The heavy overcast clouds choked back the rain over the city of Charleston, South Carolina. I had boarded the plane and took a window seat. My name is not important, but you can call me Father O’Neal. I will be telling the story of the greatest challenge in my life that I have so longed to bring to reality.
The control tower was bringing planes in and out as fast as they could before the storm grew worse. Every few minutes, a flash of lightning lit up the runway as thunder roared deep in the heart of the dark clouds. When the bottom fell out, the heavy clouds could not hold back the rain any longer. The rain fell hard and fast as it beat down and bounced on top of the ground like millions of BBs. The wind shifted the rain from side and pushed it down hard against the ground.
I imagined the control tower and the pilot talking. Control tower to flight 407: delay taxing to runway until clearance because of the storm. I worked at the airport and had heard it many times. The past two years it has been the same flight from Charleston to Atlanta.
The storm finally eased up. Once again, I imagined the conversation between the tower and the pilot of 407. Control tower this is flight 407 taxing from tower to runway, the pilot would say. Flight 407 this is control tower, you have clearance for take off on runway 33. Have a good flight, the tower would reply. Roger, control tower, you have a good day too.
The giant turbo jet engines fired up and the plane quickly gained speed down the runway. Flight 407 lifted off the ground and disappeared into the dark clouds above. As it vanished in the darkness, the only reminder it left was the sound of its roaring engines.
One, of many, of my life long quests was set into motion with a Boeing 313 small coach, flight 407 of Southern Skies Airline. As the plane climbed higher than the clouds, the storm below seemed to settle. I reached for the button on the arm of my seat and reclined back so I could stretch my legs. Shortly, the pilot came over the intercom welcoming us to flight 407.
“My name is John Bentner, and I am your pilot. We have climbed to 23,000 feet which put us way above the storm. Our arrival time in Atlanta will be 8:20. I hope you enjoy your flight.”
The cabin was filled with all kinds of people, young, old, different nationalities, handicapped, and a couple of soldiers who were headed home from Paris Island, South Carolina. As the flight attendants served us drinks and snacks, most everyone watched the movie. But, I leaned back and stared out the window and reflected back on my life. My reflection in the glass showed a tired and troubled man. My journey had been long and hard. What had I done with my life and where had it gone, I thought? Where does one find his or her place to fit in, I thought? I heard a voice at my side. When I turned, I saw the stewardess standing in the aisle.
“Father, would you like a magazine or book to read?” she asked.
I nodded my head no and smiled. As she went on her way, I turned and stared out the window once more. I thought back to when, at the age of eight, I moved in with my cousin in the bayou of Louisiana. That is where I first learned about explosives. My cousin was a pyromaniac. He loved to play with fire. As kids, we made bombs out of fireworks and gun powder. We would blow up things just to see if we could do it. He later went to prison and that is where he remains to this day.
I was a high school dropout lost in a great big world with no direction or hope. I longed to fit in and find my place. I did two tours in Vietnam as a demolition expert until I was nearly killed by an explosion. I suffered severe head trauma from the explosion.
After leaving Vietnam in 1968, I lived on the streets for the next four years except for when I was in the VA Hospital. For a year, 1973-74, I was in a Birmingham mental hospital. They said I was a genius in mathematics, aerospace dynamics, and a pyromaniac. I laughed at them and myself. I was nothing but a troubled soul. I told them I was afraid of firecrackers, but all they did was laugh. They released me from the hospital because of a lack of government funds. I went back on the streets.
Later in 1974, I got a janitor’s job at the Charleston, South Carolina Airport. I eventually worked my way up to fueling planes. What a joke, a pyromaniac that fueled planes.
I was startled when the pilot came on the intercom.
“This is your pilot; we will be landing in Atlanta in about forty-five minutes. We are arriving on time and the forecast is 86°, clear, and dry. Thank you for flying Southern Skies.”
I looked at my watch. About now a phone should ring in the Atlanta control tower. A voice activated device will warn the air traffic controller that there is a bomb on flight 407 coming in from Charleston, South Carolina. A red alert will be issued across the airport. Emergency vehicles will storm out of their garages and head across the airfield toward the runway of incoming flight 407. The FBI will be contacted and they will rush to the airport. I’m sure it will be Agents Walker and Grant. They are the ones who usually respond. Fire trucks, ambulances, and other emergency vehicles will follow close behind. How do I know? I had seen several red alerts when I worked there and I know their routine. Once they choose a way of doing something, very seldom do they change it. The voice on the phone will demand for one million dollars in unmarked small denomination bills to be placed in a locker at Union Train Station in Nashville within one hour, not a minute early or a minute late or the plane would blow up. The air traffic controller will take the message and record it. By that time the FBI and the Atlanta metro police will have surrounded the building. The controller will try to get as much information from the caller as she possibly can; which locker and where the key is located. She’ll find out the key is in an envelope in the desk drawer behind the radio operator, but no more because the phone will go dead. Agents Walker and Grant should be on the scene now.