REJOINING SCHUYLER - Chapter 4
Jack Jr., Joe, Ben, and Eric
Gay Erotic Fiction by Simon Mohr
I included nothing intended to resemble any person living or otherwise in this work of fiction. It is for adults. If this material is illegal where you live or you are a minor, please do not read it. All Rights Reserved. Please donate to the Nifty Archive using the donor information on this site.
The rain was falling in sheets, sideways, in Manhattan when the four men met their security team on the roof of the Schuyler museum for a departure from the elements, an actual vacation, long desired.
They planned to head to Cancun on Peach, excepting Jack. He had a secret, a surprise for his friends.
Sheltered for a moment on the roof of the museum, the men ran to the waiting VTOL electric 'helicopter,' essentially a passenger drone of some size with room for luggage, security, and a pilot. Despite some buffeting from the wind, they crossed the Hudson River and landed safely in Teterboro, where they dashed into the hangar.
Joe, Ben, and Eric were astonished to see a new jet; this behemoth wasn't Peach, certainly. It looked larger than Peach, the G650ER, and the engines seemed slightly different somehow, although the Rolls-Royce name still appeared on the jet's two engines, located on either side of the jet, high and aft.
The plane was painted a striking light apricot color with the word "Schuyler" in dark navy on the side near the front of the aircraft.
The gorgeous jet stood quietly in the hangar, engines quiet, its savage strength tucked away from their ears for now. Jack's thoughts turned to the cost. The plane, though expensive, had not sucked a single percent out of the Schuyler Trust fortune.
John and Jayden had, early on, chosen Jack Jr. to be their next Trust beneficiary. He was bright, on track to learn what he needed to know at college, and, crucially, Jack Jr. was the last of the Schuyler family who would accept the position. One of the first 'spendy' decisions Jack made was to add a Gulfstream700 to the fleet. He named it 'Apricot.'
The first Schuyler jet had been named Rainier after the mountain. Sweet Pea followed, then Raspberry, Mango, and Peach. The 787-800, 'Les Trois Mousquetaires' still lived in its hangar at Teterboro, used now less frequently for large groups, large loads, and entertaining. Blueberry was the last G650 in the fleet. In the previous twenty years, the Trust maintained at least three Gulfstreams at any one time and the Boeing 787-800 for much of that period. The older Sikorsky helicopters had been retired long ago and recently replaced with the powerful VTOL electric models, designed as both helicopter and drone, but piloted.
"How do you like it, guys?"
Jack was enormously proud of his new jet, a Gulfstream700, that would fly them at Mach .9, close to the speed of sound (Mach 1), to Cancun. Rolls-Royce had developed a new Pearl 700 series engine with the G700 in mind.
Their route would take them nearly straight south over the Atlantic soon after takeoff. A westerly turn over the tip of Florida and the Keys would get them to the Yucatan peninsula in the state of Quintana Roo, Mexico. The flight would last two hours and 15 minutes instead of three and a half hours from Teterboro, New Jersey, due to the new engines.
"We'll let you know, but the outside is fucking hot!" said Eric. Joe squeezed Jack's hand. Ben just grinned.
"Got enough gas on this thing to get us and our junk down to Cancun?" Joe was a little worried.
"Hope so, stud. I will be disappointed if your 'junk' doesn't arrive with you. The pilots want to get there in one piece also and are obsessed with checking the jet's weight, the distance to destination, the fuel needed, and the amount of fuel loaded."
"The loaded weight of the jet is closely estimated by adding passenger and luggage and fuel weight to the known jet weight. A computer up front takes that number and compares it to known flight characteristics for this model and spits out a crucial number called V1, a miles-per-hour number at which the pilot can depress the tail of the plane a bit which raises the nose, so pointing the jet upward. At speeds less than V1, there is a risk that depressing the tail of the plane will simply result in scraping it on the runway, not a desired outcome."
