomes uneven. They're under control now. You feel it?"

Helen raised her head up from Jake's shoulder and looked around carefully. There was no smoke in the cabin, no more shuddering of the airframe, and it was obvious they were indeed under controlled flight. "What happened to the engine?" she asked.

"It blew," Jake said. "There was smoke and flame from it but it's out now."

"It is?"

"It is," he confirmed. "I saw them use the extinguisher on it."

"What if that's not all that's wrong?" she asked. "Remember what I'm always telling you. Planes go down because of a chain of events. What if this was just the first link in the chain? What if..."

"Helen," he said, pulling her against him. "I think you..."

The pilot suddenly came on the intercom, interrupting him. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice sounding calm, cool, collected, almost cheery, as if this sort of thing happened every day, "I apologize for that little bout of excitement we just had and I'd like to assure everyone that everything is under control up here. We lost the number three engine just as we were climbing through sixty-five hundred feet. That was that whine and that bang you all heard and it was also the reason for that momentary change of attitude and direction we experienced.

"We have shut that engine down and used the built-in extinguisher to smother the flames that were coming from it. Now, we don't know why that engine blew and it's really not important at this particular moment. We do, however, have two other engines and, as you can hear, they are both running just fine. As far as we can tell, no other part of the aircraft suffered any sort of damage.

"Our plan is to return to Logan airport as quickly as possible and get you all back on the ground. Before we can do that, however, we need to get rid of some of our fuel or otherwise the aircraft will be heavier than we really want for an optimum landing. So what we're going to do is level off at twelve thousand feet and go out over the Atlantic Ocean. Once we're sure that all other aircraft are out of our way, we're going to jettison about sixty thousand pounds of jet fuel from the wing tanks. This will take about fifteen minutes or so. Once we're lightened up, we'll turn around and be vectored in for a direct approach to Logan.

"At this particular moment in time, though we have declared an emergency due to the circumstances, I see no reason why we shouldn't have a perfectly safe and normal landing in about thirty-five minutes or so.

"Once again, I apologize for the inconvenience and will remind everyone to please remain in your seats with your seatbelts fastened."

The captain's soothing words, and, more importantly, the continued smooth and controlled flight of the aircraft, served to calm the passengers considerably. The screams and cries faded away. Jake's heart returned to an almost normal rate. The adrenaline slowly leeched from his bloodstream. Even Helen calmed down. She did not release the grip on his arm, but she did at least loosen it up a little.

"You okay?" Jake asked her.

"I'll be okay when my feet are on the ground again," she said. "Jesus Christ. Thirty-five more minutes in this thing? That's thirty-five more minutes that something can go wrong in."

It actually took forty-three minutes. After the plane leveled out over the Atlantic Ocean, Jake watched out his window at the wing tip and was rewarded with the sight of thousands of gallons of jet fuel streaming off behind them.

"Take a look at this, Helen," he said. "This is definitely something you don't see every day."

Her face was looking a little green. "Pass," she said blandly. "Just tell me when this is over."

Sixteen and a half minutes after the dumping procedure began, it was over. Jake felt the aircraft banking slowly to the left, making a lazy circle back toward Boston and the safety of the airport.

The descent was normal and uneventful. Even so, Helen jumped when the sound of the landing gear deploying reached her ears.

"It's okay," Jake told her soothingly, still holding her against his body. "It's just the gear coming down."

"I know that," she said, a little defensively.

The ground grew closer and closer and, finally, they were over the runway. They thumped down in a perfectly normal fashion except for the applause and the collective sigh of relief that filled the cabin. The pilot did not utilize the reverse thrusters, probably, Jake figured, out of fear that uneven reverse thrust would make the aircraft swerve off the runway. This made their roll out rather long, but at no time did they seem out of control. When they reached the end of the runway, Jake saw out the window that dozens of fire engines, crash trucks, and two ambulances were standing by in a staging area. The plane rolled down the taxiway and came to a stop about two hundred yards from the main terminal.

