He took the tablet from my hands, pressed three utility keys on the hardware frame, and forced an administrative sync using a master maintenance bypass code. The screen flashed blue, cycled twice, and populated the active roster.
Below the passenger list, three high-priority operational flags appeared in dark crimson.
FLAG 1: CREW SHIFT OVERRUN - CABIN SEC 2 AUDIT IN PROGRESS. FLAG 2: STATION CHECK RAMP 4 - CARGO MANIFEST WEIGHT DISCREPANCY PENDING VERIFICATION. FLAG 3: CHIEF PILOT LINE CHECK - MANDATORY COMPLIANCE EVALUATION.
My breath stopped. Seat 2A had not merely been reserved for a resting pilot deadheading to his next shift. Arthur Vance was on Flight 247 to run an unannounced, full-flight emergency audit on the entire long-haul crew—a standard review triggered whenever a route expanded its business class capacity.
"The gate agent gave the paper addendum to your purser at 06:02," Vance said, turning his gaze toward Hannah. "It contained the audit notice, the cargo hold cross-reference, and my seat assignment. Hannah, where is that paper?"
Hannah’s jaw clenched. She reached slowly into the lower pocket of her uniform blazer and pulled out a folded trifold manifest, creased twice and stained at the corner with coffee. It had been shoved into her pocket unread.
"You were rushing the boarding sequence to protect your on-time departure bonus," Vance said, looking between the two of us. "You ignored the pre-flight briefing. You left your junior attendant on the threshold without verified data. And Miss Reyes decided that her personal intuition was an acceptable substitute for operational protocol."
The chime above our heads sounded three rapid pulses. The flight deck door cracked open two inches, and First Officer Davis poked his head out, his cap off, his brow furrowed with concern.
"Hannah, tower is asking why we haven't dropped the beacon. What's the holdup back—"
Davis stopped. His face went gray as he recognized the man standing beside the jumpseat with the open ledger.
"Captain Vance," Davis straightened instantly, his hand dropping from the door latch to his side. "We didn't know you were on the bridge."
"Evidently not, Mr. Davis," Vance replied evenly. "Keep the cockpit door open. Do not signal for pushback. We have an operational discrepancy in the forward cabin that must be resolved before this aircraft moves one inch from the gate."
Vance turned back to me, the open ledger resting between us. "Miss Reyes, you told the passengers in rows one and two that company policy permitted you to clear unverified passengers using ground crew intervention. Quote the manual section that authorizes a flight attendant to threaten security removal without prior purser and flight deck consultation."
My throat closed. There was no such section. Company policy required two crew members to confirm any removal with the flight deck, followed by an immediate call to the ground security coordinator. I had bluffed to assert control, using the weight of the airline’s badge to cover my own impatience.
"I can't quote it, sir," I whispered. "It doesn't exist."
"Then you understand what happens next," Vance said, clicking his pen closed and sliding the ledger into his jacket pocket. "Take your flight kit out of the overhead bin. You are being removed from duty on Flight 247."
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
"Base performance does not supersede carrier compliance, Purser Miller," Vance replied. His voice never climbed; it simply occupied the narrow stainless workspace, hard and unyielding as an engine mount. "And your attendant did not make an administrative error. She used a fabricated company sanction to threaten an unverified passenger in full view of two rows of revenue travelers."
"I was trying to protect the cabin," I said. The sentence came out thin, catching on the dry roof of my mouth. "I thought someone had boarded without clearance."
"You did not think," Vance said, turning his slate-gray eyes directly onto mine. "Thinking requires an inquiry. You looked at a coat with worn thread at the wrists, compared it against the fare class of the seat, and decided the coat did not belong to a person who could afford three thousand dollars. You substituted a social prejudice for an operational procedure."
He reached into his jacket again, withdrew his black ballpoint pen, and set the tip against the open line of the marble-backed ledger.