"Those numbers get checked by both pilots, and a computer double-checks the calculations. If they don't match, they check again until they do, loading more fuel if necessary. That is rare usually because the calculations must match before fueling begins."
The trip down was ordinary by now except for pushing all the buttons and learning the jet's new features. Couple by couple, they christened the rear bed and showered. All of them worked up an appetite for the men to eat the catered meal.
Joe had told Jack that he liked Impossible Whoppers at Burger King and Jack remembered to tell the flight crew. Joe, unaware, ordered bouillabaisse off the menu for the flight and was delighted to see the familiar sac from Burger King with fries and two Impossible Burgers, a plant-based entree which he liked. He didn't like the thought of eating dead animals, but he did when no alternative existed. The others were busy eating the beef, chicken, and seafood entrees of their choice.
The last month had been difficult in some ways. Eric had to deal with the fall-out of the prosecution of his parents for kidnapping and theft. His dad had adopted an "I knew this would catch up with me" attitude during the trial and retreated into himself.
His 'adopted' mother initially pled with Eric to pull strings to get her off the hook. Eric had to talk with her at the prison and explain that the crime and her prosecution were out of his hands. She honestly thought she could get away with kidnapping someone's baby. His 'adopted' mother couldn't accept that her decision led to consequences.
The prisoner maintained she was singled out unfairly for harsh treatment. Eric's younger half-sibs also resented the trial, their mother's imprisonment, and somehow blamed Eric for the mess. His 'adopted' mother's brother Grive was furious, blaming Eric for all of his sister's legal problems.
The legal circus had threatened to bog Eric's typically 'upbeat self' right down. Between Ben's love and support demonstrated in Ben's listening skills and physical intimacy--and a therapist downtown-- Eric avoided permanent severe emotional damage.
At this time of year, the chill in the city and the stress on Eric, which affected everyone, led to the decision to take a break in the warmer weather on the beach in Playa del Carmen, a medium-sized town about a half-hour south of Cancun and across a stretch of ocean from Cozumel.
Jack visited the Yucatan in his youth and enjoyed Tulum, the tourist city on Highway 307, south of Playa del Carmen. Jack's memory of Tulum, beside the magnificent Mayan ruins overlooking the sea was a trivial fact, important to him at the time. Tulum's branch of Subway at the time was the southernmost Subway in the hemisphere.
He also stopped, later, as everyone in the know had stopped, at the famous gas station in Felipe Carrillo Puerto where the timeless lady sat in front selling fabulous tostadas outside on a table, dozens of layers piled up, covered with a cloth for sale that day. If there existed better tostadas in the whole world, Jack had missed them.
Many miles south on the same highway was Bacalar, a party town in some seasons, a wonderful sleepy, small town at other times and seasons overlooking the Lake of Seven Colors (all shades of blue).
From there, south and east to the oceanfront city of Chetumal, the capital of Quintana Roo, an important Mexican naval facility, home to a Mayan museum of renown, thriving, and just across the border from Belize, was a matter of less than an hour's drive.
Jack Jr. drifted back to sleep; Joe, naked, warm, immensely satisfied, and a little sticky from both cum and sweat lay at his side cuddled with his ass still calling Jack's cock to play,
The beneficiaries of the Schuyler Trust were not responsible for managing the Trust investments. They owned the Trust, and their job was to spend money as they saw fit to support the family and those who depended on the family, including the employees. As Jack emerged from his post-coital nap somewhere over Jacksonville, he pondered the time he found his dad and friends in the shower at the White House engaged in sexual play. He thought back to the last time he'd seen his dad since moving out of the White House, and his thinking process gave a jolt. Just when was the last time? Where had that meeting been? He couldn't remember exactly. His mind was fuzzy. What was happening to him?
He got up off the bed and stumbled up to his seat, hair still uncombed and tangled after his shower. He remembered taking a shower sometime after sex. No one else was in the cabin of the G700. Now that was odd. He slid into his cushy chair and opened his laptop. There, in flashing lights, was a number in red. 7800. 7800 7800. 7800.
