“No problem,” Karen replied. “You can meet him this afternoon at Westchester County Airport, assuming he doesn’t kill himself landing that museum piece. I’ll call Mac and tell him you’re coming out.” She paused. “Are you staying at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel?”
“Am I really that predictable?”
“You’re a creature of habit — if you stayed anywhere else, I’d start getting worried.” Karen reached down and wrote herself a short note. “I’m going to have the room put on our corporate account.”
“You don’t need to do that, Karen.”
“Shut up and enjoy it,” she ordered. “With as much money as flows in here, Al can afford to put you up at the Waldorf-Astoria and buy Trump Tower to boot. I’m sending a car for you.”
“It’s not really necessary, Karen. Al pays me plenty for his climbing tours.”
“I’m in your debt, Jack,” she said softly. “You got the old codger off that mountain in one piece, and I haven’t heard a peep about climbing since.”
“What airplane is he flying today?”
“All I know is it’s an old jet fighter, Russian or something,” she said. “You know how I hate when he flies those old planes. Most are antiques, and he’s up there doing loop-the-loops and who knows what else….”
“I’m sure he’s taking it easy,” Jack assured. “Al is a very careful and conscientious pilot.”
Jack clicked off the telephone and put it back in his bag. Paulson had taken him for a ride once in a restored North American P-51 fighter. Between Jack’s fear of flying and Al Paulson’s reckless regard for mother earth, he’d never forgotten that flight. Karen had every reason to be worried.
CHAPTER 16
The driver slowed the Paulson Global house limousine and turned onto the airport road. Corporate jets of all sizes and types were parked in neat rows behind a system of cavernous white hangars.
Jack searched for Paulson’s expensive and plush long-haul business jet. The Gulfstream 550 sat parked on the airport tarmac. The aircraft registration, or ‘N’ number displayed prominently on the jet engine nacelle read “N111PG.” The “PG” stood for Paulson Global. In the world of corporate jets, size mattered more than just about anything, except maybe range.
The limousine stopped and Jack climbed out, taking his bags and thanking the driver. He walked toward the security gate staffed by one guard standing next to a glass-windowed booth. Jack smiled and the guard nodded as he approached the gate.
“I’m here to see Mac Ridley,” he said.
The guard stepped into his booth and picked up the telephone. He spoke for a moment and then said, “Mr. Ridley says to meet him at the hangar.”
MacDonald “Mac” Ridley was a senior vice president and one of Paulson Global’s highest-ranking executives. “One of the boys,” as Karen Miller liked to say.
In a corporation as large and powerful as Paulson Global, each of Al’s key lieutenants yielded tremendous power, and they were compensated with bonuses reaching seven figures.
Mac Ridley was in charge of flight operations for Paulson Global, which included a fleet of corporate charter jets and Paulson’s personal collection of antique warbirds.
Jack smiled as a plump man of average height in his late fifties stepped out of the hangar. He wore greasy blue overalls and a matching blue cap with a Paulson Global logo, and he came sauntering toward Jack, wiping grease off his hands with a stained blue rag.
“Jack Hobson,” Ridley said. His smiling face was creased when from the thousands of hours spent out in the sun on a flight line, and his teeth clearly hadn’t seen a dentist on a regular basis. “How the hell are you?”
Jack reached out his hand. “Good to see you again, Mac.”
The stories of Ridley walking into the offices dressed in his overalls with a cigar hanging out of his mouth while his Harvard and University of Chicago-educated counterparts dressed in Armani suits looked on in horror and disgust were legendary.
“Karen tells me you’re making quite an impression at the monthly executive management meetings,” Jack said, needling the mechanic.
“Those shit-for-brains-MBA-toting pus-nut idiots won’t take a dump without spending a million dollars on a ‘Trend Analysis’ first.” Ridley shook his head in disgust. “They most certainly don’t want some dirty old aircraft mechanic saying the word fuck in their Ivy-League presence.”
“I’m glad to see there’s someone here to keep Al’s ego in check.”
“Hell, he doesn’t need me for that.” Ridley pointed up at the late afternoon sky. “Each time one of these airborne battle-wagons is about to auger-in, it serves to remind him he puts on his pants one leg at a time, just like the rest of us.”
“Karen says he’s flying a vintage Russian fighter.”
“Chinese…. We bought three surplus MIG 15s. One to restore, the other two for spare parts.” The mechanic shrugged. “I told him to let one of our pilots check it out first. Wanted to fly the thing himself — you know how damn stubborn he can be.”
Jack pointed toward a rusting fuselage and a collection of parts near the hangar doors. “What is that pile of junk?”
“That is a very rare P-38 Lightning.”
Ridley walked Jack over toward the hangar. “Of the thousands made during World War II, there’s less than a handful in flying condition. This one crashed in New Guinea during the war. Paulson paid two million dollars in bribes to local officials, plus what it cost to remove it from the jungle.”
Jack’s jaw dropped. “He paid two million dollars for that wreck?”
“Believe it or not, we’ll have it flying in a couple of years — after spending another couple million dollars in parts and labor for reconstruction and fabrication of non-available parts. When it’s done could be worth five, even ten million dollars to the right bidder — not that Paulson would ever sell. When it comes to these antique warbirds, he gets downright obsessive.”
Jack examined the rusted fuselage. “I guess these guys are serious about their hobby.”
“This isn’t a game, Jack. This is about big business and even bigger egos. These rare aircraft are worth millions among the real collectors, and whoever has the rarest aircraft in flying condition wins bragging rights at Oshkosh.”
Ridley meant the Experimental Aircraft and Vintage Warbird air show held in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. Several hundred thousand people show up to enjoy both static and air displays of the world’s most prized collectible aircraft during the middle of each summer. “We’ve wrapped up the summer air-show tours,” Ridley said. “Now we’ve got to do the maintenance on all the aircraft.”
Jack studied the system of hangars. “I thought Al owned more planes.”
“Shit, this isn’t near the whole fleet. These aircraft need maintenance or restoration. We also keep the aircraft he likes to fly handy here. We own a bunch more hangars here and one big hangar at Stewart Airfield up near Newburgh.”
Ridley unclipped a hand-held radio from his waist belt and tuned in the control tower’s radio frequency. “He’s inbound. Let’s go out and see if he can land without tearing the wheels off.” They trotted around the corner of the hangar and Ridley pointed out a silver speck in the sky trailing a line of black smoke. “He’s coming in right there.”
The wings dipped as the billionaire gently lined the aircraft up. As the MIG crossed the runway threshold, the nose lifted and Paulson gently “walked” the tricycle landing gear onto the asphalt.
“Not bad,” Ridley grudgingly acknowledged. “He got a feel for the old fighter real quick.”
The MIG turned off the runway and rolled toward the hangar. Each time Paulson nudged the throttle, a blast of hot gas from the jet-turbine engine blew dust and debris around the tarmac. Mac crossed his arms signaling the Mig had reached the shutdown spot. Paulson fiddled around inside the cockpit and then slid the canopy open.