On the other end of the line was Victor Thorne. No, Victor Sterling. Wait. Desmond quickly corrected his internal monologue, avoiding the names of his past rivals. On the other end of the line was Victor Reynolds, the ruthless, razor-sharp chief operating officer of Hayes Capital.
"Desmond, I thought you were in the air." Victor's crisp, British-accented voice came through the speaker.
"I was recently disembarked," Desmond said, his eyes tracking the baggage handlers loading the final containers into the belly of the 777. "A minor disagreement over my seating arrangement with a Montgomery. The airline chose poorly."
There was a three-second silence on the line.
Victor knew Desmond better than anyone. He heard the ice in his boss's voice.
"I see," Victor said. "How would you like to proceed? Global Airways is leasing 58 of our wide-bodies. We hold the operational certificates."
"Execute the recall clause on the entire portfolio. Immediately."
Victor didn't gasp. He didn't question the financial ramifications, which would stretch into the hundreds of millions. He simply typed something on a keyboard.
"Ground them all?" Victor asked.
"Every single one," Desmond replied. "Send the electronic cease and desist to the FAA, the EASA, and Global Airways' centralized dispatch. Revoke the airworthiness authorizations under Section 4 of the master lease. No Global Airways wide-body moves from a gate anywhere in the world until I say so."
"The legal department will have a stroke, Desmond. Global's CEO will be calling you in five minutes in a state of sheer panic."
"Let it go to voicemail," Desmond said. "How long until the grounding order hits their internal dispatch?"
"It's automated through the International Registry," Victor said. "I'm pushing the authorization key now. Their dispatch center in Dallas will get the red lights in about 90 seconds."
"Thank you, Victor. Go back to sleep."
Desmond hung up the phone.
He placed it carefully on the empty seat beside him, crossed his legs, and looked out the window.
Down on the tarmac, the tug vehicle had just attached to the nose gear of Flight 88. The ground crew was waving their illuminated wands. The massive jet engines began to emit a low, powerful whine.
Desmond watched the digital clock on the terminal wall tick by.
60 seconds. 80 seconds. 90 seconds.
Suddenly, the flashing red anti-collision lights on the Boeing 777 abruptly stopped spinning.
The engines, which had been spooling up, began to spool down, the whine dropping into a hollow groan. The ground crew, looking confused, lowered their wands. A man in a high-visibility vest pulled a radio to his mouth, sprinting toward the nose of the plane.
Desmond smiled. It was a cold, utterly terrifying smile.