That was the emergency code in all the fleet aircraft.
If someone not authorized to use a device on a jet dropped it, or if it went more than 5 feet from its owner as determined by a software algorithm and an RF device, the emergency code would transmit to Manhattan and all local devices. If any of the authorized passengers' vital signs from their bracelets were abnormal, same result. If Jack's limited 3-lead EEG was abnormal, the same emergency codes showed up in Manhattan.
If the owner typed in a repeating letter on a device, if someone tried to login incorrectly, or if abnormal flight patterns occurred, the jet would transmit the same emergency code to New York.
If a facial scan showed an unauthorized face on board . . . 'oh God!' The injected drug level had reached a high level and Jack stopped thinking.
Jack didn't think anything for some time.
The pilots and passengers of Schuyler flights were monitored continuously while in flight, as was the jet itself. When Jack faded, his laptop signaled '7800' to the museum's security center; the regional FAA center monitoring the flight was alerted. A virtual ground team of FAA and Schuyler security came up instantly. An initial assessment occurred. Whatever, or whomever, had triggered the code had bypassed most of the triggers, but Jack's EEG, broadcast to his laptop, then to a server and satellite broadband antenna bypassing the cockpit, finally had tripped the alarm in New York.
The team found no other sign of life on the plane, such as cockpit movement of any authorized person, but found one set of vital signs in that location (non-native to any of a hundred massive Schuyler databases). The jet was still on autopilot. A hotspot in the cockpit was sniffed by gas chromatography silently; Apricot sent the team's result. A stranger was in the cockpit. No active level of expected gas patterns (the pilots) from breath or skin was present.
"I think we should ask for a flyby."
By this time, less than a minute after the first alert, an Air Force liaison officer had signed in and a Homeland Security operations officer. Other Department and Agency operations officers were coming online. The Secret Service didn't cover Jack now, but they had protected him in the past and liked him from those years. They had adored his mother. The news filtered quickly through Treasury to the Secret Service, who instantly assigned an operations officer to the team. None of this Federal help was usually offered to private jet traffic to this extent but every Federal agency knew the name, knew what the Administration would want vis-a-vis this one. The Department and Agency heads (Defense, Homeland Security, Treasury, all of them) got it right the first time, quietly offering operations support personnel instantly.
"No, we don't want to alert scumbag 'X' that we know something is wrong on that plane. First of all, we turn the plane around. We bypass the automatic pilot after checking that procedure with Gulfstream right now, ("on it, Sir!"), assess the principal authorized passenger (Jack) to put his oxygen mask on or get oxygen into the cabin. At the same time, we need to fill the cockpit with nitrogen gas or carbon dioxide long enough to drop the intruder."
There was some strong, brief argument about that. "Yes, oxygen to the cabin for Jack. But if the pilots are still hanging on, less oxygen in the cockpit won't help them and might kill them."
"Can you send a code to the aircraft to activate the bees?" That suggestion came from the Schuyler chief of Security in the Operations center there. The Department and Agency types didn't understand.
For the fourth time in Schuyler history, their tiny drones became critical. The bees were 'wasps' fitted with cameras, audio, and a few with small stingers that incapacitated anyone stung. A few had sensors of various types.
Six of them perched on top of the microwave in the galley. Two lived under a pilot's seat in the cockpit.
Three of those possessed the capability to inject epinephrine for emergency allergy treatments and for emergency cardiac and brain stimulation. Two monitored blood oxygen, pulse, heart rhythm, and blood pressure in real-time when the stinger was in the skin. Two had stingers that could drop a man within seconds after injection of their stingers.
Only one person on the team at the museum knew about the blood analysis and IV equipment in Jack's chair. Miniaturized by a senior biomedical project engineer and team at a well-known IV infusion pump manufacturer near San Diego in the last few decades, a small instrument in Jack's chair under his legs could, with a sample of blood from a drone or by direct puncture of his skin, report sodium, chloride, potassium, PH, PO2, PCO2, and a few other values accurately.