"And we're down, ladies and gentlemen," the captain told them cheerfully. "Everything seems to remain in order so there will be no emergency evacuation of the aircraft. Unfortunately, do to the fact that there was a small fire in the number three engine, we cannot park at the terminal. They are bringing a set of stairs to the main entrance door and as soon as it is in place we will have all of you exit the aircraft in the normal fashion. Please take your carry-on baggage and all personal belongings with you when you leave. Your luggage will be removed and taken to the terminal. I am told that another DC-10 is already on the way from New York City and we should have all of you back in the air in less than two hours."

"Not bloody fucking likely," Helen muttered. Her sentiment was shared by several other people as well.

"Once again," the captain continued, "I apologize for the excitement and for the inconvenience. As a gesture of goodwill, the airline will be issuing a credit to every passenger onboard that is good for one round trip flight anywhere in the continental United States that we fly."

"That's very big of them," Helen said. "They nearly kill us and now they give us a free flight on another one of their fucked up airplanes."

"Helen," Jake said, "it really wasn't that big of a deal. We lost an engine. We're down and safe now."

"Yeah," she said, her eyes still wide and scared. "This time."

The first thing they did upon entering the terminal building was go to the bar in the first class lounge and order a couple of stiff drinks. They then went and found a table to drink them at. Jake lit a cigarette, drawing deeply, feeling the soothing nicotine rush to his head.

"Give me one of those," Helen demanded, reaching for the pack that sat on the table.

"You don't smoke," Jake reminded her.

"I do now," she said. She lit up, inhaled, coughed violently for a few moments, and then took another drag.

"You're gonna make yourself sick," Jake told her.

"I'm already sick," she said, picking up her drink. It was a double whiskey and coke. She swallowed half of it without moving the glass from her lips.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay?" Jake asked her.

"No," she said. "Jake, that scared me."

"Well... it scared me too," he said. "When that engine first went up and I felt that yaw and the nose drop, I thought it was my ass, but it's over now. We're safe."

"They want us to just jump on another one their planes in two hours, Jake!" she said. "Another fucking DC-10, no less."

Jake shrugged. He had already put the entire incident into perspective. "That's a good thing, Helen," he told her.

"What do you mean it's a good thing?" she demanded.

"We were just in a plane that had a mechanical failure," he said. "What are the odds that it would happen to us twice in the same day? They're astronomical! That plane that's coming to get us is pretty much the safest goddamn flight in the world, statistically speaking."

"That does not comfort me," she said.

"It should," he said. "In fact, if you think about it, we're probably safe on commercial airliners for the rest of our lives now. How many people, no matter how much they fly, ever have anything like that happen to them even once? Very few. I'd be willing to bet that no one has ever had it happen twice."

"That's false logic and you know it," she said. "I am not getting on that plane."

Jake took a long sip of his drink, a deep drag of his smoke, trying to think this through. Helen had the stubborn expression on her face and he knew that changing her mind about this would be difficult. "Are you going to stay in Boston forever?" he finally asked her.

She sighed, taking another drag from her smoke, coughing, and then grinding it out in the ashtray. "No," she said. "That's not really feasible, is it?"

"Not really," he agreed.

"Can we at least stay here today?" she asked. "Can you get us another flight tomorrow on a different airline? On a different kind of airplane?"

He nodded. "Sure, we can do that," he said. "Hell, we'll go private. I'll get us a Lear lined up and we'll..."

She was shaking her head violently. "Not private," she said. "Those little Lear jets are even bigger deathtraps than the airliners. Just get us on a 747 or something — anything but a DC-10."

He reached over and took her hand. "Okay," he told her. "I'll start working on it."

It turned out that Helen wasn't the only one unwilling to just jump on another flight as if nothing had happened. Almost half of the passengers elected to stay overnight in Boston instead of continuing on. The airline was very sympathetic. The ticket agents were apologetic and helpful as they refunded the cost of the flight and they even helped Jake book two seats on another airline for mid-morning the next day.

"If you'd like," the smiling agent offered when Jake finished his transaction, "we can book you in one of the rooms at the hotel airport. It'll be on us."

"Thanks," Jake said graciously, "but I'll get my own room."

He did. He called the Boston Hilton and, after a few minutes of conversation and the recitation of his Visa number, secured the Presidential Suite for them. He then asked that they arrange for an immediate limousine pick-up from the airport.

"Of course, sir," the reservation clerk told him. "I'll have one on the way in fifteen minutes."

