Not Quite Enough(27)

Trent winced at the taste of the coffee in the pilots’ lounge the next morning.
“That bad?” The pilot who asked the question was off a private jet that had landed thirty minutes earlier. His hand hovered over the carafe filled with coffee.
“It needs CPR,” Trent told him.
The pilot let his hand drop.
“You wouldn’t happen to know who flies the chopper, would you?” the pilot asked.
Trent pushed his coffee away. “You’re looking at him.”
“My boss needs to get around the island. We’re told the roads are passable but slow.”
Trent eyed the jet on the runway. “Do you have coffee on board?”
The pilot laughed. “Yeah. We have everything.”
Trent stood, put out his hand. “I’m Trent.”
“Roy. C’mon, I’ll introduce you to my boss.”
Trent followed Roy across the tarmac and up the steps into the luxury jet. He knew money when he saw it, and this Gulfstream was dripping in money. Leather seats, a couch, a door leading to what Trent assumed was a bedroom. Nice!
At a table sat a man close in age to Trent and wearing a cowboy hat and jeans.
“Jack?” Roy called as they stepped inside. “I found your pilot.”
Jack stood and offered a hand to Trent. “Jack Morrison.”
“Trent Fairchild.”
Jack’s handshake was firm, confident. You could tell a lot from a man’s handshake. “I’m not sure what Roy told you.”
Trent rocked back on his heels. “All I heard was coffee.”
Jack’s Texan accent laced his words. “That we can do.” He slid behind the bar, found a cup, and poured what smelled like nirvana. “How do you take it?”
“Black or maybe intravenously at this point.”
Jack laughed. “You sound like someone I know.”
“Coffee is worth more than gold here these days.”
Roy stepped around his boss and poured his own cup. Obviously, the employee/boss relationship wasn’t set with unnecessary pretense.
Jack handed him the coffee and Roy left the plane.
The first taste of good java hit his tongue and he felt the jolt hit his system. “Perfect.” He hadn’t slept much the night before. Thoughts of Monica leaving in the middle of the night haunted his dreams. Alternately, her kiss sparked his fantasies.
“I can pay you for your help.”
Trent shook his head. “Not necessary. I assume you’re not here on a pleasure trip.”
Jack offered the seat opposite him and sat down again. “The Morrison was hit hard. I’m told the bungalows on sea level are wiped out, but the main hotel is solid.”
“You’re that Morrison?”
Jack laughed. “One of them anyway.”
Trent thought of his brothers, wondered if they’d met the man in front of him. “I think we might know some of the same people,” he said. “Fairchild Vacation and Charter Tours works with many of your resorts.” The contract had been a reason to celebrate when his father was still alive.
Jack’s eyes lit up. “You’re that Fairchild?”
It was Trent’s turn to laugh. “My brothers run the business.”
“Well, hell. It’s a small-ass world isn’t it?”
“Sure is. Made smaller when you have your own wings.” It was safe to assume the man in front of him had had access to private planes since he was in diapers.
“So are you here checking on your business, too?” Jack asked.
“I live here.”
“Oh. Then you’re the one I need to know. Is there a place to land close to the hotel?”
Trent noticed the map of the island sitting on the table and pulled it over. He went over the options for landing and talked about the condition of the roads.
“And where’s the hospital?”
“Here.” He pointed. “I hope it’s not serious.” It hadn’t dawned on Trent that Jack might have lost someone on the island.
“I need to check on someone. Are there other hospitals, clinics?”
“Several, but this is the only one really operating on this side of the island. There’s a functioning clinic in Port Lucia.”
Jack shook his head. “Well then, looks like we have some flying to do. You sure you’re able?”
Trent finished his coffee and set the cup down. “It’s what I’ve been doing for a week. Bring your own food and water. There isn’t any to spare anywhere.”



Chapter Ten



Trent flew Jack to a clearing used for landing close to his hotel. Trent could see the horror on Jack’s face as the devastation became more than an image on the TV set.
The beach in front of the hotel was yards of debris, washed-away roads, downed trees, and the occasional boat piled above what used to be outbuildings of the hotel.
“How the hell are you dealing with this?” Jack asked Trent before The Morrison Hotel’s management descended upon them.
Trent looked around, thought that everything that wasn’t a body was fixable. “Broken buildings are the easy part. It’s the people that didn’t make it… or only half made it, that are difficult to deal with.”
Jack Morrison was the kind of man Trent would hang out with back home. The occasional friend here on the island had always been a temporary entity. He had his colleagues, and a few friends, but no one he knew understood the world he grew up in. A world where multimillion-dollar airplanes were bought, flown, and enjoyed. Although the Fairchilds had their share of the American pie they didn’t flaunt it.