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EMERGENCY LANDING!
A BEEGEES Fanfiction Story



By Rosanne Emily Esbrook-Iho/AngelaToo



PART ONE
[Note: This story was written in the Spring of 2001--shortly after “This Is Where I Came In”
was released, and before 9-11 and the stricter airport security regulations went into effect.]

Rick Hallis' first hint of trouble came, when the Lear he was piloting began an unauthorized descent. His expert eyes scanned the aircraft's electrical console. Not surprisingly, the plane's ant-icing system's warning light was on. He'd figured all along it was his wing de-icers. 'Probably, just a bad fuse…' he thought to himself and thumbed his radio transmitter. "Minneapolis Center," he calmly spoke into his headset mic', "This is Lear, Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero. IFR. Outbound L.A.X. Inbound LaGuardia. Course: Zero-Five-Zero True. Bearing: Three-Six-Zero. Heading: One-Zero-Three...at Three-Six-Five knots. Descending out of Four-Two-Zero. Requesting permission to descend to Seven Thousand, Over…"

"Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero," a voice came back through his headset’s earphones, "This is Minneapolis Center. We’ve got you on the scope. What is the nature of your request?"


"Minneapolis Center, Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero is experiencing mechanical difficulties. Our wing de-icers quit." He glanced out the cockpit’s window at the milky-white deposit on the leading edge of his left wing, "Rime buildup is causing us to lose altitude. Over…"

"Minneapolis Center. Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero, are you declaring an in-flight emergency at this time?"


"Negative, Minneapolis Center," Rick quickly came back, "All Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero needs right now is a lower altitude, some warmer air and, probably, a new fuse…"


"Minneapolis Center," the somewhat relieved and slightly amused air traffic controller came back, "There is traffic at your requested altitude. However, Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero is cleared for Five Thousand. Maintain your current radar vector heading…and keep us posted!"


"Roger that, and thanks, Minneapolis Center," Rick replied with a smile. "Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero descending to Five Thousand…"he finished speaking and flicked on the 'FASTEN SEATBELTS' sign, for his passengers.


******************************************


Speaking of his passengers…


The seven who were lounging in the Lear's main compartment looked up, as a loud 'ping' caught their attention.


"See!" one of three brothers on board exclaimed and gave the sibling seated on the sofa beside him a playful nudge. "I told you it felt like we were falling," he stated further, with a very British accent and pointed to the bright red sign that was now flashing above the entrance to their plane's cockpit.


There followed the unmistakable sound of metal seatbelts ‘clicking’ into place.


"Probably just dropping down to avoid some turbulence…" his equally English accented twin told him rather disinterestedly, but obligingly set his open book down so he could have both hands free to obediently ‘buckle-up’.


"Where’s big brother?" the bearded twin wondered, pulling his personal stereo’s in-the-ear headphones off and tossing the ‘Paint Ball Monthly’ magazine from his lap.


"He’s sprawled out on a bunk in the back, humming and strumming into his tape recorder…" the clean-shaven of the two told him before burying his face back into his mystery novel.


The questioner shoved his glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose and gave his black, fedora-style hat an adjustment, as well, before rising stiffly to his feet.


***************************************


"Barry," Maurice Gibb called into the little cubicle containing a bunk, and his prone, but propped up--and also bearded--older brother, "Time to buckle-up…"

Barry looked rather perplexed and sat bolt upright on the bed, to gaze out the jet’s window. The sudden movement sent the portable tape recorder and acoustic guitar tumbling from his chest. "We can’t be landing already!" he determined, following a quick glance at his Rolex. Then he turned back to his younger brother and passed his observations along, "There are-en’t any airports down there…There are-en’t even any roads!"


"We’re probably just dropping down to avoid some turbulence," Maurice parroted. "Your back bothering you?" he wondered, as Barry carefully swung his long legs over and off of the bed.


"A little…" his now vertical sibling replied--er, lied, as his feet hit the floor. Barry’s back was bothering him a lot. He’d been cooped up in hotel rooms and limo’s--and airplanes--for over a week. He’d just flown over fifteen thousand miles. Now, he wanted--er, needed to walk. He snatched up his coat from the foot of the bed.


"Any luck?" Maurice asked, aiming his gaze at the now retrieved tape recorder.


When they’d arrived from Tokyo that morning, a rather cryptic faxed message was waiting for them at the airport. The hand-delivered note was from their good friend, David English, and it simply read:

‘"Boys, I need you to write me a song. Right away. I’ll explain later. Thanks. David."


Two of The Brothers Gibb had felt the whole thing was just a joke. But, Barry--who’d taken the request seriously--had been slaving away on the project, for the past two hours. "I’ve got the melody dead-to-rights," he announced, as he stepped into his shoes and out into the now slanting corridor.


"And the lyrics?"


"Nothing comes to mind…" the songwriter confessed, his heavily accented voice filled with frustration.


"Nothing?!" his baby brother queried in disbelief.


"Not one word!" Barry glumly admitted and followed his amazed sibling back up to the Lear’s main passenger compartment.


*************************************


"What's up, Rick?" Barry Gibb asked, ducking into the plane's cockpit and plopping himself carefully down into the co-pilot's seat--to buckle-up.


"The heating elements that run along the wings aren’t working," Rick calmly explained, "The ice is building up and causing us to lose ‘lift’…so we’re going down to where the air is warmer…to melt the ice off the wings…and change a fuse…"


"How low do we have to fly before we find some warmer air?" his visitor wondered, running his concerned gaze over the jet’s jumble of complicated-looking gauges and dials.


"We’ll be leveling off at 5,000 feet," Rick replied.


"So," the songwriter glanced at the altimeter and did some quick math, "about six more miles...and we’ll have nothing to worry about?"


The plane’s pilot flashed his famous passenger a reassuring smile and gave him a nod, "Nothing to worry about!"


Barry leaned back in his seat and breathed a deep sigh of relief.


**********************************************


Several minutes and six vertical miles later, another loud 'ping' caught the aircraft's occupants' attention.


All seven looked up in unison and watched the 'FASTEN SEATBELTS' sign go off. They continued watching, as the eldest Gibb brother ducked back out of the cockpit.


"There’s something wrong with the heater things on the wings," Barry announced, seeing their questioning stares. "We’ve descended to 5,000 feet, because the air is much warmer down here and the ice won’t build up. Rick figures it’s just a blown fuse. Nothing to worry about!" he added, passing along the pilot’s reassuring words and smile.


Everybody exhaled sighs of relief. The three bodyguards on board unbuckled and rejoined their in progress poker game…which--Barry noted--their friend and sound engineer, John Merchant, appeared to be winning.


Robin Gibb gave the good news bearer a grateful smile and then angled his deep-blue-tinted glasses back down to his book.


"C’mon, Marj’!" Maurice enthusiastically declared to the plane’s only female passenger, and quickly freed himself from his seat, "Let’s go rustle us all up something to eat--and drink!"


