The Doomsday Series Box Set | Books 1-5 Page 8

  His mind drifted back to the old man’s bedside. His condition had unexpectedly deteriorated in the last sixty days. It was as if the life was being sucked out of him. Yet he was completely lucid, if not philosophical, as he prepared to die.

  To his right, two men were talking loudly in the nearby bar, obviously enjoying their New Year’s Eve libations and relishing the upcoming demise of the President of the United States. A young couple carried their children just in front of him, rushing past in a frantic attempt to meet a flight connection. The airport was a sea of bodies on the night most people should be celebrating an upcoming new year. Even though many were not.

  “Paging the following Mobile passengers—Disney, party of two, Cortland, and Hamilton. Please see the Delta agent at gate D29.”

  He closed his eyes and fought to remove the words from his head, but they grew louder and more ominous with every attempt. Like a bad song that played over and over, begging to be displaced by a catchier tune, his father-in-law’s words rang inside, growing larger until he could visualize them pulsating in his mind.

  Either you control your destiny, or destiny controls you.

  The old man was usually more direct. He was not one to mince words, sugarcoat bad situations, or speak in cryptic phrases. What did he mean?

  The two men in the bar continued their ribbing of one another over the politic story of the day, or the new century, for that matter. They brushed past, smelling of alcohol and reeking of BS.

  “Final call for Mobile standby passenger Cortland, Michael Cortland. Please see the Delta agent at gate D29.”

  Oh, crap!

  Cort awakened from his daze. Hearing his name repeated brought him back to the present. He shot out of the padded seat, bumped into another business traveler, who barely noticed, and pushed his way through other standby passengers crowded around the gate agent with hopeful faces.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me,” he said politely as he wedged his way through two broad-shouldered men in suits. He reached the gate agent and introduced himself. “Sorry, I didn’t, um, I’m Michael Cortland. Here’s my identification.”

  Out of habit, Cort, who had been given the nickname by his father at an early age, produced his Alabama driver’s license and his Capitol Hill credentials identifying him as the chief of staff to Alabama Senator Hugh McNeil.

  The gate agent smiled and entered some information into the computer terminal. As she did, she hummed the tune to “Auld Lang Syne” and then added the only words most people knew.

  For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne. We’ll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

  Within seconds, she was reaching below the counter, and the sound of the printer spitting out his boarding pass could be heard. With a weary smile, she stamped the boarding pass, handed him his two IDs, and wished him a good flight.

  Cort paused for a moment and then said, “You know, I think I will take a cup of kindness. We all should. Happy New Year to you!”

  The puzzled gate agent returned the good wishes, and Cort was off to take Delta Flight 322 home to his family.

  He walked down the jet bridge as the last passenger to be boarded. A slightly irritated, but attractive gate agent stood with her arms crossed, awaiting his arrival. A couple of ground personnel chatted by the jet bridge instruments, wrapped in scarves and knit hats as they endured the cold front that had swept across the eastern part of the country, bringing snow and freezing temps into parts of the south.

  Cort glanced out the small jet bridge window before he stepped on board, noticing deicing trucks stationed next to the wing of the McDonnell Douglas MD-88 aircraft. He shrugged. He expected to see deicing taking place in the northeast, but not in Atlanta.

  He ducked to avoid bumping the top of his six-foot-five frame, a height he had reached in high school that enabled him to go to Yale on a basketball scholarship. Cort was extremely intelligent and had maintained a near-perfect GPA throughout high school. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have the pedigree to make his way into a prestigious Ivy League school like Yale, but his basketball talents caught the eye of their recruiters. His personality and boy-next-door charm made him a perfect fit for their program.

  He walked through first class, where the passengers were scrolling through their phones and sipping on cocktails in real glasses. Cort managed a chuckle when he thought of the plastic cup of Coke and one-ounce bag of peanuts that was in store for him.

  In the last row of first class sat a man who was famous in Alabama and now throughout America. Johnson Pratt, incoming chairman of the House Judiciary Committee, lived on a farm just north of Mobile. His name and face were in the news on a daily, if not hourly, basis over the last eight weeks since the election was held. If there was ever a big man on campus in Washington, the nearly three-hundred-pound Pratt was the one.

  Cort paused to wish Pratt a happy New Year, and the congressman cordially responded. The two men had worked with one another on a recent budget battle to prevent the closure of the Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville. Redstone Arsenal housed several government agencies at the sprawling Huntsville base, including the Department of Defense, the ARMY, NASA, and Department of Justice facilities.

  Although Pratt was on opposite ends of the political divide from Cort and his boss, one that had grown into a contentious chasm in recent years, the two legislators were able to find common ground for the good of their state.

  He made his way to his seat and turned sideways to avoid contact with a buxom flight attendant who came up the aisle toward him. She paused and leaned dangerously close to Cort. In a heavy Southern accent, not unlike his wife’s, she advised that because he was the last passenger to board, he could take the first open seat. He smiled and nodded, choosing to run rather than converse with the attractive woman.

