How to Heighten Suspense Employing Ancillary Events

In writing my novel STALKING THE SKY, I wanted to associate the corporate raider, J. Stephen Girard, a ruthless, cunning predator deliberating on whether to seize a premier airline, with a merciless flying predator of a different sort, a trained falcon.

Here's an excerpt:

Finally, the Arab extended his gloved hand, held it there long enough for the falcon to gain her balance, and then cast her upward. Her jesses released, the falcon leaped forward, and with one beat of her powerful wings she was airborne and climbing. Higher and higher she ascended, spiraling upward until she was only a speck herself. Then she hovered motionless, the sun behind her, awaiting the inevitable moment when the guileless pigeons' flight would carry them beneath her.

Girard had sensed the excitement mounting within him as the peregrine sped upward. He felt a kinship with the soaring predator. Every part of her body had been designed by nature for her single purpose in life, the hunt. Success at the hunt meant survival.

The falcon had already chosen which was to be her victim and the point in the sky where they would meet. She seemed to wait forever, as if, hypnotized by the magic of flight, she had forgotten the kill. Then, almost too late, the wings snapping tight against her body, she suddenly plummeted. Faster she dove, until she was no more than a streaking blur. At the last instant, wings and tail spread, talons clenched, she swooped sharply upward into her prey, knocking the pigeon senseless. Helplessly, it fluttered downward like a pinwheel. Within seconds the falcon's claws clenched the stunned bird, and she was returning to earth. There she would mantle the pigeon with her wide wings before taking its neck within her beak and breaking it.

At that moment J. Stephen Girard decided it was time to bid for control of Global Universal Airlines.

Read more: STALKING THE SKY. bit.ly/PojdHz

Creating a Character Who Is Larger Than Life

I've written a number of novels, including Stalking the Sky or Stalking the Sky (Kindle); A Question of Proof or A Question of Proof (Kindle); Star Time: New Version & New Introduction or Star Time(Kindle); Birthright or Birthright (Kindle); and Deeds or Deeds (Kindle). In writing my novel, Stalking the Sky or Stalking the Sky (Kindle), I wanted a scene over dinner to accomplish several things: First was to give the reader a sense of the vivid, dynamic and virile personality and past of the legendary Ben Buck, head of Global Universal Airline. I did that by having another person at the dinner relate old anecdotes about him that would surprisingly prove important later on in the book. I also wanted to sketch in a little of the beginnings of what grew into the airline industry and did that, too, with an anecdote, this one about an early flyer getting lost on a mail flight. Here's an excerpt: Dinner was a noisy affair, laced with half a century of anecdotes about airplanes and the characters who flew them, people like Danny Morell, who had a mail route in the twenties. He was too farsighted to read the compass and too vain to wear glasses, so he followed the railroad tracks below him from one city to the next. One day fog rolled in unexpectedly, and when he finally landed at what he thought was Baltimore, it turned out to be Washington, D.C. "Take me to the Postmaster General," he demanded. "I want to bid on a new mail route to Baltimore I just discovered." Then there was the time Buck agreed to publicize GUA’s new jets, just delivered to replace piston aircraft. The plan called for him and a planeful of reporters to have breakfast in New York and lunch in Los Angeles; they’d be back in New York for a late dinner that night. It was an eye-catching stunt for a nation only three decades from biplanes and wire wing supports. Unfortunately, a new employee at Los Angeles Airport mistook a football team for the planeload of newsmen; lunch was gone when the jet touched down. "You know," the GUA man finally admitted after the shock wore off, "I thought they were kind of big for reporters, but I couldn’t be sure. I’ve never been East." Frey remembered the times during the war when the General, dog-tired from months of unceasing work to build an air transport system capable of supporting the war effort, would disappear for a few days of R & R. Frey was his driver then—that was how they met—and the one who shared the roistering hours when Buck let off steam. "We were known in every whorehouse in every two-bit town that had an air base. Only the General never gave his real name. He called himself General Benjamin," the small man recalled, with a wink at Buck. "Remember Annette, with the business cards? She had business cards printed to advertise her house, with a line at the bottom of the card saying, ‘Recommended by General Benjamin. ’" The table exploded in laughter, Buck’s loudest of all. Frey’s head bobbed up and down as he added, "Know what he did when he found out? Know what he did? He insisted on a month of free visits or else he would have his own cards printed up taking back the endorsement." The laughter burst forth again. "Annette’s cards started turning up all over Washington, and two other General Benjamins nearly ended up court-martialed." Frey waited for the laughter to subside. "But any girl with a hard-luck story, he was the softest touch in America—" Buck cut him off. "Nobody wants to hear that. Tell them about that time in New Orleans. Remember New Orleans, Pres?" Frey remembered. "New Orleans was the best. Everywhere we turned there was puss—pardon me, ma’am . . . there were girls. You know what that big stud over there did? He rented the grandest whorehouse you ever saw for one solid week just for the two of us. The War Department and Western Union were three days tracking us down to get a message to the General. The lucky son of a B who delivered the message spent the next two days there with us. Western Union had to send out a search party for him." The Old Man’s eyes were dancing as he picked up the story. "One of the councilmen got so damned horny waiting all that time for the house to reopen, he had the police break in and arrest us. They didn’t want to say prostitution was going on, so they accused us of ‘illegal entry.’" As the laughter died down, Frey said, with a faraway look in his eyes, "There was one city where a little girl was so sweet on the General whenever we were there we lived right in the whorehouse, like kings. And me, I never had less than two or three girls there with me at a time. They don’t make wars like that anymore." Read more: Stalking the Sky or Stalking the Sky (Kindle). ow.ly/mfX1S