Another device designed at the same company working with DARPA could tunnel through clothing, attach to the skin and find the nearest blood vessel of adequate size by a heat pattern. It then inserted an IV into that vessel with an accuracy far greater than the best ER nurse and administered IV fluids and medications from a tiny pharmacy inside his chair.
"Turning the jet around will alert X as well." The Air Force liaison spoke.
"We need to choose the point at which that 'alert' event will happen for Jack's maximum benefit. That alert should be a surprise that takes up X's attention while we do something else that needs his lack of attention."
By that time, the device inserted Jack's IV and found the IV fluid flow normal. Another machine had sampled his blood and began to analyze it for toxins and electrolyte levels. His sensor wasp was nestled, hidden, under his hair, stinger in his neck with the stinger reporting.
The medical team on the ground was virtually analyzing those results in real-time; the museum doctor was virtually sharing the incoming data with a quickly assembled and dedicated team at the New York-Presbyterian Hospital-NY Weill Cornell Medical Center Emergency Room.
Jack's vital signs were stable. His electrolytes were normal, his EEG was normal with a sleep pattern without seizure activity, his respiratory rate was low but not critical, and his blood oxygen level was 96%.
The machine found his PH had decreased, consistent with his PCO2, an increased blood carbon dioxide level, in turn, related to his low respiratory rate. A toxin was found. Jack had a high level of a benzodiazepine and fortunately the seat pharmacy had the newly developed IV reversing agent for that class of drugs.
The medical group was focused on his oxygen level for the moment and ready to treat the respiratory rate if needed. Still, the team members stressed that waking him now wasn't desired if X decided to make a sweep through the cabin.
The team sent the code to the pilots to put on their oxygen masks, and, as expected, the unresponsive pilots ignored the code. Time was not on the team's side. They prepared an order for Apricot to bypass the automatic pilot, ready to pilot the plane with controls all bypassed from the ground. One of the other fleet pilots, together with a Gulfstream G700 specialist, now also online, told the team they were ready at any time. The Gulfstream specialist told them that once sent, the cockpit's switches and controls, none of the radio frequency controls or navigational aids would respond to the intruder's actions in the cockpit. The team sent a signal to lock the cockpit door, an action both quiet and not reversible in the cockpit.
The virtual pilots sent the bypass order to Apricot and began to fly the aircraft from nearly a thousand miles away. Two bees under the pilot's chairs detached, carefully peeked out from under the chairs, and gave the team their first look at X. Facial recognition showed him to be Eric's 'adopted' uncle Grive, his imprisoned mother's brother. Grive's rap sheet was a long list of petty crimes advancing over time to the major leagues of felony. One of the drones took off in a zig-zag course around Grive's neck, easily avoiding his attempt to slap it down, then sensing an opportunity, drove its stinger into Grive's eyelid.
Within a few short seconds, Jack received both the benzodiazepine reversal agent and a stimulant dose of epinephrine; the virtual pilot team immediately restored oxygen to the cockpit masks.
Apricot began to descend to Orlando International, the tower there alerted by the Air Force to stand by for an emergency landing with a full medical team to meet the plane. The tower there didn't get a lot of messages from the Air Force directly, let alone an emergency message from the Pentagon Operations Center. The tower staffing pattern didn't change, but the supervisor personally watched over this event.
Jack woke, his heart pounding, racing. He was listening to a loud cabin horn. He felt Apricot diving and his laptop route map showed the new heading to Orlando. He got up and the IV ripped out. That left no of blood on his leg. Jack ran to the cockpit and found that door locked. He touched his bracelet three times and spoke. "Hey guys, the cockpit door is locked." Jack heard the click and stepped inside.
