Isaiah. Her voice shifted. Not warmer, sharper. When Isaiah Carter called from a personal number during a flight, something was wrong. In four years of working together, he had done this exactly once before.
That time, a gate agent in Dallas had refused to board a wheelchairbound veteran. The agent was terminated before the plane reached cruising altitude. I'm on flight 2261, Atlanta to New York. I know. I cleared your booking myself.
Pull up the cabin crew roster for this flight. Sandra was already typing. Her fingers moved across the keyboard with the efficiency of someone who understood that when Isaiah Carter spoke in short sentences, the situation was past the point of discussion. Diane Ashford, lead flight attendant, first class, 12 years with the company. Sandra paused.
Greg Nolan, 2 years. And a third, Michelle Voss, 3 years. What happened? Ashford refused me champagne service. Told me I didn't belong in first class.
Called me a thief, a freeloader. Wiped the armrest after touching my boarding pass like I was contaminated. Isaiah's voice didn't change. Not one degree. He could have been reading a grocery list.
Then she poured Don Perinan on me deliberately in front of the entire cabin. Sandra stopped typing. 3 Seconds of silence in corporate America. 3 Seconds of silence from a COO means someone is about to lose their job. Three seconds of silence from Sandra Palmer meant someone was about to lose their job, their reference letter, and any chance of working in aviation again.
All three. All three. Ashford led it. Nolan followed orders. Voss stood behind the curtain and watched.
I want their names off the system before we land. You'll have it in 10 minutes. Make it five. The line went dead. Isaiah placed the phone face down on the armrest.
The screen went dark. He picked up the cloth napkin from his lap, the one he'd been using to absorb the champagne from his shirt, and folded it into a neat square. He placed it on the armrest next to his phone. Then he went back to looking out the window. Across the galley curtain, Diane was talking to Greg in the kind of whisper that isn't actually a whisper.
He's calling someone. Greg had been watching through the gap in the curtain. He looked serious. Let him call. Diane was restocking the drink tray, her movements sharp and fast, like a woman trying to prove she wasn't rattled by acting twice as busy as she needed to be.