  An aisle seat was the first available opportunity for Cort to get settled. As he slid in, he noticed the two men sitting in the exit row in front of him. They were the same two guys from the bar who were boozing it up and talking loudly. They brought the smell of the bar with them.

  Cort pushed his soft-sided leather briefcase under the seat and adjusted his long legs to fit into the tight space that was customary on domestic flights in recent years as the big carriers tried to compete with low-cost, budget airlines. Cort furrowed his brow and mumbled to himself. Flying sucked anyway but was much worse when you were seven inches taller than the average American male.

  Two elderly women sat in the seats to his left, both of whom appeared to be uncomfortable with the prospect of flying. Or perhaps something was weighing heavily on their minds.

  “Good evening, ladies,” greeted Cort, attempting to break the ice and let them know he was nothing like the men sitting in front of them.

  The woman closest to the window smiled and turned away, placing her fingers under her nose to mask the smell of the passengers in front of them. The other woman replied politely with a simple hello.

  The airplane shook slightly as the Jetway pushed away from the door. The final bags were loaded beneath the plane, and the deicing trucks drove to another job. Delta 322 began to roll backwards as the flight attendants began their duties.

  The lead attendant cued the microphone and spoke to the passengers. “On behalf of the flight crew, I’d like to welcome you aboard Delta flight three-two-two, nonstop service from Atlanta to Mobile, Alabama. If you were expecting to fly to New York for the New Year’s activities, well, I’m sorry for your luck. You can enjoy it on TV in Mobile.”

  The joke drew a smattering of laughter from the passengers but drew a snide remark from one of the men in front of them.

  “Yeah, you know what Delta stands for, right?” He slurred his words as he answered his question, which was his intention anyway. “Don’t even leave the airport. Get it?”

  His buddy laughed uproariously as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, although the acronym joke had been around for many decades. Cort was sure most everyone was familiar with the saying and ign
ored its meaning.

  He was wrong.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Atlanta Hartsfield Airport

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Will gathered the kids’ luggage and made small talk as they exited the south terminal of the airport. Will reminded them that he had to work tonight, but he had a real treat in store for them at the concert. Beyoncé and Jay-Z were two of the most successful performers in music, although Beyoncé was not one of his personal favorites due to her continued attacks on law enforcement in the wake of the Black Lives Matter movement.

  Will would love to challenge her to put on a beat cop’s uniform for the evening and deal with the violent crime and drug-related offenses in Fairhill, Tioga/Nicetown, and the Hunting Park neighborhoods of Philadelphia. Nobody understood the challenges cops faced until they wore that uniform. Monday morning quarterbacking was unfair to the officers who risked their lives on every tour of duty. Nonetheless, she was a great talent, and he hoped the kids would enjoy seeing her perform live.

  All of these thoughts pervaded his mind as the three of them came upon an unruly group of black teens who were horsing around near the narrow entrance to the parking garage. Will subconsciously squeezed Skylar’s hand and tugged her back somewhat as he slowed his pace.

  Ethan, who kept walking before noticing Will’s abrupt change in speed, stopped and addressed his father sarcastically. “Whadya gonna do, Dad? Say time to go, savages?”

  Ethan’s words stung Will to the core, immediately conjuring up that fateful night at Fairhill Square in North Philadelphia. Philly SWAT had received a call of a large disturbance at the inner-city park, with shots fired.

  On a Monday night in Fairhill, the city’s most violent neighborhood, a barrage of bullets rang out within the park. The shooting occurred just as darkness set in, but the park was still full of children enjoying the last week of their summer break before school started.

  Recently, the Philadelphia Police Department had seen a spike in homicides and rapes in Fairhill, and the Philadelphia Inquirer had led the charge in pressuring the force to be more responsive to violent criminal activity.

  Philly SWAT arrived in force to the call amid reports that three dozen shots had been fired in the melee. Two men were reported dead, and several others, including children, had been wounded. Tensions were high when the teams arrived to get control of the situation.

  Will and his team were the first to appear on the scene and were attempting to take charge when several local residents began scolding them for their slow response time, which had been close to fifteen minutes after the first call had come into 9-1-1.

  The team began to forcibly push the young black men out of the park and away from the active-shooter scene for their own protection, and to preserve the crime scene for investigators. Tensions flared as some accused Philly SWAT of using excessive force in their efforts to control the crowd.

  Vulgarities were hurled in their direction, in addition to rocks and bottles. At one point during the melee, out of frustration, Will yelled, “Come on! It’s time to go. Quit acting like a bunch of savages. You need to get to safety and go home!”

  Twenty-two words. One of which caused a firestorm for the department, and Will’s family.

  Savages.

  Will didn’t consider himself to be a racist. Three members of his unit were black. They were brothers-in-arms who unquestionably had each other’s backs in all manner of dangerous situations. Within Philly SWAT, nobody looked at one another through the prism of race. They were a team. Will prided himself on being color-blind.

  However, when his words were heard by the youths, they became angry and began misquoting Will to others gathered around. They quickly changed the word savages to the n-word, a hateful term that wasn’t even in his vocabulary. During the intense investigation, his body-cam footage later proved Will’s account as being accurate, but it didn’t matter. Savages was good enough for the mob, which quickly undertook to destroy his life.