The pilots were slumped over their controls, and his 'adopted' mom's brother Grive lay unconscious on the floor. The cockpit loudspeaker system was loud enough for Jack to hear. "Jack, put the oxygen masks on the pilots, quickly!"
"The security team and pilots are flying the plane to land at Orlando. Do the pilots have a pulse?" Jack checked. "Yeah, they both do. Hard to find and weak and slow, but they do."
"Jack, stand back and let the bees go by you." Jack was happy to do that.
Two bees raced by and injected epinephrine into the pilots. They soon stirred a little but were in no shape to fly a jet. Another bee injected a reversal agent into the captain's arm.
"Jack, the docs at Weill Cornell ER want you to look at the back of your leg."
"It's bleeding," replied Jack.
"Yeah, they said you ripped your IV out and to tightly wrap your lag with a towel or thin cloth and tie it fairly snug on top of the bleeding site for now to avoid a hematoma. Sometimes, the huge blood blister forming inside the muscle can cause worse pain and get infected, so anything you can do to minimize its size is good. The worst is over, Jack. How are the others in the back?"
"Looks like Grive locked them up in the baggage compartment. They are banging on the door."
Jack wondered how his stupid pseudo-uncle had planned to land the jet in Cancun without functioning pilots. He shivered and once again decided that more criminals would succeed in life if they recruited the brighter bulbs. Grive had recruited only himself, a move not likely to get him where he wanted to go in life.
The virtual pilots, still bypassing the autopilot, landed Apricot safely in Orlando, where a medical team met them just off the end of one runway along, meeting up with a fire engine and paramedics and airport cops. A local rep of the Gulfstream organization also met the jet. Apricot's doors opened, again virtually, and the team raced up the stairs.
The pilots were still alive but needed urgent care, so a Medevac helicopter loaded them and flew them quickly for a direct admit to a medical ICU at Florida Hospital, not far from the airport.
An ambulance took Jack, Joe, Eric, and Ben to Advent-Health Celebration Hospital ER for evaluation and treatment. The ER was immaculate and well-organized, not at all like a public big-city hospital ER. The men were seen on arrival without delay by emergency room residents backed by Board-Certified ER physicians. His security team followed in two SUVs, quickly rented at the car rental agencies in the middle of the airport before Apricot landed by Schuyler Bank-Orlando executives.
The Bank execs raced to the airport when Manhattan called, and together with the airport administrator, had quickly pierced through red tape, found the vehicles, raced to the fixed base operation's offices and met a pre-placed security team along Apricot's route to Cancun.
On the phone to the Schuyler security chief in Manhattan, Jack told him that priority #1 was to check out the jet's systems to rule out sabotage by Grive. "Priority #2 is to find out how the hell Grive got on board past our security team. The Orlando police have him in custody at a local hospital now; like his sister, he now faces all kinds of legal trouble."
"I want a convincing explanation, an official investigation, about Grive's movements before and during this incident. It better be perfect. All kinds of lives were at stake today. I don't give a flying fuck that Grive ruined our vacation, but I insist on knowing enough to prevent this from happening again. Spend what you need to spend and move quickly."
The Travel office was next on Jack's list. "Raney, we're going to need rooms at Orlando's best hotel. Check to see what security needs. Ask Gulfstream if they can get mechanics from the company to give me a system report as soon as possible. Also, call the tower at Orlando and ask them to arrange for an airport Ground tug to tow Apricot to an FBO hangar under guard asap. As long as you are making a list, call Jenna upstairs in my office and tell her I'm OK, please. She's probably wondering if she still is the boss's secretary. We will need a limousine at Celebration Hospital ER in an hour. Rent it for a week. We need a driver with it and be sure to tell our security team here about the arrangements you make."
"Done, Boss. Already done all of that. You're good."
"Thanks, Raney. It's been a day," Jack groaned.