The Bee Gees’ personal secretary obligingly unbuckled her belt, rose to her unsteady feet and followed one of her three bosses over to the plane’s galley.


"How’s the new song coming along?" Robin asked, as his older brother collapsed carefully down into the heavily padded seat across the aisle from him.


"Incredibly well," Barry came back, "if you like ‘instrumentals’,"he sarcastically tacked on.


Robin glanced up and smiled again. "I really like the melody," he confessed, and then helpfully added, "You just need to take your mind off of it for awhile."


Speaking of distractions…


Barry was about to reply that what he really needed was Robin’s help--when the Lear suddenly lurched--rather sharply--to the left, jolting him--and the plane’s other unbelted passengers--clean out of their seats!


Cards flew from the table, and the players were pelted with poker chips.


Robin was the only one to remain seated. The bookworm hadn’t bothered to unbuckle.


Maurice cursed as he--and the carafe of scalding-hot coffee he was carrying--went careening across the plane’s plush passenger compartment and crashing into the outer hull--amazingly, without spilling a drop! Unfortunately, the coffee mugs in his other hand didn’t fair as well. Four out of five broke on impact.


Marj’ Griffith came toppling out of the galley and she--and the tray of catered food she was toting--slammed into an inside wall, sending sandwiches--and salami--sailing everywhere!


"Nothing to worry about, huh?!" Robin rather alarmedly remarked upon righting himself. "Something’s just gone very wrong! Something more than just the fuse for the heater things on the wings!" he added, in reference to the horrible grinding sound coming from the Lear’s left engine. He, and his fellow passengers, turned to stare out the plane’s blood-splattered? windows.


Barry was back on his feet and halfway to the cockpit before his bodyguard could even reach him. "I’m all right, Donny!" his boss assured him and brushed his steadying hand from his shoulder.


********************************


Speaking of the plane’s cockpit…


Pilot Rick Hallis had his hands full! One moment, they were flying smoothly along on auto-pilot and he was changing a fuse. The next, they were smashing into a freakin’ flock of birds! According to the Lear’s instrument panels, he was about to lose his left engine! He couldn’t tell if there was any other structural damage to the plane because his windshield was completely covered with bird guts, feathers and blood! Lots and lots of blood!


"Minneapolis Center," he spoke as calmly as he could, and turned his windshield wipers on. The blades didn’t budge. "This is Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero. No-ow I would like to declare an in-flight emergency! Acknowledge…"


"This is Minneapolis Center," the FAA controller anxiously acknowledged, "What is the nature of your emergency, Two-Four-Two-Zero?"


"Minneapolis Center, Two-Four-Two-Zero has just experienced a mid-air collision with an entire freakin’ flock a’ birds! I just lost my left engine and my right engine is running hot! Over…"


"This is Minneapolis Center. Roger that, Two-Four-Two-Zero! Any other visible structural damage?"


"Two-Four-Two-Zero has no visibility at the moment, Minneapolis Center. The birds took out my wipers and my cockpit windshield is a bloody mess! Over…"


"This is Minneapolis Center. Standby, Two-Four-Two-Zero…Two-Four-Two-Zero, advise you turn left Four Degrees to Radar Vector Seven-Three-Niner and try climbing to Seven Thousand--to aid VORTAC. ( Have better radar and radio contact.) That’ll put you on a direct course to Sawyer International. Sawyer is a converted Air Force Base and has more than enough runway for an emergency landing. It’s also the nearest airfield equipped to handle your...situation. You can reach the Sawyer controllers on emergency frequency Six-Zero-Niner Point Three. They have been alerted and are waiting for you to contact them. So, we’re going to sign off and turn you over to them. Good Luck, Two-Four-Two-Zero!"


"Left four degrees...Radar Vector Seven-Three-Niner...Flight Level Seven Thousand...and Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero thanks you once again, Minneapolis Center…" Rick paused only long enough to dial in the new radio frequency. "Sawyer International, this is Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero requesting emergency landing instructions. Over…"he heard the cockpit door close behind him and glanced back over his shoulder. Whoever his visitor had been, they’d left without saying a word.


**************************************


Speaking of the cockpit's wordless visitor…


The rest of the Lear's rattled passengers waited patiently for Barry to report back to them. But the eldest Gibb brother remained silent upon his return.


The somber look on his big brother’s face spoke volumes, however, and prompted Maurice to demand, "What the bloody hell happened?!"


Barry sank slowly down into his so-suddenly-vacated seat, propped his elbows up on the arm rests, clasped his hands together in front of his face and pressed two of his long, slender fingers to his tightly pursed lips. "It seems we just flew into a flock of birds. We’ve lost our left engine and will--very shortly--be making an emergency landing at a place called ‘Sawyer International’. I know the sign’s not flashing, but now might be good time to buckle--" something suddenly occurred to him and he stopped talking to start rummaging through the pockets of his jacket--which he’d left draped over the back of his chair. His right hand emerged from one of the coat’s pockets with the object of his search--his satellite cell phone. He hit the speed dial and then drew in a deep breath before raising the instrument to his once again tightly pursed lips. "Linda, darling! How wonderful it is to hear your voice! How are you and the children?…I know I just asked you that an hour ago, I just never get tired of hearing your answer. Have you finished packing?….She is? Marvelous!….Yes, that would have been a lovely surprise. But, I’m afraid I’ll be a little late arriving at LaGuardia…Why-y? Well, our plane’s developed a bit of a mechanical problem and we’re being diverted to ‘Sawyer International’….I have no idea whatsoever. Somewhere in the Midwest, I assume…I don’t know that, either. I suppose it depends on how long it takes us to get a flight out of ‘Sawyer International’. You know how Robin feels about chartered planes…"he glanced around and saw that his fellow passengers had followed his lead, for they all had cell phones pressed tightly to their ears, and were talking in hushed tones to their loved ones, as well.


*******************************************

This message has been edited. Last edited by: AngelaToo,

PART TWO



Speaking of loved ones…and Sawyer International...


Two women were sitting in the airport's main terminal at that very moment, waiting for a friend's plane to land. Rosanne and Alana's dear friend, Marion, had flown out to California two weeks earlier, to visit her son, Ron, and his new wife. The two women had offered to bring Marion to and from the airport, to save the elderly lady both the long drive home--following her fatiguing flight--and the five bucks per day 'Airport Parking' fee. (Hey, seventy dollars is $70.00!)


Rosanne was passing the time playing solitaire--and listening to The Bee Gees’ newest CD--on her laptop computer.