"Thank you," Jake said. He told her what terminal they would be at and hung up.

Helen, meanwhile, fueled by three more stiff drinks, had pulled herself together enough to collect their luggage and get it to a skycap.

One hour later, they were sitting in their hotel room, looking out at Boston Harbor. They drank the bottle of complimentary wine that had been left in the room and then, overcome by a horniness that was only possible after experiencing a near-death episode, spent the next two hours lustily fucking, sucking, and otherwise pleasuring each other in as many different ways as they could think of. Both agreed afterward — before dropping off into a deep and contented sleep — that it was the best sex they'd ever shared with each other.

Jake woke up around four o'clock that afternoon, feeling out of sorts but otherwise refreshed. He went to the bathroom and urinated and then, still naked, walked into the main sitting room and grabbed a seat on the couch. He turned on the television, flipping through it for a few minutes and finding nothing he wanted to watch. With nothing else to do, he started wondering what they were going to do tonight. He had been to Boston before — every tour he'd ever been a part of had passed through Boston — but he'd never really had time to explore it. Surely there was something to do here, wasn't there?

He started exploring some of the drawers in the room's various furnishings and, inside the desk, found a book entitled: Things To Do in Boston. He opened it up and began flipping through it, checking out the restaurants and the clubs.

An entry for a place called The Firelight Lounge caught his eye. It was touted as Boston's best live music venue, featuring all the up and coming bands from the New England region. It was claimed that the legendary Boston themselves had played there many times prior to making it big. The advertisement promised that the club featured live music every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday night.

"And it's Friday night," Jake said with a smile, finding the idea of going out and catching a live band more appealing by the minute. Sure, they'd probably be a bunch of hackers, but music was still music. And going out and getting tanked in a downtown bar would be just the thing to get Helen's mind off their impending flight tomorrow.

Helen woke up thirty minutes later and was initially resistant to his plans. She didn't want to go out in public. She just wanted to stay in the room, order dinner from room service, and stew in her irrational fear. But finally, after working on her for half an hour or so, she agreed to go out with him.

They got dressed in casual clothes and took a cab to a seafood restaurant downtown. There, they enjoyed live Maine lobster and two bottles of a decent chardonnay. The wine helped mellow Helen out a little bit. She stopped fretting about how they'd almost died and even managed to laugh a few times.

From there, they took another cab to the Fireside Lounge. Upon arrival, they found that the lounge was crowded, so crowded, in fact, that about a hundred people were waiting outside, unable to get in until someone inside decided to leave. Jake saw this and started to climb back into the cab, his intent to ask the cabbie to take them to another night club — surely there had to other places to go in Boston on a Friday night — but before they could make good their escape, the crowd spotted them. Within seconds, the two of them were surrounded by college age men and women asking the typical questions and demanding autographs.

When things quieted down a little, a young, long-haired stoner type asked Jake if he had come to see Brainwash.

Jake had noted the name Brainwash on the club's marquee when they'd pulled up. Other than that, however, he had never heard of them. He told the young stoner as much.

"Oh, dude," the young stoner proclaimed. "You fuckin' gotta check 'em out. They're gnarly."

"Gnarly, huh?" Jake said. "I do kind of like their name."

"Yeah, ain't it bitchin', man?" the young stoner said. "It's even more bitchin' when you know they're all teachers."

"Teachers?" Jake asked.

"Hell yeah, dude," the young stoner said. "You get it? Teachers... Brainwash. They're acknowledging that they're agents of the fuckin' state whose job it is to indoctrinate the youth of America into corporate whores, dude! Isn't that fuckin' tight?"

"Yeah," Jake agreed. "That is pretty fuckin' tight. Do you mean they're actual teachers?"

"Yep," he said. "All five of them. They work for the Providence school district teaching in high schools."

"Marcie teaches in a junior high school," the young stoner's girlfriend interjected. "Remember?"

"Oh yeah," the young stoner said. "That's right. Anyway, they teach school during the school year and practice their fuckin' tunes on the weekends. And then, during the summer, they play the clubs all over New England. People fuckin' love 'em, dude. I've seen 'em four times now and they're bad-ass."

There was general agreement from the crowd at this statement.

