Our Little Secret Ch. 04

Joel wasn't expecting an immediate reply – Paul was probably in the air somewhere – so he started the car and backed out of the driveway, and navigated toward the I-95 onramp. To Joel's surprise, Paul returned his email five minutes later. At a red traffic light, Joel read the reply.

Hey Joel! Great to hear from you. Grd MIA. Ltng strk I/C A/C. Good timing on your msg. BOS Fri, DFW Sat. Bkfst BOS Hilton Sat 0900? Cnfrm by email Fri Nite – Paul

Joel remembered Paul barking orders to Gary to declare an emergency. He said three things – seventy something, and then put us down R.F.N., which Joel understood to mean right fucking now, and then Paul said I'll check for damage. Joel assumed the numeric code was pilot lingo meaning emergency, like 10-4 means okay in the old CB radio days. Reading his reply email, Joel realized that was just how Paul communicated on the job – short, terse codes. It took several parses to guess Ltng strk I/C A/C meant there was a lightning strike on the incoming aircraft. He knew DFW was Dallas. He assumed Grd MIA meant grounded in Miami, and not missing in action.

Joel understood Paul's message invited him for breakfast at the Boston Airport Hilton on Saturday morning at 9 AM, but to confirm by email the night before in case Paul had a scheduling issue. Saturday was in two days.

He re-read the message before the traffic light turned green, now deciphering the code as he read. Joel realized just how much meaningful information Paul packed in such a short message, and for the first time, Joel believed he understood how complex communications must be in the cockpit of an advanced, modern aircraft.

Joel found the terse email language curious, because at the news conference, Paul was gregarious and articulate. There was not a hint of brevity in his speech. Paul seemed to have two styles of communication, one that he used for the general public, and one he reserved for fellow pilots. Joel felt privileged to be included in the latter circle of friends.

At the next red light, Joel replied:

Paul – Bkfst BOS Hilton Sat 0900 OK. Will Cnfrm email Fri PM. Good luck MIA. ltng better than catnap :) – Joel

Joel considered Christina's story a wake-up call. He had been working on developing a code, but now it became urgent. Joel had decided he would not make a girl do anything she would not normally do. In other words, if she likes to fuck, then why not fuck him? If she doesn't like to swallow or take it up the ass, then he won't force her. He won't change what she does, only who she does it with, and maybe how often. And under no circumstances would he make a girl jump up on a crowded bar, strip, and dance.

He decided where money and property are concerned, Joel would apply a use-it-or-lose-it principle. If she wasn't using it, why not let him? The problem was finding women with too much money. They don't exactly have listings.

Over the next two days he scanned the obituary ads. He was looking for a widow who had lots of money, was relatively young, fifty say, and who had no kids to make troublesome inquiries into the estate disposition. Joel could glean some of the information he needed from the published obituaries. Joel discovered that, even in a town the size of Boston, his criteria presented a tall order.

Joel met Paul Granger on Saturday morning as planned. On Friday night, when he confirmed their meeting, he sent the following email.

Paul – I am looking forward to seeing you tomorrow morning. I have strange request that will come clear tomorrow. Could you order room service, and we will eat breakfast privately in your room. I have something to discuss with you that is so sensitive it cannot be discussed in a restaurant. I know I might sound a bit creepy, but please believe me, it will make sense tomorrow. – Joel.

Paul replied right away.

Rm 423. 0900. Eggs and bacon OK?

Paul had a nice hotel room, with a king size bed, and a separate sitting room with a table and four chairs where they ate breakfast.

Joel asked Paul if anything had changed for him, especially in regards to his relationship with women. Paul didn't mind bragging about an uptick in his sex life at home. He chalked it up to the hero effect after landing a stricken plane. But later he realized all women seemed to do what he wanted. Restaurant waitresses were more attentive. Flight attendants were more responsive. Even female hotel clerks would give him upgrades when he asked, like this hotel room. But only the women. Men weren't any different.

"Paul," Joel said, and then took a deep breath, "you have a ... a power you didn't have before." Paul laughed, thinking it was a joke. "No, seriously," Joel protested. "I think every man on that plane changed, or at least some of us. I think that ball of light did something to us. It wasn't just the women who were affected, but we were affected in a different way."