Alana was seated beside her, trying--in vain--to absorb the contents of the article she was reading--er, trying to read. "It’s no use," the blonde finally conceded. "I can’t concentrate. I’m too restless." She closed the magazine in her lap and then glanced at her wristwatch. "Marion’s plane was supposed to land over an hour ago. I hope nothing’s happened to her…"


"Her flight was probably delayed," Rosanne reasoned, not bothering to raise her gaze from the computer’s card-filled screen. "According to ‘NBC’s Nightly News with Tom Brokaw’, our airways are so congested now, that flights are being delayed all the time. That’s why I brought this," she confessed, tapping the instrument on her lap, to the rather catchy beat of the CD’s current selection.


"Yeah, well, I’m gonna go find out what’s goin’ on," Alana muttered rather annoyedly and started off in the direction of an airline desk. She didn’t bother to ask her card-playing companion to join her. She figured she’d be back before Rosanne could finish packing all her computer’s paraphernalia into its travel case.

She was right.


************************************

And so was Rosanne…

"You were right!" Alana announced upon her return, a mere five minutes later. "Marion's flight was delayed--two hours in San Diego, and another three hours at Dallas/Fort Worth! Which means she missed her connecting flights--and won't be landing for hours, yet! What are we supposed to do around here for five hou-ours, or more?!"


Rosanne replied by passing her peeved partner a Walkman and a cassette case full of Bee Gees’ tapes.


"Is ‘One Night Only’ in here?" Alana wondered, as she resignedly collapsed back into her window seat.

"Of course!" Rosanne assured her. "So is 'E*S*P'…" she added with a sly smile.


Alana smiled and popped an undisclosed tape into the walkman. Rosanne had been trying--for months now--to get her to listen to E*S*P. However, ONO was still Alana’s all-time favorite. She started reaching for the headphones, but then remembered something and stopped. "Oh, guess what. While I was waiting to ask about Marion’s plane, I heard these two guys talking and they said that all the airport’s traffic is being re-routed so that a private jet can make an emergency landing. Pretty exciting, heh? Maybe we’ll get to see it. What if we got to see it cra-ash?" she wondered somberly. " Would you watch? Or would you have to look away?"


"I don’t know," Rosanne confessed, looking and sounding equally somber. "What would you do?"


"I don’t know, either," Alana admitted. "Hopefully, it’ll land safely and we won’t get the chance to find out. Do you think they have parachutes?" she wondered and leaned forward to gaze up at the bright, blue, sunny, afternoon sky.


The two friends had an unrestricted view of the airport’s four main runways, so if anything were to happen out there, they’d be bound to see it…unless, of course, they looked away at the last minute.


***********************************************


Speaking of last minutes…


One and a half miles up and 68 miles southwest of them, all nine souls onboard the crippled Lear were making last minute preparations for whatever lay ahead of them. All bittersweet goodbyes had been said and all cell phones put away--to prevent any potential electrical interference during their--what would have to be--totally blind, instruments-only landing.

Rick Hallis heard the cockpit door open and felt the reassuring grip of someone’s steady hand upon his shoulder. He glanced back and was not surprised to find his oldest boss standing there, hunched over a bit, to accommodate his tall frame in their rather cramped quarters.


"How are things going, Rick?" his visitor wondered, in a solemn, hushed tone.


"So far, so good, Mr. Gibb," the plane’s pilot reported back, his voice sounding equally solemn and hushed. "I’ve just finished dumping the fuel. I saved just enough to get us to the airfield and on the ground. Right now, I’m preparing to make our first--and final--approach. We’re only going to be able to take one shot at it, so I’m going to have to aim as accurately as I can. Once we intercept the ILS, the instruments’ll take over from there."


"Then it is possible to land safely with zero visibility and only one engine," Barry ascertained. "So there’s really nothing to worry about, right?" There was a long silence. Too long a silence. "Ri-ight?!" Barry repeated, desperately needing to be reassured.


"I’ve made countless instrument landings, and I’ve even brought down a few planes with only one engine," Rick reassuringly replied, but then reluctantly added, "The problem is, the one engine we have left is running hot! Way too hot! Right now, it’s being air-cooled. But, when I begin decreasing our airspeed, it’s gonna get even hotter! Hot enough to seize up…It could even catch fire…"


"I see-ee…" Barry quietly acknowledged. "Thank you for your candor, Rick. I think I’ll get back to my brothers, now…and let you ‘do your thing’!" He gave the pilot’s shoulder another reassuring squeeze and then turned to go. However, something else occurred to him and he paused in the open cockpit doorway to pose a final question, "Does this thing gli-ide?"


Rick drew in a deep breath and then called back over his shoulder, " I certainly hope so, sir! I certainly do hope so. Look, Mr. Gibb...I know how your brother feels about the intercom, but in a few more minutes I’m going to have to use it…"


"Yes…of course," his boss quickly conceded. "May God be your...co-pilot," he fervently prayed and then quietly closed the door.


***************************************


'So many lose ends left to be tied…so many songs left to be written…so much life left to be lived…' the cockpit's visitor mused on the way back to his seat. Actually, the eldest Bee Gee changed his course and carefully collapsed onto the couch--to sit between his brothers--instead. "So far, so good,"he truthfully reported back, when he'd finished re-buckling. "Rick's dumped the fuel and is preparing to make our final approach."


"Oh-oh…"Maurice muttered under his breath, "I don’t like the sounds a’ tha-at!"


"A-and…?"Robin prompted his tight-lipped older brother.


"He says he’s made thousands of instrument landings and, as luck would have it, he’s even brought down several planes which were in much worse shape than ou-ours," Barry added--er, adlibbed.


"A-and…?" the still deeply-skeptical looking sibling seated on his left further coaxed.


"A-and so, you see, there’s really nothing to worry about…" the cockpit reporter casually summed up--er, lied through his teeth. He locked his solemn gaze upon John Merchant’s and quickly changed the subject. "I’ll bet you’re wishing you’d flown back to Miami, with Steve and Ben and Alan."


"They have birds in Florida, too…" the Bee Gees’ sound engineer reminded his troubled boss. His little reminder prompted the two long-time friends to exchange sad smiles.


"There’s ‘something’ you’re not telling us," Robin doggedly continued.


"Speaking of birds," Maurice suddenly piped up. "What sort of bird do you suppose it was?" When none of his fellow passengers deigned to reply, he narrowed his inquiry down to one, "Ro-ob?"


Robin replied by directing all of his attention back to the ‘Aerial Photo Atlas of the United States’ that was lying open across his lap.


"Probably a loon," Barry finally volunteered. "I mean, a bird would have to be looney to fly into a Lear, wouldn’t it."


"Undoubtedly!" Maurice agreed, "Or geese, perhaps. You know, I’ve heard of planes flying into fow-owl weather."


His twin continued to ignore them, but appeared to be having a harder time of it.


"Gawd!" Maurice exclaimed, as something else occurred to him, "Can you imagine being down there when suddenly it begins raining bits of bi-irds?!"


The corners of Robin’s mouth twitched slightly, but still he remained silent.


"Bloody bits...of bloody birds," Barry gruesomely concurred.