  In the coming weeks, Will learned a lot about perceptions and political correctness in America. He was unfamiliar with the political use of the word trigger, a word he’d always associated with a part of his weapon. In today’s social climate, a trigger, or trigger warning, included a word that might offend someone’s political sensibilities, as in matters of sex or race.

  Likewise, the newly defined term dog-whistle was applied to Will’s statement. According to some in America, a dog-whistle involved the use of a term that might mean one thing to the general population, but would have an offensive, different meaning for a targeted subgroup based upon race or sex.

  Will’s intent didn’t matter as the forty-year-old white male, in a pressure-packed environment, likened the out-of-control, unruly youths to acting like primitive, uncivilized humans. The term was immediately assumed to be used in a racist manner, and the lives of the Hightower family were turned upside down.

  The media headlines in Philadelphia and certain cable news networks made little mention of the reason Philly SWAT was called to the scene that night. They said nothing about the fact the unruly crowd refused to heed the officer’s warnings or obey their orders to disperse from the violent, active-shooter scene.

  The entire conversation centered around Will’s use of the word savages, and it was declared to be indicative of the way law enforcement throughout the nation treated the black community.

  Will was placed on administrative leave during the investigation. The paid leave worked out to the family’s benefit, as he was needed at home to deal with the repercussions of the media firestorm.

  His kids were physically attacked at school. His home and car were vandalized on several occasions. Police protection was refused to them, under the circumstances. But his wife found police protection from another source, Will’s ex-partner, Frankie.

  The affair started during the constant media scrums, which occurred outside their home. Anytime a glimpse of a family member was seen by the reporters, they rushed toward the house with cameras rolling and microphones at the ready.

  For a time, Karen was the only member of the Hightower family who left the house to ostensibly run errands and do grocery shopping. One evening, as the family gathered to eat dinner in front of the television and watch the nightly news, a report came on that shook everyone to their core.

  Earlier that day, a reporter had followed Karen, who had discreetly entered a nearby hotel room with Frankie. They filmed her exiting later, adjusting and buttoning her blouse as she gave a long kiss to a shirtless Frankie.

  Karen scrambled for the remote to turn off the news report, but it was too late. Skylar began crying and ran into her room and slammed the door. Ethan ran out the back door and didn’t return the entire night. Will lost his mind.

  He and Karen screamed at one another for an hour. She blamed his actions on that evening in Fairhill for forcing her into the arms of another man. He defended himself on the basis that how could his utterance of one word lead her to Frankie, his partner, and an illicit affair.

  The argument became so heated that the prying media called the police to report a domestic dispute. When the patrol cars arrived, the cameras were rolling when Will was walked out of the house and taken away, not under arrest, but as a way to diffuse the situation.

  The resulting divorce was very public, and an emotionally defeated Will gave his wife and kids everything he could to begin the healing process. His wife healed in the arms of her new boyfriend. His son never healed and obviously continued to hold a strong resentment against his father, whom he blamed for the family falling apart. His daughter was the most forgiving of the Hightower family, as Will would never forgive himself for the inartful use of a single word—savages.

  “Daddy?” Skylar pulled down his arm to bring him back into the present. “Are we gonna go to the car?”

  Will snapped out of it, looked down at his daughter, and smiled. “Yeah, baby girl. You guys have a concert to see.”

  Will led the way toward th
e group, who just now noticed the three of them.

  “Excuse us,” said Will as he pulled Skylar a little closer to him. He wanted to avoid confrontation.

  “There ain’t no excuse!” shouted one of the teens, drawing laughter from his friends.

  Will managed a smile, then reminded himself that this was Atlanta and these kids didn’t know who he was or what had happened up East. Without saying another word, he stood a little taller so his security uniform could be seen. With his right arm, he eased his hand over the stun gun that, when holstered, resembled a Glock firearm in the diminished light. The subtle move was immediately noticed by two of the teens.

  “Hey, dude’s packin’!”

  “Dayum, look at Clint Eastwood!”

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” said Will in his most polite voice, but through gritted teeth. “Thanks for letting us through.”

  Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the boys spread apart and stood against the concrete railing of the walkway, allowing the Hightowers to pass without incident. Once in the parking garage, Will exhaled, letting out a sigh of relief. That evening at Fairhill Square would forever live in his mind.

  Proud of himself, Will unlocked his truck and loaded the kids inside. As he was about to close the passenger-side door where Ethan sat, his son couldn’t help but get in one last dig.

  “See, Dad, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked sarcastically.

  Will hesitated, allowing his son’s words to hang in the air for a moment. He sighed and gently shut the door without answering—heartbroken.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mercedes-Benz Stadium

  Atlanta, Georgia

  During the ride to the stadium, Will turned the conversation toward school. The kids had been kept out of school for the first four months during the media uproar, hoping the unwanted attention would die down by the Christmas break. The media finally left them alone, but now Skylar, who was in fifth grade, and Ethan, who was in high school, had to face the taunts of their fellow classmates and the harsh scrutiny of their teachers.