The next morning the friends met in Jack and Joe's suite to wrap up. "We can't move on to Cancun until all of this shit is wrapped up," said Jack. "We are still in the land of sunshine though. We could go down to Fort Lauderdale and make whoopee at Pineapple Point or Coral Reef. Problem is, it would take some time to get there unless we use NetJets or something or have Peach flown down here." Jack never did figure out where his next statement blossomed. "We do have a closer alternative, though . . ."
A dispatcher at Walt Disney World saw the call first on his screen. It was a 'Quik-Mouse' message from the front gate. A limousine had just pulled up with two SUVs behind with what looked like bodyguards. The Disney security guy who had pushed a button on his communication badge and spoken to the system had seen the caravan and diagnosed a 'VIP' arrival. The system translated the security voice message to text on the dispatcher's screen. He hadn't been aware of any VIP arrivals today.
"Probable VIP at front gate. We need two tall mice and six dancing greeters in costume; also, extra security."
The dispatcher began to touch a second screen that fed vocal commands to individual employees into the earphones of over a thousand employees, some above but more below ground, all of them fixated on maintenance, laundry, janitor staff, security, and IT services. Other departments included wardrobe, entertainment, and event planning. Others worked in catering services, administration, cash services, accounting, and a host of other roles at the park.
The second screen was a large touch console. Bob Hurst, the dispatcher, touched the employee category 'Mouse' and after that keyed in the role's individual' work ID, then under the 'To' column he touched the location, and finally he touched how urgent the command was. In this instance, the dispatcher touched Mouse, the numbers six and twelve, front gate, fast, then hit 'Enter.'
He then touched similar commands for the dancers. The system translated those commands back into a vocal command for the appropriate earpiece of the appropriate employee. The automated mechanism saved the park from the need to hire a dispatcher equivalent.
Mouse #six and Mouse #twelve responded off their break below ground abruptly, pushed their wrist buttons in response, not surprised.
Mouse #twelve was having a quiet day, bored to death, wished he was a dancer, but pleased he had a good job. He liked the wages and benefits at the park and knew that there was competition for those slots. His life outside the park was a small apartment in Celebration, Florida, close enough to hop on transit for the ride back and forth to work. The two entertainers walked quickly through the crowds toward the main entrance.
When they arrived, Mouse #twelve saw four young men, all of them guys he wouldn't kick out of bed, followed by burly guys he assumed were VIP bodyguards, a sight seen regularly at the park.
At age eighteen, Rafael remembered coming to Florida from Cuba with his mom and dad. He'd arrived, healthy, excited, fluent in Spanish, and knew enough in English to get around Miami, but his accent at age ten needed some work, and his parents wanted assimilation to happen for their son, so off he went almost every day to a school where they taught English as a second language.
His English improved to 'flawless,' so much so that Disney didn't blink an eye when he applied at age seventeen. By that time his parents, both devout, had tumbled to his sexual preference, and tended to their own fears. His parents sent him to live with his cousin Rene in Orlando. His parents hoped Rene would straighten him out.
That effort didn't produce the result his parents wanted. They told him that he was loved and since the parish was conservative, it would be better for him in Orlando.
The mouse gig paid pretty well with great benefits. Rafael contributed to the rent and food and saved enough for a motorcycle, a used Honda, even though he was able to save more on public transit.
Clearing his thoughts, Rafael met the team at the front gate and the greeting routine began. The dancers performed first while both security teams talked briefly, and the mouse staff stepped up. Joe heard mouse #twelve begin and began to wonder who was in that costume. Rafael's voice, deep and rich, definitely male, tall, caused Joe's imagination began to run away with him. He glanced down to Rafael's package, noted it was full, noted his energy; by this time Rafael had noted the interest.
Jack Jr. came back from the ticket booth to find Joe openly ogling the mouse and the mouse assessing Joe. A picture of his dad and two other guys in the shower sprang into Jack's mind. His cock gave a leap in his pants. Jack experienced a brief inner movie of three guys, all naked, exploring; Jack Joe and whoever it was inside that Mouse costume.