Their brooding brother’s head turned and he shot them a look which said: ‘You’re both a bloody bit off your bloody rockers!’


The two just smiled innocently back at him.


"It must’ve been a really big bird," Robin’s bodyguard, Paul Lewis, suddenly declared--in dead earnest. "Something on the order of a Sandhill Cra-ane."


The ludicrousness of the conversation, coupled with the seriousness of that last statement, was more than Robin and his brothers could bear. The three of them glanced at each other for a moment and then began to croon--in perfect harmony, (to the tune ‘Pennies From Heaven’) "Every time it rains, it rains…Sandhill Cra-anes…"


Their fellow passengers applauded--between snickers.


The three Gibb brothers exchanged grins and then enjoyed a good giggle, themselves.


The cockpit reporter knew then that he’d made the right choice. Their tears should be tears of laughter--not of sorrow. Barry blinked his vision clear and then gazed down at the book in Robin’s lap. "The Keewenaw…" he read aloud. "Is that where we’ll be landing?" he asked, in an attempt to take his mind off of the...unthinkable.


"I hope no-ot!" Maurice muttered. "It sounds like some sort of swamp!"


"Actually, it’s a peninsula," Robin corrected. "A rather large, uninhabited peninsula, in an even larger, uninhabited peninsula. Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, to be exact. And we will not be coming anywhere’s even remotely close to the Keewenaw. As near as I can tell, we’ll be landing here--" he paused to point to a paved plateau. "The closest city being ‘Gwinn’," he added, moving his index finger over about an inch.


His brothers nodded, thoughtfully.


"All right..." a voice suddenly came over the intercom on the wall behind them.


And Barry noted that, if it weren’t for the fact that his lap belt was secured, poor Robin would have been startled clean out of his seat.


"This is it..." their pilot calmly continued. "Assume emergency landing positions. And, when I say brace!, bra-ace!"


Robin glanced menacingly in the intercom’s direction, but then obediently stowed the book in his hands safely away, beneath their seat.


Maurice grabbed two of their sofa’s three pillows and began passing them to his brothers.


The other passengers procured pillows as well and placed them on their buckled laps.


The plane pitched slightly as the pilot began to throttle back on their one remaining engine.


"Does everyone here know the difference between an emergency landing position and a crash landing position?" Barry asked, just to keep himself from screaming. Because he suddenly had this overwhelming ur-urge to screa-eam. "It’s really quite simple," he quickly continued, "For an emergency landing, you bend over and brace yourself for a bumpy ride. For a crash landing, you bend over and kiss you’re a-ass good--" he stopped speaking as the jet’s damaged engine suddenly stopped whining. "--bye-ye’…" he forced himself to finish, his strained voice shattering the silence that now eerily engulfed them.


"I knew there was something you were-en’t telling us!" Robin blurted angrily, and shot their cockpit reporter a look which said he’d like to smother him with his pillow.


"This thing glides like a gull," Barry assured him, giving voice to his wishful thinking.


"Like we’re ever believing you, again!" Robin quickly came back, but then immediately realized his poor choice of words, and equally as soon regretted saying them. Flashbacks to the Hither Green Train Wreck he’d been in had been flooding his brain for the past fifteen minutes. Memories so vivid--so horrifying--that they threatened to swamp him. All the death…and the dying…and the mutilation! No-o! He shouldn’t go there! He couldn’t go the-ere…not agai-ain! And Barry knew it. Big brother was just being big brother--right up to the end. ‘And, when someone ‘rows out to rescue you’,’ Robin angrily reminded himself , ‘you don’t drill holes in his boat!’


Speaking of big brother…The eldest Gibb’s watering eyes were now filled with a look of unbearable sadness. "Sorry…" he somehow managed to say, as his already tight throat continued to tighten. "I just thou-ought--"


"--Ye-es, we-ell…" Robin suddenly interrupted, sensing that his rescuer was now only seconds away from sinking, himself. He drew in a deep breath and then began bailing--furiously. "If you expect us to go out with a giggle, you’re going to have to come up with a much better joke than tha-at!"


"The joke’s really not that bad," Maurice immediately joined in. "You just need to work on your delivery. I see it as more of a sight gag. For instance, I’m sure it would be a lot funnier if you were to stand up there in the aisle--like the Stewardesses do on the Commercial flights--and physically demonstrate the crash position for us…"


Barry’s younger brothers watched, as their comments caused the joke teller first to smile…then to grin…then to chuckle outright.


"Forget it!" the eldest Gibb brother advised, seeing as how they were now all waiting expectantly. "My back’s fused in several places," he quickly reminded them. "I-I could never come anywhere’s even remotely close to ‘kissing’ my ‘a-ass’!"


"That,"Robin reasoned lightly, "must be why he’s always telling everyone else to do it for him…"


And, this time, everybody cracked up!


*****************************************


Speaking of cracking u-up…


In the absence of any engine noise, the sound of their laughter made its way into the cockpit. And the pilot was forced to smile. If anybody could keep their sense of humor at a time like this, it would have to be his bosses. Hallis had never met a more fun-loving group a' guys. Rick reckoned that they had the right idea, too. Unfortunately, he had to keep all of his attention fully focused on the more serious, unthinkable matters at hand…like the 12 tons of free-falling steel and aluminum he was so desperately trying to guide--and gli-ide--safely down, onto some unseen runway at some unseen airport--somewheres! '235…230…225…220…' Rick continued to mentally count down.


They were just above six hundred feet when they lost their last engine--and their 'lift'. So, they were now, literally, flying like a rock! Airspeed was just below two hundred and forty knots when they lost their reverse thruster. Which meant that, even with full flaps, they'd be hitting the ground with the speed of an Indy race car! '155…150…145…140…' Despite exceeding Critical Flight Attitudes and the manufacturer's recommendations, Rick felt confident--and cocky--enough to allow himself to believe that he could…probably…pull off a controlled landing. What concerned him more, was bringing the racing jet to a controlled stop. He was concerned enough to thumb his transmitter button, "Tower, Two-Four-Two-Zero. Request runway length, Over…"

"Two-Four-Two-Zero, this is Tower. Be advised the landing strip you have been assigned is five mi-iles long…"


‘Five mi-iles!’ the crippled plane’s pilot mentally repeated. No wonder the FAA had directed them there! No need to risk frying the brakes or melting down the tires! Heck! With that much room, they could just ‘skip’ on in and coast to a stop! "Two-Four-Two-Zero is immeasurably relieved to hear that, Tower…" Rick quietly confessed. Then he flicked the intercom back on and began counting aloud, "70…65…60…55…50…"


******************************************


Speaking of confessions…


"Robin…Maurice…" the eldest Gibb solemnly spoke--over the countdown, and wrapped an arm around each of his brothers, "I love you guys…"


"We love you, too, Barry…" Maurice assured him.