"Joel, have you been smoking something in Washington?" Paul smiled.

Joel shared his hotel research results in every detail. He told Paul the story of Christina Carroll and her coworkers. He told Paul the two events are related. He's certain of it.

"You can prove it to yourself, Paul," Joel offered. "Walk up behind any woman – any woman – and command her to do something silly, like bark, or hop, or flap her arms. Something simple. Something mildly embarrassing, but not humiliating. I guarantee you they will do everything you say. Do it today on the way out of the hotel or in the airport."

Paul looked at Joel a long time. Joel knew Paul was trying to decide if Joel was insane or pulling a prank. "I'm dead serious, Paul. Do it this morning. Go out in the hallway right now. I bet you can find a cleaning lady." Paul stared at him in quiet disbelief. "I'm serious Paul!" Joel raise his voice. "Do it!"

"You're fucking insane!" Paul stood up.

"Good," Joel jumped up. "Prove me insane. Do it. If it doesn't work, I will leave, and you will never hear from me again." They stared at each other for several seconds. "What do you have to lose, Paul?"

"I can't believe this," Paul snorted. He went to the door, poked his head out. There was no cleaning lady, but a business woman was pulling her suitcase down the hallway. She was about to pass his door. "Excuse me," he asked. She stopped. Paul drew a breath. "Jump up and down and bark like a dog." She dropped her suitcase handle, and jumped on the spot, barking over and over. She kept going. She wouldn't stop!

Paul turned into the room and yelled at Joel "How do I make her stop?!"

"Command her to stop," Joel smiled.

"STOP!" he yelled at the woman, and she stopped jumping and barking, heaving her chest, badly out of breath.

"Uh ... have a nice day," Paul shrugged, and came back in and closed the door. Joel was smiling. Paul staggered to the breakfast table in disbelief, and collapsed in his chair. "Tell me everything about the hotel and the restaurant again," Paul said.

The Christina Carroll situation bothered Paul deeply. Clearly, someone set out to ruin her life, or at very least, stir up some childish, selfish fun with absolutely no regard for the devastating consequences to other people.

"Paul," Joel leaned forward, "I think every male on that the catnap flight has this power. If not everyone, certainly more than just you and me. It is unrestrained, absolute control that no one knows about – at least, not yet. It will cause untold misery before this is all over. You know the saying – absolute power corrupts absolutely."

"It's early, still," Joel continued. "That Mojo Restaurant thing happened two weeks after the catnap flight. It's taken me that long just to figure this out. You hadn't figured it out yet, but you sensed you were on to something. Things like this are going to start popping up all the time now. And when it gets out of control, there will be a backlash against the men of the catnap flight. Someone will connect the dots, no matter how ridiculous it sounds."

"People will be become terrified of us, and rightly so. We will all be cast as monsters and rapists. If a woman can't go to a movie theatre without suddenly begging three guys to have sex with her in the aisle, we'll be crucified. The truth will get out, Paul. There will be a crushing demand to put us all in cages. Maybe it won't happen today. Maybe not this year. But in the next five years, you and I will be the ones who pay for the few bad apples, like the guy responsible for Christina."

"So what are you saying?" Paul asked. "We can't go to the police with this. They'll commit us to the psych ward. And even if they believe you, there are no laws for this. I'm not a lawyer, but mind control isn't on the books anywhere I fly. From a legal perspective, Christina Carroll was a willing and sane participant. And when it comes down to it, so were all those girls you took to your hotel room. In the law's eye, it was consensual, weird sex. According to you, even the women themselves will testify that way in court."

"Then we need another solution," Joel postulated. "A solution outside the law."

Paul looked at him for a long time. "That is stupid and dangerous, Joel. You cannot incite a whole society to go around the law. That's the exact definition of anarchy."

"There is no law to go around, Paul," Joel reminded him. "You already said that. We have anarchy right now, and Christina Carroll is proof. She and two other people will be convicted for a crime they are not responsible for. One of these times, the mind controller will make a woman kill his own wife in front of witnesses. The controlled woman goes on death row while the controlling man walks away a free man with a million dollar life insurance payout and two innocent women are dead. Not only does the law not touch him, Paul, the law doesn't even see him. He is invisible to the law."

