Rough Air

Maynard Brennan sat stiffly in his chair at his expansive mahogany desk with a look of placid contentment on his face. A summer morning in Atlanta was quickly drying up the dew from the lush green campus of Alta Airlines’ headquarters, a complex of red brick buildings just a few hundred yards from the bustling runways and terminals of Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. Since 1949, the people of Alta had built their headquarters and its largest hub into an empire that rivaled the greatest commercial airlines in the world. And as they did, the expanding campus grew into the working home of thousands of devoted Alta employees - a seemingly idyllic setting except for the near constant roar of jet aircraft to disrupt the serenity. The industry was in its usual state of turmoil, but from where Maynard sat, there were still many reasons to smile. Perhaps it was because his bonus had just been approved by the board of directors without a hitch. Or maybe it was because his chief financial officer had managed to secure an additional line of credit, ensuring enough cash flow to ward off bankruptcy for another ten months. Maybe it was because he could finally exercise millions of dollars worth of stock options that he’d been awarded. Then again, perhaps it was because the supplementary senior executive retirement plan was flush with $40 million in cash, a good portion of which he’d receive whenever he decided to leave Alta. Or maybe it was because Maynard Brennan was dead. With one exception, the desk was as neat as it was neatly appointed, with the usual share of eccentric trinkets: a porcelain-encased dual time-zone clock from the CEO of a partner airline that simultaneously displayed Parisian and Atlantan time; a whimsical ornately decorated doll from his counterpart at an Asian airline partner; a selection of family photos – his collegiate daughter Kendra and his adolescent son Lance – and just next to the pictures the one exception – his outbox which happened to hold a streaming bloody mass of human tissue that once served as Maynard Brennan’s beating heart. The smile conflicted with the lifeless eyes, but otherwise, everything seemed to be in order. Alta Airlines was operating proficiently, if not profitably. Planes took off and planes landed. Baggage was attended to, lovers were reunited, appointments were kept and meetings were held. A quarter of a million customers of Alta would take off and land on this day at the start of the summer of 2005. And just as many more would buy tickets on this day and the day after and the day after that. And then finally, the day after that, they would discover that Maynard Brennan was dead. Cassandra Allgood, Maynard Brennan’s executive assistant-slash-secretary, presented the primary barrier to entry during the 72 hours post her boss’s mortem. Only she knew that classical music was the signal to hold all calls and visitors, and with a continuous stream of Vivaldi flowing through the cracks of the locked door, she could only conclude that Maynard Brennan was engulfed in one of his occasional solitary cram sessions. So often he had emerged with some new transformation plan in the face of a daunting financial calamity, preferring to rely on the brilliance of his Harvard/Yale education over the collective business cases of his minions. Leadership not only meant, but demanded transcendence of the lowly calculations of those who aspired to the top spot. They were smart people, but not in his class. And Cassandra knew this better than anyone. Her ability to channel her boss’ elitism fueled a permanent hatred among the subordinate executive vice presidents, but even they were smart enough to mute their emotion in service to their self-interest. Of course, this merely spurred Cassandra to new heights of condescension. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Brennan cannot be disturbed.” John Carr, the director of corporate security, did his best to balance tact with urgency as he stood in front of her desk. “Cassandra, we need to enter the office.” He had been through this routine many times before, but this one harkened back to his FBI days. He considered the possibility that Cassandra had lost her ability to smell – the odor of Maynard Brennan’s rotting body had now overwhelmed any of the solace that Vivaldi could provide, and Carr knew that smell well. “You’ll need to sign in.” Carr ignored the demand and gestured to Murphy, the Atlanta Bureau of Investigation agent who had been summoned simply because this was an airline that operated across state borders. Murphy and his partner, Jones, or Jonesy, as everyone knew him, were at least happy to get out of the office and get some fresh air, which unbeknownst to them, would only be fresh for another few breaths. Carr nodded his token approval for Murphy to bring in the three uniformed officers who had been waiting in the lobby. Murphy verified that the door was locked (as expected) and then stepped aside so the other officers could break it down. In his younger days, this would have been a cinch for the stocky and once muscular Murphy to do on his own. Now in his late 40s, all that remained of his imposing figure was his brush cut. But even for the younger officers, getting into this guy’s office was not an easy task – the door was a heavy variety of maple that, after two shoulder bruising attempts by the officers, required a battering ram to break through. It would be a stretch to say that the spacious office was vacuum packed, but certainly no exaggeration to say that its extended state of un-disturbance, combined with the heat penetrating the building had created a predisposition for some type of humanlike exhalation. Once they breached the threshold, the smell was overwhelming, and as the air escaped, and as the continuous loop of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons reached one of its pleasant crescendos, the smiling head of the now evidently deceased Maynard Brennan teetered, and then it tottered, and then it fell face-first with a loud klunk on the spacious mahogany desk of the CEO of the second largest airline in the world.