"Ye-es…" Robin solemnly agreed, "You’ve been like a…brother to us ."


The three of them exchanged grins.


"45…40…35…30…" their pilot’s voice droned on.


The Brothers Gibb ended their group hug.


Reflecting back on their forty year career, Barry quietly confided, "It's been one hell of a ride…" Then, he buried his face into the pillow on his lap and crossed his arms in front of his knees. The other passengers quickly followed suit.


"And it ain’t over yet!" came back Maurice’s muffled reminder. "There are no large women on board."


"And even if she were large," Robin’s equally muffled voice agreed, "Marj’ couldn’t sing…"


Following a few muffled snickers, the Bee Gees latched onto each other’s hands and began singing into their pillows a tune of their’s , appropriately entitled: ‘A Wing And A Prayer’.


"10…5…Brace! Brace! Bra-ace!"


**************************************************

This message has been edited. Last edited by: AngelaToo,

PART THREE



Speaking of bracing...


Rosanne and Alana had been watching the tiny, shiny object since it first appeared in the sky southwest of the airport. They continued watching the growing speck, as it continued its approach. However, when they realized how dangerously fast the crippled aircraft was falling--and saw how ridiculously steep its angle of descent was...well, the two friends had such a high regard for the sanctity of life, they just couldn’t bear to witness its tragic loss. So they averted their eyes and braced themselves for the inevitable...CRA-ASH!%#!


But several seconds passed, and the only sounds coming from the airfield were those of racing engines and sirens. They slowly reopened their eyes and turned back to the window. Instead of the expected fireball, there was just a lot of smoke--a whole lot of thick, black smo-oke.


The two women turned to each other and asked--in complete and utter amazement--and perfect unison, "What happened?!"


****************************************************


Speaking of what happened...


Two deafeningly loud 'SQUEA-EAL!'s came from the falling aircraft’s main whee-eels as their tires hit the pavement--with an unbelievable amount of force and velocity! (Over 200 MPH!) The 'SQUEA-EAL!'s were closely followed by a positively ear-drum piercing 'SCREA-EACH!' from the nose wheel, as its tire was forced to bear a truly tremendous amount of force and weight as well--way more than was safely recommended by the Lear’s manufacturers.


The crashing plane’s passengers grimaced and gasped as they received a sort of lap-belt version of the Heimlich Maneuver. Then, there was silence and they were airborne again. But only for a few moments.


The tires 'SQUEA-EAL!'ed and 'SCREA-EACH!'ed again, as the bouncing plane made another brief but violent connection with the concrete runway.


More grimaces and gasps escaped from the aircraft’s occupants as they were ‘belted’ a second time.


The 'SQUEA-EAL!'ing and 'SCREA-EACH!'ing and ‘grimacing’ and ‘gasping’ continued for some time, as the whole ‘hitting the pavement hard and bouncing’ process was repeated--over and over again.


Until, at long last, the racing Lear touched down and stayed down. But still it didn’t sto-op. And its occupants were beginning to think that their pilot had decided to drive them the rest of the way to New York. They were still expecting to cra-ash! They figured for sure they were going to run out of runway at any moment and start plowing into fences, trees, houses or something!


But they never did. They just kept coasting quietly along.


Finally, the gradually slowing aircraft rumbled to a stop.


"Sorry for the rough ride," Rick announced over the intercom, "But my ‘attitude’ was all wrong and--in order to save the gear--I had to ‘skip’ the landing..."


The plane’s roughed up a bit passengers slowly sat back up in their seats and exchanged amazed glances. They couldn’t believe their pilot was actually apologizing for having just saved their lives.


Speaking of their pilot...


Hallis exited the cockpit, and as he did so, he was greeted with a raucous round of cheers and applause, which, following some unbuckling and back flexing, turned into a standing ovation. "Thank you," Rick said with a smile, and then modestly added, "But if this airport hadn’t been here, we wouldn’t be standing here right now, either..."


His passengers’ joyous demeanors turned thoughtful...and solemn, as the import of the unpretentious pilot’s statement was not wasted on them.


Barry assured his concerned siblings that he was truly all right, and, after helping him on with his coat, they reluctantly released him. He stepped forwards to give his valued employee a hearty handshake...which was closely followed by a big hug. "Way to go, Ri-ick! I told George to find us the best pilot on the planet--and he apparently did!"


"Thanks, Mr. Gibb!" Hallis told his boss with a broad grin. "But I’m only one of the best..." Rick humbly tacked on. Then he stepped over to pop the compartment’s exit door/disembarking ramp open and into place. "I don’t think there’s any real danger, but we should probably leave anyway...Just in case..." he further reminded his passengers, and began waving them over to the open doorway. "Watch your step..." he strongly advised, and steadied Ms. Griffith, as she obligingly exited the potentially dangerous plane.


Barry was the second to last to leave the Lear. And, as he was obediently ‘watching his step’ as he disembarked, he was unaware of his surroundings...until his feet hit terra firma...well, pavement, actually. He glanced up to find that they--and their crippled plane--were completely encircled by strange, rather futuristic looking vehicles--and even stranger looking figures wearing, for the lack of a better description, some bizarre sort of space suits. There was an awkward spell, where no one spoke. Then, seeing all the deck guns and various nozzle-type devices that were aimed at them, Barry slowly raised his hands--in surrender--and boldly blurted, in his most British of accents, "We bring you greetings from the planet Earth! We come in peace...in behalf of all mankind..."


That having been said, the tension of the moment eased--considerably.


Earth’s envoy smiled and slowly lowered his arms.


The nozzle pointers slowly lowered their aim, amidst muffled chuckles.


Barry flashed their rescuers a broad grin, but then said--in all earnestness, "No, seriously...We appreciate your efforts and your willingness to risk your lives to save ou-ours. We truly do have the greatest admiration for you...and the work that you do."


One of the aliens climbed down from one of the fire fighting apparatus and stepped forwards, pulling his gloves and hooded, gold-plated, heat-reflecting visor off along the way. "Captain Mark Olander..." he declared with a warm smile and extended his now bare right hand.


"Barry Gibb..." The planet’s goodwill ambassador announced, and returned both the good Captain’s smile and his hearty handshake.


"I imagine everyone in the world--over the age of ten--knows who you guys are!" the Captain confessed. Then he turned to the plane’s pilot, as he finished descending the stairs, and offered him his hand as well. "Mister, I don’t know how you managed to bring that thing down! We fully expected to be scraping you people up off the pavement back there!"


"Rick Hallis..." ‘that thing’s’ Skipper introduced. "I knew the ‘attitude’ was all wrong," he went on to explain, "so, I just ‘skipped’ the landing. That way, the gear absorbs the impact gradually..."


Barry and his brothers shook a dozen or so more hands and exchanged a dozen or so more smiles. They were even asked to autograph several of their rescuers’ space suits.