How to Show First Awkwardness with Ex-wife Then Chemistry with New Love Interest

In writing my novel STALKING THE SKY, I wanted to describe the awkwardness of an ex-husband and wife meeting at a party after a number of years have passed. while also imparting a sense of their ill-suitedness. I also wanted to show how exciting a relationship might be with the man's new lover, who is giving the party.

Here's an excerpt:

As soon as Will began picking his way among the small knots of people to locate Donna, his high spirits returned. The day’s work had been a triumph. The party and the excitement of New York had buoyed him.

"Oh, my God! Will!"

He turned toward the voice. "Hello, Carla."

He had broken off with Carla the same night she asked him to move in with her, as he guessed she would; she had timed every move with exasperating precision. Will had told her he did not intend to be squeezed and bent to fit the empty places in someone else’s life.

"You’re . . . you’re in New York."

"Only for the night. How have you been?"

"I’ve been well, Will." She had regained her poise. "I’m into self-actualization now and it’s given me a great deal of confidence."

"The new hair style, is that part of it?"

"The hair style, the clothes—I think they express a freer, more open me. The best part is that I’ve been able to come to grips with my father’s role in my life—you remember me telling you about my father—and accept him and understand that he acted out of love. I can say all those things openly to him now."

"Isn’t your father dead?"

"That really isn’t the point."

A hand slipped through Will’s arm. "I see you two have found each other again. What do old lovers say to each other?"

Belinda had joined them. Her face was lit by a mischievous grin. Will refused to be drawn in.

"The really old ones talk about their grandchildren, lumbago and hospital costs. Belinda, this is a spectacular show. I had no idea you were so accomplished."

"Thank you. I’m glad you could come." She turned to Carla. "We literally bumped into each other on an elevator this morning. I was with Cassie." She turned back to Will. "Carla is engaged, you know."

"Congratulations. Do I know him?"

Will’s interest seemed merely courteous, Belinda noted.

"Dave Delauney. He’s gone to fetch me a drink."

"The way you say that bodes well for a satisfying life together."

Belinda said, "I hope you don’t mind, Carla, if I introduce Will to some people here."

"It was good to see you, Will. Perhaps we could have dinner."

"Perhaps on some other trip."

Belinda guided Will toward a large canvas. Gloomy colors formed a faint profile of the painter.

"That’s what I look like in the morning," she remarked lightly.

"I apologize for the way my compliment before may have sounded," Will said.

"It’s just that so many of Carla’s friends did nothing with their lives, and they all called themselves interior decorators or jewelry designers . . ."

"Or painters?"

"Or painters. Why do you paint your self-portrait so often? Narcissism?"

"Cheap model." She eyed him wryly. "People who dislike me say it’s a clever way to promote myself. Now, what about you? You live in Colorado, you said. What kind of work do you do there?"

"Legal work, for Global Universal Airlines."

"That’s interesting."

"Every time I tell people who I work for, they insist on telling me how they were bumped off a flight or lost their luggage. What have you lost?"

"Absolutely nothing. In fact, I’m still a virgin with my first set of teeth."

