Captain Cain's voice cracked as he tried to respond. "Mr. Davis, there was a misunderstanding about passenger identification."
"Misunderstanding!" Davis roared. "That is Dr. Naomi Brooks. She owns Neurocure Inc. She owns the aircraft you're standing on."
"She pays your salaries. She's worth $2.8 billion."
The silence on the tarmac was deafening. Carlos Mendez had to cover his microphone to keep from shouting in excitement. His viewer count had exploded past 5,000, with comments moving too fast to read.
Madison Torres felt her knees go weak. Tyler Morgan looked like he'd been punched in the stomach. Jessica Rivera was already backing away from the group, trying to distance herself physically from the disaster. But Dr. Naomi Brooks wasn't finished.
"Michael," she said, her voice carrying across the tarmac with perfect clarity. "I want them off my aircraft. All of them. Now."
The judgment had been rendered. The silence stretched across the tarmac like a held breath. Michael Davis's voice crackled through the phone speaker with the desperation of a man watching his company's reputation disintegrate in real time.
"Dr. Brooks, I am profoundly sorry. There's been a catastrophic misunderstanding. Cain, Torres, Morgan, Rivera, you're all suspended immediately pending full investigation. Dr. Brooks, please let me personally arrange—"
"No."
Naomi cut him off, her voice carrying the kind of authority that ended discussions rather than started them. "I want them off my aircraft now. I want them escorted from this airport. And I want a new crew here within the hour."
Madison Torres finally found her voice, though it came out as a desperate squeak. "Dr. Brooks, I'm so sorry. I didn't know. The manifest didn't have a photo. I was just following security protocols."