Finally, they finished with the amenities, and turned their attention back to their plane. It was the first real chance they’d had to survey the damages since their arrival. The fuselage was plastered with bird blood, making the relatively new plane appear all rusted-out. Both engines were toast...as were the ti-ires.


"Obviously not ‘Firestones’..." Maurice muttered, seeing as how Rick had smoked the rubber right off of their wheels.


His brothers grinned.

The three of them could not comprehend how the tires could bounce so ha-ard and not blow-out.


Speaking of bouncing so ha-ard...

"Barry, are you sure your back’s all right?" Maurice suddenly inquired, his face and voice filled with concern. "Maybe you should let one of the medics over there check you out..." he solemnly suggested and motioned to the two crews of medical personnel that were there--on stand by.


Maurice’s oldest older brother flashed him an appreciative smile, but passed on his suggestion--choosing instead, to finish his inspection of their badly damaged mode of transportation.


"So-o..." Barry muttered finally, "Where do we go from here?"


"You mean ‘how’ do we go from here..." Robin quickly corrected.


The three brothers glanced at each other and came to an unspoken agreement of sorts.


Barry dug his cell phone out of his jacket pocket, flicked it open and hit his speed dial. "George, we’re in a bit of a jam. We have to be at a banquet in New York in less than--" he paused to glance at his Rolex again, "--six hours, and we just lost our jet...Right now?" he stared around him. Rows of pine trees and strips of concrete stretched for as far as the eye could see. "We’re standing in the middle of a ridiculously long runway in the middle of the middle of nowhere...That’s not important. What matters now is how we all get out of here. We need a new plane--and I emphasize the word ‘ne-ew’. Preferably, a very large Lear. Find us one and then have someone fly it to ‘Sawyer International’...I don’t know. Somewhere near a place called ‘Gwinn’ in Michigan’s ‘Upper Peninsula’..." he paused to glance at Robin, "Chartering is out of the question...Yes, we know it’s insured and it probably can be fixed but none of us ever want to step foot on the damn thing again, so get rid of it!...The money doesn’t matter...That doesn’t matter, either. Put it on the Internet and auction it off on Ebay, for all we care!...Yes...All right, George...Yes, and get back to me. Thanks!"


The eldest Gibb brother stared up at their broken wings for a few moments, feeling a bit overwhelmed. The three of them could never look at ‘BGs Two-Four-Two-Zero’ again without being reminded of just how close the aircraft had come to being their...coffin! Barry winced at the thought and then turned his back on the plane. Not want to step foot on it? He never wanted to see the thing again! A stiff, but gentle, breeze was tugging at his shoulder length hair. He inhaled some of the air. It was the freshest he’d ever breathed...and the sky--it was the bluest he’d ever seen. The afternoon sun was glaring up off the pavement at him. It was the brightest, most beautiful sun he’d ever laid eyes on! "The Grim Reaper had us by the coat tails..." he muttered philosophically, and slipped his sunglasses on, "But we got away! We could--and probably should--be dead right now...but we escaped with our lives! Do you know what that calls for? That calls for a celebration! A celebration of li-ife!" he determined.


His brothers exchanged anxious glances.


"You know, you actually scare us when you get like this..." Robin informed him.


"In order to fee-eel fear you first have to be ali-ive..." their scary brother reminded them with a smile.


"Then we must be very much ali-ive..." Robin wryly reasoned, and stood there, dreading his older brother’s next move.


Barry’s smile broadened. He hit the speed dial on his cell phone again and raised it back up to his right ear. "Linda, I love you, Darling! I love you with all my heart--and soul--with every essence of my being!...I know I just told you that twenty minutes ago...Why am I telling you again?... Because I ca-an!" he replied, with a grin on his face and tears in his eyes. "A-and because it’s true! And because as long as I’m ali-ive, I swear, I’ll just never get tired of telling you that...That’s great to hear...Where are you now?...I see. Well, have a safe flight, Darling, and give my love to the children...Yes...See you soon. Call you even sooner..." He replaced his cell phone and started striding off in the direction they’d just rolled in from.


His brothers exchanged anxious glances again. Then they hurried over to the hiker and latched onto him by his arms.


"Where do you think you’re going?!" Maurice demanded.


"For a wa-alk," Barry informed them.


"You can’t just go strolling down the middle of an airport runway!" Robin reminded him. "Someone might land a plane on you or something..."


"But, I really must wa-alk..." Barry insisted.


"Why no-ow?" Maurice wondered with growing impatience.


‘Because I have this sharp, searing pain shooting down the back of my right leg!’ Barry thought to himself. "Because I ca-an!" he announced aloud, with another grin and began striding off again.


The twins turned and summoned reinforcements.


Donald Glazier, Paul Lewis and Philip Ryder stepped in front of the ‘wanna be walker’ and shook their heads ‘no-o’.


Barry exhaled a sigh of surrender. Then he reluctantly spun on his heels and headed back over to their plane. "Ma-arj’, be a dear, will you, and fetch my guitar for me. It was on a bunk in the back..."


"Could you also get my camera?" Maurice wondered.


"And my boo-ook?" Robin tacked on.


Ma-arj’ nodded her willingness to comply and disappeared into the plane. She reappeared a few moments later with the requested items.


The eldest Bee Gee was delighted to discover the instrument was still in one piece...like the-em! And he flashed the guitar fetcher a grateful grin.


**************************************************

This message has been edited. Last edited by: AngelaToo,

PART FOUR

"I’ve always wanted to do that!" Barry confessed with a broad grin, as he and his bodyguard stepped down from the back of their big, yellow taxi. He adjusted the instrument which was strapped to his back and then strolled over to the fire truck’s open passenger window to beam his grin up at their host, "Thanks for the lift, Captain!"


"Thanks for phoning my wife!" Mark called down, returning the grin, "There’s no way she would have believed me-e!"


"My pleasure!" the eldest Bee Gee assured him. Then he held his right hand up in a spread-finger Vulcan salutation and told all twelve of their alien-looking rescuers to "Live long and prosper!"


The firemen smiled and waved. Then, they and their neon yellow trucks disappeared down the airfield.


Barry turned his attention to the building in front of which they had been deposited. His grin vanished and his jaw went slack. He lifted his dark glasses and did a beautiful double take.


"Something wrong, Mr. Gibb?" Donald Glazier nervously inquired.


"No-o..." Barry rather dazedly assured him, "...I’m just having a ‘Twilight Zone’ moment..." He stared at the drab, windowless, light concrete building for a few more moments, then lowered his glasses and asked, "Donny, doesn’t this...pla-ace...look vaguely familiar ?"


Donny studied the pla-ace in question and then commented, "It looks a lot like The Bunker, doesn’t it..."


"It certainly does!" his charge wholeheartedly agreed and glanced around.


"Where are you going?" Donny wondered, as the body he was supposed to be guarding began walking off across the tarmac--towards a newer looking, dark brick building--full of windows.