Will laughed unreservedly. With friends, Belinda’s funny, outrageous lines snapped the air around her like firecrackers. But with new people, especially men, enjoyment of them was a kind of test—one that Will had just passed. Particularly now, Belinda would have liked to stay with him, but she had other commitments.

Read more: STALKING THE SKY bit.ly/PojdHz

How Investigators Discern Early If Sabotage Caused a Plane Crash

In my novel STALKING THE SKY, I wanted to show how an investigator from the National Transportation Safety Board and an FBI agent obtain an early sense of whether a plane's crash was caused by sabotage.

Here's an excerpt:

Dwight Raeburn, head of the NTSB’s Go-Team, looked up from the bright tangle of ripped wires sprouting from the sliced-open rear fuselage and spotted Clayton. They had worked together in the past, but on nothing of this immensity.

"It’s a God-awful mess, isn’t it?"

"When are the dogs expected?" Clayton asked.

"The FAA says they loaned the closest team out to you guys investigating a theft of explosives from an army base. Another’s sniffing out a bomb in an office building. There’s no longer an emergency here."

"What does it look like?"

"Can’t be sure. The front of the fuselage folded up like an accordion when it hit. Any evidence of explosive decompression in the fore section is hidden right now."

"But you’ve got to be suspicious. Items from the plane are turning up for miles around."

"Owen, I can’t be sure of anything yet. This is one where we won’t know definitely until we pull it out of the crater and piece it together."

Clayton remained insistent. "And those other parts that blew off it all the way down."

The process of hauling every piece of the wreckage to an empty hangar and diligently reconstructing the mammoth airplane, like a great Chinese puzzle, could take months.

"I can’t wait for that—the trail will be cold by then," Clayton said. "Have you spoken to your guys checking out Operations and Air Traffic Control at O’Hare?"

The smaller man pulled the clipboard from under his arm. "Just before it went down, the plane was at an altitude of twenty-seven thousand feet and an airspeed of five hundred and forty miles per hour. Nothing near it. Weather clear. No turbulence, so far as we know. And then the plane just dived. It’s not much, but believe me, it’s all we know right now."

"Dwight, I know you don’t want to be put on the spot this early, but if you had my job, would you treat this like a potential criminal matter?"

This time Raeburn did not hesitate. "I’d bust my rear on it, if I were you. Look, any number of things could have caused this, and the clues are still buried in the wreckage. But right now it smells of sabotage. We’ll know more when we find the recorders, but even they might not tell the whole story."

Heavily protected to survive a crash, the recorders monitor the flight and provide hard evidence for investigators after an accident. The flight data recorder chronologically registers takeoffs, altitudes, speeds, angles and other numerical indicia of the flight. The voice recorder captures the voices of the cockpit crew on tape by means of three overhead microphones.

"You haven’t found them yet?"

Raeburn shook his head. "We’re cutting away metal at the place we think the flight recorder should be. We’re just not sure yet where the voice recorder is buried. God, it’s a horror!"

"Call me as soon as you know something more."

They separated. Clayton took a slow walk through the debris. This was a last search for any clue he might have missed that would spark an insight into what had suddenly happened on a clear night twenty-seven thousand feet above the unyielding ground.

Read more: STALKING THE SKY bit.ly/PojdHz

How Is a Plane Crash Investigated

In writing my book Stalking the Sky, I wanted to depict with absolute authenticity the way investigators go about examining the wreckage of a plane crash to determine the cause. 

Here's an excerpt: 

The FBI Disaster Squad, victim identification experts, was on the scene, helping with the tagging and the loading. State police would also pitch in. For many days, both groups would aid local coroners trying to match bodies or sometimes parts of bodies with names. Eventually, they would certify as deceased 339 people, in some cases on evidence as flimsy as the lone, bent earring recognized by a daughter on a table of unidentified passenger belongings.

Local police had cordoned off the site to keep onlookers and the press at a distance—theft of strewn plane parts as grisly souvenirs could prevent discovery of the crash’s cause. Gathered around the twisted debris were small groups of investigators from the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB), the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA), Global Universal, the airframe and engine manufacturers, the airline pilots’ union and the insurance company, as well as local authorities. Only the first, the NTSB, could be considered fully objective. Their investigation team was composed of government experts whose sole responsibility was to determine the probable cause of the crash. That determination would weigh heavily in recommending improved equipment and procedures and in the court cases that would surely follow. Those found responsible could become liable for millions of dollars in claims made by the families of those on board.

