Chapter 4 - Cruising Altitude
An hour after our delayed takeoff from Los Angeles, the Boeing 777 leveled off at thirty-six thousand feet.
Below us, the desert grid of the American Southwest was swallowed up by a dense blanket of twilight clouds. The ambient cabin lighting shifted to a deep, calming sapphire blue. In First Class, the mood had settled into a quiet hum of clinking glassware and hushed conversations, though the passengers still occasionally glanced toward Row 1 with lingering curiosity.
I carried a tray featuring a warm porcelain cup of chamomile tea and a small bowl of steamed organic apple slices down the aisle, setting it gently on the fold-out table in front of Seat 1A.
"Here you go, Noah," I said with a warm smile, crouching down so I was at his eye level. "Special delivery for the co-pilot."
Noah’s eyes widened as he looked at the apple slices. "Are these real?"
"Straight from the galley," I whispered playfully. "And I checked with the Captain—he says eating apple slices at thirty thousand feet gives you super-vision."
Noah giggled—a clear, musical sound that seemed to wash away the heavy memory of what had happened at the gate. He took a bite of an apple slice, clutching his stuffed fox in his lap.
Eleanor, sitting in 1B, smiled softly as she watched us. The tension that had rigidified her shoulders since boarding was finally beginning to melt away.
"You're very good with children, Michael," Eleanor noted, taking a slow sip of her own tea. "Do you have kids of your own?"
"Not yet, Ms. Bennett," I replied, smoothing my apron. "Just two nephews who think I fly the plane myself every time I wear the uniform."
"Call me Eleanor, please," she said gently. "The 'Ms. Bennett' title comes with a lot of baggage I try to leave on the ground." She looked down at Noah, her fingers threading through his soft brown hair. "My father wanted us to fly on the corporate jet tonight. But Noah loves big commercial airplanes. He wanted to sit in the 'giant flying whale,' as he calls it. I promised him it would be an adventure."
"I'm sorry his adventure started out so roughly," I said sincerely.
"It wasn't your fault, Michael," Eleanor said, her tone growing serious. "People like Patricia... they see the world through a lens of rigid hierarchy. They think money and expensive clothes grant human dignity, and the lack of them strips it away. My father spent fifty years building an fortune, but he raised me to believe that a person's worth is measured by how they treat someone who can do absolutely nothing for them."
"Your father sounds like a wise man," I noted.
"He is," Eleanor agreed softly. "Though he can be terrifying when he's angry, as Patricia found out. But he loves Noah more than life itself."
At that moment, Karen stepped out of the forward galley, holding a wireless satellite phone. Her expression was tense.
She caught my eye and motioned for me to step into the galley.
"Excuse me for a moment, Eleanor," I said, standing up and stepping behind the velvet galley curtain.
"What's up, Karen?" I asked softly.
Karen lowered her voice, leaning in close. "That was Station Management in LAX. Patricia didn't just leave the airport, Michael. She went straight to the union rep and filed an emergency grievance against the company—and specifically against you."
I blinked, stunned. "Against me? For what?!"
"She’s claiming you conspired with a high-profile passenger to create a hostile work environment, fabricated an assault claim to sabotage her career, and breached safety protocol by interfering with a crew member's authority during boarding."
I let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. "She grabbed a five-year-old child! Half the First Class cabin saw the red mark on his face!"
"I know that, and you know that," Karen sighed, rubbing her temples. "But Patricia has twenty-four years of union protection and a legal team provided by the flight attendant association. She knows the policy handbook inside and out. She’s claiming the red mark was from a pre-existing condition or caused by the boy pulling away aggressively. If corporate tries to fire her without a full formal investigation, her union could ground three flight crews in protest by tomorrow morning."
"She's trying to save her pension by throwing us under the bus," I realized, anger tightening in my chest.
"Exactly," Karen nodded grimly. "And there's more. Look at the radar display on the flight deck monitor."
She pulled back the curtain slightly to reveal the auxiliary flight monitor near the cockpit door. A massive, angry blob of crimson and purple was blooming across the midwestern flight path—a severe squall line moving rapidly out of Kansas.
"Captain says we're heading straight into a Class 4 convective storm system over the Missouri border," Karen said quietly. "It’s going to get very rough, Michael. And with Patricia gone, we’re short-staffed in the forward section."
Before I could answer, a sudden, violent shudder rippled through the fuselage.
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The overhead floorboards groaned. The warning chime rang twice through the cabin, and the Captain’s voice crackled over the PA system, tight and urgent:
"Flight attendants, take your jumpseats immediately. Fasten your shoulder harnesses. We are encountering unexpected severe turbulence."