"Anywhere but in the-ere!" Barry called back over his shoulder.

"Bu-ut, this is the private terminal!" Donny reminded him.


"No-o..." Barry corrected, "This is ‘The Twilight Zone’!" he reminded Donny, and kept right on walking--away-ay!


****************************************************


"Do you guys still want to go to the private terminal?" the ambulance driver called back to his passengers, "Or do you want to go with your brother?"


His four riders glanced at one another and grimaced.


"I knew one of us should have stayed with him," Maurice muttered under his breath.


"Where is our brother going?" Robin almost dreaded to inquire.


"Right now, he’s headed towards the public terminal," the driver informed him.


The Gibb Brothers turned to their security detail.


Paul Lewis and Philip Ryder exchanged solemn glances.


"It would be best if we all stayed together," Philip quickly determined.


"Then I guess we’re going with our brother," Robin glumly announced, answering the driver’s question at last.


********************************************************


"You know," Alana realized aloud, "From here, that guy with the guitar looks just like Barry Gibb! Don’t yah think?"


Rosanne studied the figure in question. She and her friend had been watching the two men on the tarmac since they’d first stepped down from the back of one of the fire trucks. Though still almost a quarter of a mile down the airfield, the guy in front did indeed resemble Barry Gibb--same build, same hair, same aviator-style sunglasses she’d seen him wearing in photos. "Now that you mention it..."she was forced to concede.


They continued watching as an ambulance pulled up to the Barry Gibb look alike. It’s back doors popped open and Robin Gibb and Maurice Gibb look-alikes appeared--along with two other brawny looking bodyguard types. The uncanny coincidence did not go unnoticed. The two ladies turned to stare at each other in shock and disbelief.


"It i-is Barry Gi-ibb!" they declared in unison--when they finally got their voices back.


***************************************************


Speaking of look alikes...


"That’s the wrong terminal!" Robin rather irritatedly informed his older brother.


"I know!" Barry called back over his shoulder and kept right on walking.

"Then why are you going there?!" Robin inquired, sounding even more annoyed.


"Because he ca-an!" Maurice determined, his voice filled with equal measures of irritation and sarcasm.


Barry stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face his siblings. "Have you seen the private terminal?" he wondered curiously and pointed the right building out to them.


His brothers turned their attention to the structure in question and pretty much had the same initial reaction that he had had. The private terminal was a dead ringer for The Bunker--the Bee Gees’ nickname for their windowless, concrete recording compound back in Miami Beach--‘Middle Ear Studio’. The twins experienced a Twilight Zone moment of their own, and then turned back to Barry.


"What if they won’t let us in?" Robin wondered, as he and Maurice caught up to their older brother.


"Then we’ll sit out here on the pavement until our plane arrives," Barry determined, as the three of them--and their bodyguards--and a second ambulance’s two passengers--started off together, towards the public terminal.


*********************************************


"C’mon!" Alana urged, as the private jet’s famous passengers approached the terminal’s guarded doors to the tarmac, "Let’s go say ‘Hi’ to them!"


"Wai-ait!" Rosanne suggested, latching onto her friend’s arm and pulling her to a stop. "They almost died out there! They must be all shook up! They’d probably appreciate being left alone for awhile..."


******************************************


Barry knocked--politely--on the terminal door’s glass and the lady security guard obligingly opened the portal for him. "Hello!" he declared with a warm smile. "May we please come in?...Thank you!" the eldest Bee Gee tacked on, as the guard returned his smile and waved them all inside.


The private jet’s passengers stared at each other in confusion. Except for two women standing by the windows and two airport security people--the public terminal was completely deserted!


"When you said this place was uninhabited," Barry muttered to Robin under his breath, "you wer-en’t joking..." He drew his shoulders back and then beamed a broad smile at his audience of four. "I’ve come here to celebrate li-ife !" he boldly declared. "And you’re all invited!"


"You’ll have to forgive our brother," Maurice apologized. "You see, he’s just cheated death , and now he’s feeling a bit cocky..."


"You mean," Robin corrected, "a bit balmy!"


"At least I’m never boring !" Barry tacked on, in his defense.


"Never?" Robin skeptically inquired.


"Well...seldom, then..." Barry allowed.


Alana shot Rosanne a ‘like I’m ever listening to you again !’ look and tried to leave once more. But, again she was held back.


Barry paused in his party planning to pose a question. "Is there a restaurant in this terminal?"


"The Red Fox Snack Shop," the lady security guard told him, "But it’s closed for renovation. There are several vending machines in the outter waiting area..."


Life’s celebrator was momentarily dismayed. But then he turned to his secretary and said, "Very well, then, Ma-arj’... sta-ale potato chips and really bad coffee--for everyone!"


The guards grinned.


Rosanne and Alana laughed outright.


Barry flashed them another smile and then looked pensive, "No-o...on second thought...nix that notion! We’re going to need something more substantial. You see, we lost our lunch on the plane."


"Oh-oh..." Maurice winced, "Way to go, bro’..."


"Ye-es..." Robin agreed, wincing as well. "What an appetizing mental image that conjures up!"


The two women standing at the windows glanced at each other...grinned...and grimaced.


Barry looked thoughtful again. "Ah, yes--I mean, no-o. That’s not what I meant. I mean we did lose our lunch on the plane, but not like tha-at. We didn’t hu-url...well, actually we did quite a lot of hurling...but we didn’t ra-alph."


"He has a…way...with a phrase," Robin determined.


"He’s adopted..." Maurice confessed.


Their audience was amused to no end.


"Find a phone book and check the Yellow Pages," Barry told Marj’. "There must be someplace we can call for take-out. Possibly pizza delivery? See what everyone wants. And remember--I’m buying...so don’t hesitate to order the extra toppings or the double cheese!" he continued to tease.


Marj’ obligingly left to find a phone book.


"And, while we’re waiting for the food to arrive, let’s go say ‘Hello’ to our fans over there..." Barry suggested and motioned to the two women still standing at the windows.


"What makes you think those women are ou-our fans?" Robin wondered.


"Because they laugh at our jokes," Maurice reasoned lightly.


"If they were ou-our fans," Robin continued, "wouldn’t they have approached us by now?"


"They obviously respect our right to privacy," Maurice lightly suggested.


"Because they look like they know how to celebrate li-ife!" Barry answered--at long last. "And because they’ve downloaded ou-our screen saver onto their computer."


"Maybe it came that way when they bought it and they just don’t know how to take the damn thing off?" Robin stubbornly insisted.


The three brothers exchanged grins and then they--and their remaining traveling companions--headed over to where the two women with the computer were standing.


"Hello, ladies!" the eldest Bee Gee greeted his party guests with a grin. "May we join you?" he inquired, motioning to the eight empty window seats beside theirs.