Slipping among the various investigators were photographers and surveyors whose task was to record accurately where objects had been found, an important tool in reconstructing the exact sequence of events. At what point did the plane hit the ground? Were some plane parts already detached before impact? How far were bodies thrown? How far did the fuselage skid?

Power plant specialists were trying to determine if birds had been ingested into the jet fans, cutting off the air intake, or if icing had occurred or fuel starvation or fire. Airframe experts, if metal fatigue had caused failure of a vital structural member. Systems people, whether the electrical, hydraulic or control systems had failed in some way. Only by such painstaking study could future crashes be prevented.

Read more: Stalking the Sky or Stalking the Sky (Kindle)

How Badly Does a Crash Hurt an Airline's Finances

     In writing my recent book STALKING THE SKY, I wanted readers to understand how airlines protect themselves financially against the possibility of losing an airplane. The airlines are well-protected by insurance and often by the way they may have financed that particular aircraft.

Here's an excerpt:

A moment later, he turned to Will. "Is the company’s insurance in order?"

Will nodded. The airline and its investors were protected, he knew, by a Lloyd’s of London syndicate that would make good on the liability to victims’ families within rather high limits. A second syndicate insured the aircraft itself: GUA would be repaid its share of the plane’s value, and the members of the public who had financed the rest of the transport’s cost by buying loan certificates and leasing the plane to the airline would be similarly reimbursed.

The Old Man reflected aloud, "The stock market’s been too skittish lately not to get terrified when something like this happens. The average guy thinks we’re in the hole for thirty-five million dollars’ worth of aircraft. Or else he’ll think passengers will stay away. Probably will, too, for a week or so. The truth is, recovering the cash value of a jetliner can be a damned blessing, although I’d rather have lost a 707—they’re older and a hell of a lot less efficient. Damned stockholders and smart-ass analysts don’t think that way. By noon tomorrow our stock should have dropped to eight or below." Buck’s fist slammed against the desk. "That’s just the opportunity that son of a bitch Girard has been waiting for!"

Read more:  STALKING THE SKY http://amzn.to/18Py6MJ

The Behind-the-Scenes Operation of a Major Airline

I’ve written several novels including A QUESTION OF PROOF, DEEDS, BIRTHRIGHT, and STAR TIME.   In writing my most recent book to go on Amazon STALKING THE SKY, I wanted to depict the inner operations of a major American airline in a time of crisis. I undertook a good deal of research to immerse the reader in that world.

Here’s an excerpt:

The nerve center of any airline, Operations Control at GUA occupied a good part of the second floor. At the center of the large room was a glass-walled area filled with computer terminals and Teletype and fax machines, sending and receiving messages from all of the company’s offices. The ability to maintain administrative surveillance was why Buck had insisted on keeping the company’s headquarters at the airport. . . .

Ordinarily Buck would have scanned the Teletypes for problems. Tonight a storm had diverted planes from New Delhi to Karachi, mechanical problems had delayed Flight 22 inbound from Brussels and London to JFK, and a flight engineer had been routed directly back home because of a family emergency. Chances were Buck would have sent a note to the man in the morning. But another, more urgent event not yet on the Teletype dominated his mind.

At Flight Dispatch, white boards with a strip to track each plane along its route covered one long wall. The information gathered in this center—weather reports, fuel burn rates, schedules, air traffic—would be fed to the computer programmed to prepare each trip's flight plan that the captain could use or revise as he saw fit. Regional Flight Dispatch Centers operated twenty-four hours a day in New York, London and New Delhi, but Denver was the brain stem. . . .

"Any more news?" Buck asked.

None of the men shifted their eyes from the screen, as if a moment's inattention could allow bad news to slip in.

"Nothing decisive," Keller said quietly. "But I’ll fill you in. Flight 211 arrived at O’Hare from L.A. at ten p.m local tonight and left the gate for New York at ten-fifty-five."

"Right on time."

"To the minute. It lifted off from O’Hare at eleven-thirteen. Four minutes later Departure Control handed the plane off to Chicago Center. Twenty minutes after that, at the Medum intersection, Chicago Center advised the pilot it was terminating radar service and to contact Cleveland Center for the next leg of the flight. But the plane never contacted Cleveland Center. It just disappeared."

Read more: STALKING THE SKY http://amzn.to/18Py6MJ