Chapter 12
If his flight left on time and the storm held its course, he could get in and out of Charlotte before everything shut down. He closed his eyes and settled deeper into the seat.
Mike intended to keep his promise to his mother. He’d been up until the early hours of the morning tying up loose ends. He planned to work at the airport and on the flights, but, once he was with his family, he’d let it go until he headed for home on December thirtieth.
He woke with a start when the driver called his name. “We’re here, sir.”
Mike leaned forward and glanced out the window. They were at the departure level. He checked his watch. “This is the fastest I’ve ever gotten to LAX.”
“Early Sunday morning,” the driver said, climbing out. “Best time to travel. I’ll get your bag.”
Mike grabbed his backpack and thanked the driver as he set the suitcase on the curb.
Inside, Mike printed his baggage tag at the kiosk, attached it, and handed the suitcase to the attendant after showing his driver’s license.
He watched his suitcase disappear down the conveyor belt.
The TSA PreCheck line was empty. Within minutes, he was through security.
Mike traveled frequently. The trip from home to the gate typically took an hour and fifteen minutes. He checked his watch again. Fifty minutes. He smiled. Things were moving smoothly. A good omen, he hoped.
He confirmed his gate assignment on the monitor and headed down the concourse.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the air.
The unmistakable aroma of frying bacon wafted from a breakfast café.
Across from it, the metal security door of a newsstand rattled upward, and an employee arranged displays of newspapers, snacks, and Los Angeles–branded sweatshirts. A line was already forming at the café.
Mike realized he was ravenous. He’d eaten haphazardly all week. Now the smell of baking bread joined the coffee and bacon, and his stomach growled in response.
He bought the Sunday paper at the newsstand and joined the queue. Forty minutes later, he had finished a meat-lover’s omelet, hash browns, a warm cinnamon roll, and strong coffee. The line waiting for tables had tripled by the time he paid the check.
Back in the concourse, he glanced at the departure board. His flight now showed a forty-five-minute delay. He frowned. Hopefully, it wouldn’t extend beyond that. Mike headed to the gate and claimed a seat at the far end of a row where he could work undisturbed.
The public address system crackled. Conversation at the gate area quieted as passengers strained to listen.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the gate agent began, “the aircraft scheduled for your flight left its origin later than planned this morning. Because of crew illnesses, we had to secure a replacement crew who would not time out before reaching Charlotte.”
A collective groan rippled through the waiting passengers.
“The good news,” she continued, “is that the aircraft is en route and expected to arrive in approximately ninety minutes. That will put our departure close to two hours behind schedule.”
Another wave of murmurs spread across the gate.
“We apologize for the delay. As soon as the incoming passengers deplane, we’ll conduct a quick cleaning and board you as efficiently as possible.
Please don’t wander too far. Monitor the departure boards or your airline app.
Once the aircraft lands, we’ll move quickly.
Our goal is to get you to Charlotte before the incoming storm impacts operations. ”
Mike blew out a breath and opened his laptop. They were starting out two hours late. And Charlotte sat directly in the storm’s path. He pulled up a design. “At least,” he muttered to himself, “I’ve got something productive to do while I wait.”