Omega Days (Volume 1)

THREE



Oakland International Airport



Peter Dunleavy was thirty-seven, a hundred million short of being a billionaire for the sixth time over, and was about to go to federal prison for forty years. So his lawyers told him, a pack of overpaid parasites – supposedly the best legal minds money could buy – who couldn’t seem to manage something as simple as fraud and tax evasion. Worthless.

He sipped an iced tea and sank further into the wide leather seat, looking out the oval-shaped window beside him. The parasites assured him the jury would bring him in guilty either today or tomorrow, despite their best efforts. They were confident of a reversal on appeal. Dunleavy did not share their enthusiasm, and had no intention of waiting around for appeals. Or even convictions, for that matter.

The only successful thing the parasites had accomplished was to arrange for his release during the trial. A frustrated federal prosecutor had made passionate pleas to the judge, pointing out that Dunleavy had plenty of reasons, and more than sufficient financial means, to be a flight risk.

“Goddamn right,” he murmured, swirling the ice in the glass, the luxuriant main cabin of his G6 surrounding him. Next stop, his mountain villa in Venezuela. It was a country politically at odds with the U.S., and uncooperative with extradition. Sizeable payoffs to top government officials ensured it would remain that way, at least as regarded Peter Dunleavy.

Now, however, the viability of that exit plan was in doubt. The G6, and according to the pilots all traffic, had been grounded. Dunleavy’s first thought was that his plan had been discovered, and he spent the first hour staring out the window of his plane, expecting to see vans of U.S. marshals racing towards him across the tarmac. When that didn’t happen, Peter’s fright turned to annoyance. The pilots said that no further details had come from the tower, only the instruction to hold position.

On the table in front of his seat rested a bible, a pair of electronic tablets which had been shut off, and a hardcover copy of his latest bestseller. On the dust jacket was Dunleavy, smiling with perfectly white teeth and wearing an expensive Italian suit, arms raised as the sun rose majestically behind him. Finding Your Inner Savior stood out in big silver letters at the top, and at the bottom, also in silver, was Reverend Peter J. Dunleavy. Like the five which had gone before it, the book was a major hit.

Now they wanted to take it all away from him; the estates, the yachts and private jets, the portfolios and bank accounts (the ones they knew about, anyway,) the Dunleavy Bible College in Missouri, the talk show, the stadium events, the merchandising…his entire ministry. Tax agents and federal accountants were poised like jackals awaiting the fall of a wounded zebra, ready to freeze and seize his empire the moment a conviction was handed down.

He sipped the tea. It needed more vodka.

Parasites, every last one of them; the federal prosecutors, his wife in Jackson, his mistresses scattered across the country, his global congregation of followers, even his loyal staff. Everyone wanted a piece of Peter Dunleavy, and despite their endless stream of sickly sweet platitudes, every one of them was salivating in anticipation of his fall. He swallowed more tea and thought about the handgun in the compartment beside his seat, the big Glock which felt heavy and good in his hand. He wasn’t going to prison, he wouldn’t cry for forgiveness on TV like Jim Baker had, wasn’t going to watch as they stripped him of everything he had sweat and bled to build. And he would damn sure take some of those phony, smiling faces with him when he went.

One of those faces was moving up the aisle towards him, passing half a dozen highly paid secretaries and aides as he returned from the cockpit. Anderson James was his closest advisor, a true believer with a quick, capable mind who had been with Dunleavy since his humble beginnings, and who had devoted his life to the reverend and the ministry. Dunleavy sipped his tea and imagined blowing the man’s head off with the Glock.

Anderson sat down across from the man known worldwide as Brother Peter. “The tower is saying it’s an FAA grounding, and not just here, across the country. The only thing in the air is military, and all airborne civilian traffic is being ordered to land.”

“Another terrorist attack?” Wouldn’t that just figure. He should have flown out last night.

The young man shrugged. Brother Peter had forbidden any of them to use any electronic devices, no phones or tablets, for fear the feds were tracking him and would discover he was at the airfield. As a result, they were cut off from any information. “They’re not saying, but they did tell us to prepare to taxi back to the private terminal.” Dunleavy’s Gulfstream had been on the tarmac, fourth in line for takeoff when the tower closed every strip at Oakland International.

Brother Peter said nothing, only swirled his ice. Return to the terminal? Not a chance. He wasn’t going to get this close to freedom only to give up and surrender to the heathens. He’d take the Glock to the cockpit and order the pilots into the air. The thought of hijacking his own jet made him let out a little giggle.

The inappropriate noise and the look in the reverend’s eyes made Anderson James more than a little uncomfortable. He wondered, as he had begun to do more and more often since his friend’s ordeal began, if a breakdown might be coming. It wouldn’t come as a surprise. The man was under incredible stress, and Anderson’s heart ached for him. He shifted in his seat. “I’m sure it’s only temporary.”

Dunleavy looked at him, picturing his brains splattered across the cabin’s white bulkhead, wanting to scream. Everything is temporary! Life is temporary! Instead he nodded and looked back out the window. They were at the part of the taxiway which curved into the runway itself, and he could see three jets lined up ahead of them; a big United, a smaller Jet Blue and a Southwest. The sparkle of white landing lights glowed in the sky far out beyond the airport, an inbound jet.

How would his inner circle, his faithful followers at the front of the cabin, react when he took the plane at gunpoint? They’d probably be too shocked to do much of anything. Anderson would try to talk, of course, to reason with him. Dunleavy would kill him in front of the others. That would keep them quiet and in their seats.

Outside, a man shuffled across the asphalt wearing ear protectors and a bloody gray jumpsuit, his arms hanging limp. Brother Peter stared at him as the man tripped and fell over a field light, as if he hadn’t seen it poking out of the ground. He landed hard on his face without even putting up his hands to stop the fall, and then climbed slowly to his feet and wandered away in an entirely new direction. Dunleavy shook his head.

The sparkling lights grew larger, eventually resolving into the shape of a 747, which suddenly began to tip to one side. The reverend watched in amazement as the big aircraft seemed to turn sideways, nose over, and drop out of the sky. It hit with a silent, red bloom of fire, and a moment later the thunder of the impact rolled across the runway, making the G6 shudder. Plumes of blazing fuel and pieces of wreckage sailed into the air as the fireball tumbled at an angle, across grass and asphalt, and slammed into a distant part of the terminal. Fiery rain dripped from the sky, and debris arced down in smoking lines, hitting with smaller explosions.

As his followers cried out and pressed their faces to the glass, Brother Peter sagged back into the leather seat and drained the last of his vodka iced tea. The burning wreckage was strung in a long line across the runways. The Gulfstream, hijacked or not, wasn’t going anywhere.