"It's only a matter of time," Joel pressed on, "and you know it. It's absolute power, Paul, and it corrupts absolutely. Anarchy's already here, but it's eating the system from the inside. Mind control will turn the legal system against the very people it was built to protect, like Christina. The only question left to answer, Paul, is what are you prepared to do about it?"

Paul looked at Joel for a long time, processing Joel's inescapable logic. "I never should have answered that fucking intercom when you picked up the cabin phone," Paul complained with a smile. "So what's your plan?"

"I don't have one," Joel admitted. "But we need to start talking to people we trust." Joel waited. "Have you spoken with Gary – I forget his last name – the co-pilot?"

"Gary Tallwood," Paul added. "No he's getting certified for the triple seven. Lucky bastard." Joel knew Paul was referring to the Boeing 777, a much larger and newer aircraft than the Airbus A319. Triple seven flights are longer – they often fly overseas – and typical flights include layovers in exotic destinations.

"I thought they'd take you first."

"There's a bunch of triple seven captains retiring this year," Paul shook his head. "The company's promoting the qualified first officers into the left seat, creating a demand for new triple seven co-pilots," Paul explained. "I could apply, but then I take a big pay cut. I'll stick to puddle jumping."

"Is he a good guy?" Joel asked. "I mean Gary – can you trust him to talk about something like this?"

"Don't know," Paul looked through the hotel room window. "I only flew with him a half dozen times. He's a good pilot, but I can't say how he'd deal with something like this."

"One thing I would like is the name and photograph of every passenger on the catnap flight."

"Names, I can do," Paul nodded. "Photos? That's TSA territory," Paul shook his head. "You'll never get that."

"How well do you know your way around the TSA?"

"Joel!" Paul nearly shouted. "You can't just walk up to the TSA and ask them for all the photo ID captures for a flight."

"You're thinking with your old brain," Joel grinned. "You can if the person you ask is a woman."

"Holy fuck!" Paul whistled. He was starting to understand Joel's point about absolute power. He remained silent for a long time. "Joel, you've laid a shitload heavy duty thinking on me. Let me fly away, and I'll put some thought to this. We need to talk again."

"Okay," Joel nodded. "I have some rules, if you don't mind. I've been thinking about this for a few days."

"Shoot," Paul listened as he got up and started collecting his things to go to the airport.

"One, we are a closed group. Right now, it is you and me. We never discuss any part of this outside the group. No exceptions." Paul nodded.

"Two, no notes, email, text messages, social networking – nothing about this topic goes down on paper, over a phone, or in an electronic file. Verbal face-to-face only until we know what we're dealing with. For all we know, someone has already compromised a woman working in a highly secure eavesdropping establishment."

"A little paranoid are we," Paul chided.

"Mark my words, Paul. I guarantee this will come down to life and death, and I'm not being overdramatic." Paul nodded, hoping Joel was wrong, but worried he was probably right.

"That's it for now. We'll make up the rest as we go."

Paul shook his hand, "We will definitely stay in touch."

"Thanks, Paul," Joel didn't smile. "You go. I'll follow five minutes later."

"Right, Agent 99," Paul saluted with a mock Maxwell Smart accent. He checked the room one last time for anything forgotten, and pulled the door open to leave.

"Oh!" Joel remembered to ask something. Paul waited at the open door. "On the catnap flight, when you told Gary to declare an emergency, you told him seventy something. What was that?"

"I said 'squawk seventy seven hundred'," Paul explained.

"What is that?" Joel asked.

"Every airplane has something called a transponder code – a four digit number we can assign to the avionics computer. The computer transmits that code to air traffic control. There are some special codes, and seventy seven hundred, or seven-seven-zero-zero, is one of them. When we put that code in our computer, ATC instantly knows we have an onboard emergency, even if our radios are out. So technically, I was telling Gary to enter that code into the transponder, but really it was my way of telling Gary to declare an emergency."

"Paul," Joel said, "if I ever send you a message that says squawk seventy seven hundred in it, I have a real, holy-shit, life threatening emergency about this thing we talked about."

"Good idea," Paul nodded. "Likewise," and he left the room, letting the door close behind him. Five minutes later, Joel left the room and went directly to his car in the parking lot. He drove back to his apartment, and thought about going shopping on the way home. And thoughts about shopping triggered a memory of an article he read long ago. The Mall Channel! Joel thought. That's my ticket.

