Today Tommy Sparks was going to work so hard the dead would rise up and applaud. He'd spend his entire eight-hour shift on the JFK tarmac parking airliners packed to the brim with human souls. No lunch break, nothing. Just work. He'd be a blur, move like he had wings on his feet.
It was two days before Thanksgiving-the busiest time of year for air travel. If he could just prove to his boss he was indispensable, the best marshaler ever to grace the lanes of JFK, then maybe he'd get that raise. Of course he'd get it. He had to. They didn't call him "Tommy the JFK valet" for nothing.
At the moment there were hundreds of people waiting to get to their gate, to get home.
"Southwest 7-4-2, taxi to gate 7."
Tommy tapped his headset. That wasn't right. The manifest said it should be Southwest 9-8-9. Nobody told him the tower had switched missiles on him. Just like those jerks. Trying to throw his mojo off from the get go.
"Tower, this is marshal 7. Could you repeat tower? The board says Southwest 9-8-9. Confirm, over."
Tommy waited four heartbeats without a response.
Tommy repeated his call to the tower. Nothing. He tried again.
The plane rolled into view then stopped. Tommy tried to check its number, but couldn't find one. The plane's lights flickered out and the engine cut off.
He turned the baggage conveyor toward the 737. He froze when he saw the plane more closely.
"What in the…?"
He snatched the goggles from his face in order to see it with his own eyes. There it was, a regular old 737, parked on the taxiway with all lights off. It was still early and the sun hadn't come up yet so they should have been on. More disturbing than the stalled rocket, even more startling than the lack of operating lights was the faint glow that seemed to fight with the blue and red paintjob of the fuselage. The light was just under the paint, trying desperately to escape, forcing brilliant golden cracks in the paint.
Tommy called it in to the tower.
"It's what? Glowing? Jesus, Tommy what'd you eat for breakfast?" His supervisor said.
Tommy cursed silently.
"The Crow's nest wants you take a look. We got a team on the way."
"Mick, seriously something's not right." Tommy finally responded. "This feels all wrong."
"Just roll out there will you Sparks? Don't be such a pain."
"Fine! You're a jerk. Also, you have the world's dumbest mustache." Tommy blurted into the mic.
"Yeah, yeah." Came Mick's voice.
Tommy winced. Something bad was going on he just knew it, but his need to get that raise won. So, out he went, past the taxiway and onto the apron. He looked for signs of movement in the cockpit and saw none. This was really starting to creep him out.
When he got closer to the 737 he saw what looked like a thin veil of mist hugging the fuselage like a halo. Beneath that was the glow. The paintjob flickered in and out like someone flipping a light switch. The closer Tommy got to the plane the more intense the golden glow became.
He checked the body and wings for damage. None. The landing gear checked out too.
"Whadya got kid?" Said his supervisor through the headset.
"It's still glowing sir."
"Like that flying pony you saw last month, or that…" There was a muffled laugh on the other end, "what'd you call it a centurion?"
"A centaur Mick," corrected Tommy. "The centaur was chasing the Pegasus across the tarmac."
"Listen Sparks," Mick began, "as your supervisor I gotta tell you, this glowing nonsense has gotta stop. The whole tower already thinks you should be in a straitjacket. Enough with the crazy talk."
"I'm not crazy Mick." Tommy bristled. "It's really glowing."
"Yeah, whatever. You're just… creative. You see any damage?"
"No."
"What about any movement inside? See anybody moving around? Without horse hooves that is?" His supervisor chuckled.
Then, a shade snapped up to reveal a grim young face behind an acrylic window. There was light inside after all. All the blinds had been drawn. Tommy could see the girl in the window clearly. She was wearing the brightest orange shirt he'd ever seen.
"Mick, scratch that part about not seeing anyone. The blinds were down, my bad. There's a chick waving at me right now from inside the plane."
"That's good news kid. In that case tow her in." There was a pause. "The plane not the chick."
"Hah, hah!" Tommy muttered. "Roger. On my way to Gate 7."
The headset popped with static. "… No… you crazy? …H. A. 3!"
Tommy tapped his headset. "Repeat, over."
There was nothing put the pop and fizz of static now. Tommy looked up at the tower and signaled he was having problems with his communications.
Nothing about this was by the book. What the hell was he doing towing this dead rocket anyway? The union had specific guys for that. Everything about this stunk, from the arrival manifest on down. Guys got fired for crap like this.
He knew he heard Mick mention H. A. 3 in that garbled mess. It was a hangar designation used for movie stars, foreign dignitaries and quarantines.
He looked up into the open window one more time before hitching the plane to the tow. The window was empty.
H. A. 3 was a cavernous hangar in a little used part of JFK. It looked like a crumbling fortress, backlit by the blush of the rising sun. Tommy was shocked to see the hangar bay doors wide open, like a great toothless mouth waiting to swallow him up. He'd heard stories about this place back when he was a new hire. Ridiculous things like how it was used by the CIA to torture confessions out of suspected terrorists. Or his favorite, how JFK and Marilyn Monroe would meet there to make out.
Nonsense, all of it. Tommy knew it, but the place still weirded him out for some reason. It was just so unfamiliar.