"They sound pretty interesting," Jake admitted. "Unfortunately, it doesn't look like we're going to be able to get in."

"Oh fuck that shit, dude," the young stoner said. "You're fuckin' Jake Kingsley! They'll let you in. They gotta!"

Jake expressed the opinion that cutting to the front of the line wasn't fair to everyone who had arrived beforehand. The young stoner scoffed at this idea. So did the majority of the crowd. They obviously wanted Jake to see Brainwash. They practically dragged Jake and Helen up the steps of the club to the two bouncers guarding the entrance and, as speculated, the two bouncers let them in without hesitation and without collecting the eight dollar cover charge.

"We can always make room for you and your guest, Mr. Kingsley," one of them said. "Especially if you came to see Brainwash."

They followed one of the bouncers inside. The nightclub was as crowded as D Street West had always been during the height of Intemperance's club days. The bar was packed with people three deep, every table was full, and most of the standing room was occupied by men and women between the ages of eighteen and twenty. Rock music played through the overhead sound system and a small stage was set up on the far side of the room. The sights, sounds, and smells triggered a powerful sense of nostalgia in Jake, bringing him back to his own club days, when they had played for peanuts just for the sheer joy of it, back before the realities of the life of a professional musician had been forced home to them.

"Let me introduce you to Mr. Meyer," the bouncer said, leading them through the crowd and through a small door near the bathrooms. They went down a short hallway and stopped at an office door. The bouncer knocked, was allowed entry, and he led them inside a small office where a stuffy looking man with a bad comb-over sat behind a desk with a computer terminal on it. The man's eyes looked up at their entry and then widened as he recognized Jake.

"Mr. Meyer," the bouncer said. "Jake Kingsley and his girlfriend decided to pay us a visit tonight to check out Brainwash. I thought you'd like to know."

"Yes, yes indeed," Meyer said, standing so fast he bashed his knees on his desk. "Thank you for bringing them in, John."

"No problem, Mr. Meyer," John said. "Anything else I can do?"

"You can grab a small table out of storage and set it up near center stage for Mr. Kingsley and his guest," Meyer said. "Guard it and don't let anyone sit there."

"You got it," John said.

"Really, Mr. Meyer," Jake said. "That's not necessary. We can find out own place to hang out."

"I won't hear of it," Meyer said. He turned to John again. "Go."

"Right," John said, leaving the room in a hurry.

"I'm very pleased to meet both of you," Meyer said, coming around the desk and holding out his hand. "I'm Brian Meyer, manager and part-owner of this place."

Jake and Helen both shook hands with him. He then spent the better part of fifteen minutes interrogating them about what they were doing in Boston (he hadn't heard about the Celia Valdez/Greg Oldfellow wedding) and how they had come to find their way to his club. He then asked if Jake would pose for a picture with him. Jake agreed and Helen took the shot. He then asked if they had ever heard of Brainwash before.

"Never," Jake said. "Some of the people outside filled me in on them. Is it true they're all teachers?"

"Very true," Meyer said. "They all work for the Providence Regional School District as educators. They got together a few years ago just for fun and realized they were pretty good together. Only one of them was ever a performing musician before. Do you remember the band Courage? From the early 1980's, I think it was?"

"It sounds vaguely familiar," Jake said.

"They were a one hit wonder band that only put out a single album. You probably remember the one hit in question. It was Going My Way?"

"Oh yeah," Jake said, remembering it now that it was mentioned. It had been a heavily aired song that had come out about two years before Intemperance had put out their first album. It was still played on hard rock stations on occasion, although the actual band was rarely mentioned by the DJs. It had been a good, solid tune, with decent guitar work and respectable vocals. Jake remembered turning up the tune a few times when it came on his radio in the car.

"Jim Scanlon," Meyer said, "was the vocalist for Courage. When their second album sold less than one hundred thousand copies, Aristocrat Records did not pick them up for any more option periods. Since Jim was not allowed to perform until the expiration of the contract, and since he had a bachelor's degree in World History, he picked up his teaching credential and went to work for the Providence School District. It was there that he met his wife, Marcie, who is the keyboard player and one of the other singers for the group. She teaches junior high English these days but has always been a pianist and a keyboardist."