Joel had read in a magazine once about the home shopping business, and how the Home Mall Channel had revolutionized the industry. The Home Mall Channel did a survey of its own clients, and discovered over 90% of their profits come from fewer than 5% of their callers. It revamped its sales system, and carved out a special place for these high value customers, called the Personal Valet service. Personal Valet callers spoke with real people called Personal Shoppers. Most Personal Shoppers are trained psychologists, and unlike minimum wage phone operators in other companies, a Personal Shopper's annual income can reach into the six figures.

Their survey revealed most high value callers were shut-in women, and they were bored stupid, but one thing they had was money. When they called the Personal Valet service, the phone system automatically connected them to their favorite Personal Shopper. They would spend up to an hour talking about how lonely they were, how their children never came to see them, how sick they were, and all their other problems. But they also knew this was a shopping business, and toward the end of the call, they would say, 'oh, and by the way, I'll take one of those lovely fur coats I saw five minutes ago for $17,000'. The average purchase for a regular customer was $176 per session, Joel remembered the article said, but the average purchase for a Personal Valet customer was over $9,000 per session, and the profit margins were much higher on the more expensive merchandise.

All Joel needed was the top 100 Valet clients, and he never needed to look at an obituary again. And the best part, Joel remembered in the article the president of the company is a woman. When he got home late Saturday morning, Joel googled the Home Mall Channel, and found its head offices were in Atlanta. The web page said Allison Benson was still the president.

He needed to phone them, but that would have to wait until Monday. But it was time to make a phone call. He pulled out his cell, and dialed.

"Hello," came a familiar voice.

"Hi Jenny, its Joel."

There was a long pause. "Hi Joel. I'm surprised you called."

"I said I would."

"I thought you were just being polite," she explained.

"Hey listen," Joel offered, "if you don't have any plans, how about a movie, or maybe mini-golf tonight?"

"I don't know, Joel. I'd sort of like to, but last time was ... well you know how it was."

'Fucking fantastic' Joel didn't say. "Listen Jenny, I'm really sorry if you felt embarrassed. I just thought I was just following your lead, there."

"I know," she groaned. Clearly that is what embarrassed her most.

"Look," Joel said. "A movie. No alcohol. No funny stuff. Just you and me. You choose where, when, and go home – alone. What do you say?"

Another long pause. "Sure," he could hear her smile. "I'll text you and you meet me there."

"Great!" Joel smiled. "I can't wait for your text." He hung up.

Jenny picked the place, time, and movie. Joel wanted her to feel in total control. He thought it would be good for him to experience normal date from time to time. They watched Inside Out, a fun movie about the brain of a teenage girl. The details of their first date never came up in conversation. For Jenny, this was a first date redo.

Joel gave her only one command: to kiss him goodnight when the date was over. After that, Joel walked Jenny to her car in the theater parking lot.

"Can I call you next weekend?" Joel asked as he held Jenny's car door open. He didn't want to push it, and he had to fly to Atlanta this week.

"I'd like that," she smiled. She sat in the driver's seat, and Joel closed the door for her, and walked to his own parked car.

On Monday morning, Joel phoned the Shopping Mall Channel Headquarters, and asked to speak with Ms. Allison Benson. He didn't get through, of course, but he did find from her executive assistant that Allison was out on travel and would be back in the office on Wednesday.

Joel phoned American Airlines, and used the frequent flier card Jack Miller, president of American Airlines, gave him and booked the early flight to Atlanta on Wednesday morning, July 1st. Joel was returning to the city where it all started. Even though he paid regular fare, Jack Miller's card automatically upgraded him to full business class.

Joel was stunned by how easy it was. After he landed at Atlanta airport, he took a taxi to the Home Mall Channel headquarters – a three story building not far from the airport. Without an appointment, Joel easily made his way to the president's office simply by speaking only with women. He commanded Allison's executive assistant, a woman named Raylene, to tell him when Allison had a free half hour. She was booked solid until five, Raylene explained, and was then going to a reception. Could any of those meetings be rescheduled, Joel commanded Raylene commanded her to tell him. With Raylene's assistance, Joel was scheduled to meet Allison Benson at 2:30.