The flashing strobe of the baggage conveyor illuminated the inside of the hanger in an eerie amber light. It reminded him of the belly of a great skeletal whale. He wasn't ten feet in when the lights snapped on overhead, one after the other like a row of falling dominoes.
With the lights on Tommy squinted through the murk of his goggles at a shape at the far end of the hanger. It was a big white van, lights on, coasting slowly towards him. Probably CDC or Transit Authority – that was standard in cases like this. Odd. The tower should have warned him if they were worried about a biological hazard.
"Tower, this is marshal seven. I think I see your team. Please advise, over."
Nothing, not even static. The van got closer.
"Mick, should I be worried?" Tommy's voice cracked.
Nothing. The van was right in front of him.
"For the love of… would someone please tell what the hell is going on here?" Tommy yelled and threw up his hands, accidentally knocking the goggles of his head. It skidded to a halt under the driver's side tire.
Tommy regretted this immediately.
A large man in a blue sweat suit emerged from the van's driver side. He was easily the largest man Tommy had ever seen. The mist that clung to the fuselage of the 737 seemed to hover around this man too. It undulated and danced around him in thick ropey coils. Tommy hit the brakes bringing 51 tons of metal to a jerky halt.
It wasn't possible. The man was at least eight feet tall, as thick around as an oak, and covered in blinking eyes.
The giant bent down and picked up Tommy's goggles then stepped forward to offer them back.
"What the hell are you?" Tommy blurted.
The man looked confused for a moment, staring intently with all of his eyes at Tommy's face. He snapped his fingers sending a cool blast of Mist in Tommy's direction.
"I'm a driver for the Strawberry Farm," said the driver.
"Shut up!" Tommy replied. He hated being lied to and this guy was lying through his teeth. "What's with blowing smoke in my face? That's a tad rude pal."
The man's posture changed then. He looked uncertain. The side-lock hatch, on the plane, opened. The man held up a giant hand, also covered in eyes, as if to warn the occupants to stay where they were.
Tommy followed the line of the man's outstretched hand to the passenger hatch. No one appeared in the doorway.
When he returned his gaze to Tommy he looked stern, and something else. Was it caution? Nah, this guy could pound him to dust anytime he wanted.
"Tell me young man, what do you see when you look at this?" He held up a pencil.
No, it wasn't a pencil it was a wicked looking spear. No it was a pencil. It shifted unsettlingly.
"I wish I could have taken the SAT's with that thing. It looks like a number two spear."
The man smirked.
"Do you know both of your biological parents?"
What was this, a test of some sort? What the hell?
"Listen pal, I dunno what…" Tommy began.
"Just answer the question!" The man bellowed. The hanger shook.
"Yes, for the love of God. I know both of em."
The man relaxed a little. Tommy nearly peed his jumpsuit.
"If you ever speak a word of what you see here today, I will come find you and it won't be pleasant. I know where you work. Do you understand?"
Tommy's mind raced. He nodded numbly. What was this thing talking about?
The giant walked to the side of the hanger and grabbed the portable stairs. He slowly and deliberately brought the stairs up under the hatch and pulled the handle brakes to set it in place.
The giant then motioned Tommy aside and then cocked his head to one side thoughtfully.
"Are you alright?"
It was Tommy's turn to smirk. "I might be regretting some of my life choices, if that's what you mean?"
The man did something then that caught Tommy off guard. He laughed.
"That's not what I meant, point of fact. You should be careful. The world is a far more dangerous place than you realize."
People began to emerge from the doorway, slowly at first, cautiously. The first was an adult in a light blue tee shirt with a golden Caduceus inside two concentric circles. She motioned for the rest to come to the door, wishing each of them good luck as they passed.
They were just kids. Like the girl he'd seen in the window. All of them wore the same safety cone orange tee shirts. Instead of backpacks and baggage each of the kids had a bedroll, some had bronze plate armor, and either a bronze sword or a knife. A few even had bronze helmets with brightly colored plumes.
"What is all this? Some kinda war?" Tommy's mouth hung open.
How they got all those weapons past TSA security he couldn't even begin to guess. Somebody was getting fired for sure.
"They would be the field hands for the Strawberry Farm." The man smiled at him and winked - at least three hundred times.
"That's some impressive fruit."
"We have some impressive pests." The man answered.
None of the kids said a word. They all looked dour and maybe, Tommy noted, a little scared. They filed in, one by one, to the van, closed the door and sat quietly.
"Hey, before you go," Tommy rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "I saw one of those flying horses those kids got on their shirts last week. Those are real aren't they?"
The giant regarded him with his many blinking eyes as he climbed into the van.
He shrugged. "What do you think?"
He snapped his fingers before driving off. Tommy nodded, pleased his suspicions were confirmed, and looked around the hanger. He didn't see it at first, but once he spotted it gave him a start. The paintjob on the southwest plane shimmered out leaving a glittering golden fuselage. Out on the tail Tommy spotted the true logo of the airline.
Tommy pulled his incident report pad out of his back pocket and scrawled down the image he found on there.
Hermes Air. What Zeus don't know won't hurt him.
Tommy put his headset and goggles back on and waited for the team to arrive. He wondered what he'd tell Mick and the ground crew. No one would believe him. Then it hit him plain as day. "What Zeus don't know won't hurt him."
Perfect.