The Blistering: Chapter IX

To read this serial novel from the beginning, go here. 

Filler on Flight 249

"Ah, elevator music. My favorite," Cardinal said.

"It's impossible for you to make an unironic statement, isn't it?" Marsha said.

"What can I say, I enjoy annoying people."

The were on a moving walkway in the Dallas Airport. Marsha was dressed in a smart but officious business suit. Her back was squarely to him. Cardinal, right behind her, kept looking at the her neck to see if she was making any effort to look back at him. She wasn't, not even a peek.

He was in his standard traveling attire -- dark blazer, red tie. He was not much for wearing ties, but in the airport, you got better service if you looked like a business traveler. Cardinal was all about efficiency, even if it meant playing the phony to achieve it.

At the end of the walkway, they stepped off and headed to the security gate. "Now, John," Marsha was saying, and she still would not look at him, "don't try anything. I mean it. "

"All right, stop it. You aren't traveling with a Neanderthal. I want to get Des Moines just as much as you do, though I can't believe I just said I want to get to anyplace in Iowa. I'm smart enough to play the game."

"Okay, I'm sorry." She glanced at him for the first time.

"First time you've been on a real mission, eh? There's a first time for everything, you know."

"Now it's your turn to stop it."

They got on the plane, enplaned, Cardinal guessed, since the stewardesses always call getting off deplaning. He caught the eye of one of the attendants, a barely-of-age blonde, and thought to clarify the issue. Touching her elbow, he began: "Brittney -- that's your name, right? -- Brittney, I was hoping you could clear something up for me. When you get off a plane, the flight attendants always call it deplaning. So when you get on, is it em-planing, en-planing, or re-planing? Re-planing doesn't make much sense, of course, since you would have to deplane before replaning. But then, you're the expert. What do you call it when you mount an aircraft?" 

The stewardess must have been accustomed to being hit on, because she smiled brightly, and came back with a prompt answer. "Call it what you like," she said. There was a faint streak of lipstick on an upper incisor. "Just mount it gently."

"That's enough," Marsha said, digging her nails into his sleeve. Then in his ear, in a hiss: "I told you, don't do anything to call attention to us."

He followed her down the aisle. They were halfway when he leaned forward to Marsha and said, "Something's not right here." He reached for his belt, the spot where his grenade usually hung, then remembered he had to take it off to get into the airport.

Marsha stiffened. "Cardinal, are you going to behave, or am I going to have to do this alone?"

"Marsha, I know a thing or two about thugs. Something is not right here." She slid into a window seat, and Cardinal sat down next to her.

"What, worried about the guy with the shumagg?" Marsha was annoyed.

"No, those folks are fine," Cardinal said, distractedly. "It's the four guys in suits, right over there." He inclined his head.

"Look John, relax. The plane is headed out to the runway. I won't have you stopping this flight."

His voice was rising. "Marsha, I don't think you're going to have to worry about that -- "

"Everybody freeze," a deep voice snarled from the back. "This plane has been hijacked!"

Next week: The Embryonic Express