"Plea-ease, do-o!" Rosanne pleaded and motioned for the group to make themselves at home. "And--if you’re here to celebrate life--you’ve come to the right place, because that’s what we were doing." She paused, to pull the headphones’ jack from her computer. The Bee Gees’ song ‘The Extra Mile’ filled the air. "Your music is a celebration of li-ife!"


The song’s writers exchanged stra-ange stares.


"That clinches it," Barry calmly conceded. "We’ve definitely descended into ‘The Twilight Zone’. First, the private terminal turns out to be an exact copy of 'The Bunker’…and now, two of the only four people--in the enti-ire public terminal--just happen to be ou-our fans...and they just happen to be playing the new album, as well. It just does’nt get any weirder than this…"


Rosanne plugged her earphones back in and then calmly informed their famous visitors, "The reason the private terminal resembles your ‘Bunker’ is because it is a bunker. All of the buildings around here are bunkers. This brand new terminal is the only structure in the entire airport with any windows in it. Up until a few years ago, K.I. Sawyer was one of the most strategic air bases in the country…home to long-range B-52 bombers--and ground zero for World War III. There’s only four people here, because ‘Sawyer International’ has very limited air service and there are no arrivals or departures scheduled for hou-ours. And your plane could come down in Kathmandu--and there’d be people there who appreciate you! You have such a…passion for what you do. You pack so much energy and emotion into your music, that it gets passed on to us listeners. You guys always give your audiences your very best! And I’m not sure you realize how much we appreciate that! So...Thank you! Very much! For sharing your gifts of musical genius--your ‘celebration of li-ife’--with the rest of us!"


"And you can make that three out of four!" the security guard at the door called over.


"Four out of four!" her colleague quickly corrected.


Barry exchanged glances with his brothers again and noted that they appeared to be every bit as overwhelmed as he was. "Ye-es...We-ell...We assure you--it is ou-our pleasure. You see, we love what we do…I’m Barry," he cordially declared, and extended his right hand.


"Rosanne," the woman introduced, and gave the eldest Bee Gees’ proffered palm a heartfelt shake. "We love what you do, too-oo," she added with a grin.


Barry grinned, "We-ell, Rosanne, we are always happy--not to mention tremendously relieved--to hear that our listeners like--"


"--love," his brother Mo' corrected. "I’m Maurice," he announced and exchanged a grin and a handshake, as well.


"--lo-ove," Barry obligingly substituted, "what they hear."


"In short," Maurice’s twin summed up, with a broad smile and handshake of his own, "your appreciation is greatly appreciated. And I’m Robin."


"It’s nice to meet you guys!" Rosanne realized, making, perhaps, the greatest understatement of her enti-ire li-ife, "Welcome to the U.P.!"


"The yoopee?" Robin wondered in confusion.


The woman nodded, "The Upper Peninsula."


"Ah-ah, ye-es…" Robin acknowledged, nodding as well, "The U.P."


"This is my friend, Alana…"


Their famous visitors exchanged smiles and handshakes with Alana.

Barry then turned his attention to the middle-aged woman who came walking up, with a phone book in her hands and a frown on her face. "This rather attractive young lady is our secretary, Marj’ Griffith. That handsome fellow over there is our good friend--and terrific sound engineer--Mr. John Merchant. And these three distinguished-looking gentlemen are ou-our families’ answer to the age old question: What do you get the guys who’ve got everything? Ou-our very own personal bodyguards...Mr. Donald Glazier…Mr. Philip Ryder…and Mr. Paul Lewis…"


The two women at the windows exchanged smiles and nods with the rest of the Bee Gees’ entourage.


"Ou-our pilot, Rick Hallis, is off somewhere, securing us a hangar...and filing a ‘Bird Incident Report’ with the FAA people," Barry added, noting their heroic associate’s conspicuous absence.


"Speaking of your pilot," Rosanne suddenly spoke up, "is everyone all right?!"


"Yes, thank you. Just some bruised belly buttons, is all. We’re a bit shaken up, but no one needs to go to hospital," the eldest Gibb assured her.


"So fa-ar…" Maurice tacked on, and gave his older brother another concerned once over.


Which Barry pretended not to notice.


"What happened out there, anyways?" Alana asked in complete confusion.


Barry stared out the terminal windows for a few moments and then turned to their questioner, looking more than a bit confused, himself. "Were-en’t you watching?"


"Yeah," the little lady admitted, "But when it looked like you were all going to die-ie, we couldn’t watch anymore."


The Bee Gees appeared to find the ladies’ outlook on life most admirable…not to mention, refreshing.


"Well," Barry began, assuming his best lecture stance, "Rick’s ‘attitude’ was all wro-ong, so he decided to ‘skip’ the landing. That way, the gear absorbs the impact gradually, you see…"


The lecturer’s brothers glanced at each other and rolled their eyes.


Rosanne and Alana did not see, but refrained from further questioning.


"Any luck?" Barry inquired of the still frowning female with the now open phone book.


"I don’t know where any of these places are, or even if they’re any good!" Marj’ bemoaned. "Where on earth--in relation to G-wi-inn--is Mar-kwe-ette?!"


"Marquette--pronounced with a ‘k’ sound--is about 25 miles northeast of here," Rosanne obligingly informed her, "But, if I may make a suggestion…?"


"By all mea-eans!" Marj’ practically pleaded.


"If you don’t already have your hearts set on pizza, and if you’re willing to try something new…The U.P. is famous for its pasties--which consist of diced carrots, potatoes and onions baked in a light pastry crust. They come in chicken, ground beef or vegetarian, and you can get them with or without rutabagas. And, visitors brave enough to try them, are not disappointed," Rosanne reassured them.


"C’mon, people!" life’s celebrator urged, seeing the looks of uncertainty in his guests’ faces. "If we can survive a crash landing, I’m fairly certain something baked in a light pastry crust isn’t going to kill us…That’s the spirit!" he commended, as their shoulders sagged--one by one--in surrender. "How does one procure a pasty?" he inquired of the idea’s originator.


"There’s a restaurant about five miles from here. They don’t deliver, but we can phone in our orders and I can go pick them up."


"You’re sure it’s not too much bother?" the party’s planner pondered.


"It’s no bother at all," Rosanne assured him, "My car’s right outside and I know the way. I’ve eaten there before. They have goo-ood pasties…"


"It’s all settled then!" Barry determined, with a smile of deep satisfaction.


Marj’ passed the pasty procurer the open book and her cell phone.


Following Rosanne’s hearty recommendation, the diners summoned up even more courage, and decided to go with the rutabagas. Which was really bra-ave, considering that none of them even knew what a rutabaga was.


Rosanne finished placing their orders. She even managed to procure pasties for their missing pilot and the security guards. Then she handed the Bee Gees’ secretary back her phone and began taking her leave. "I’ll be back with lunch in twenty minutes."


"Don’t forget thi-is," the banquet’s benefactor insisted, pulling several crisp, new, one hundred dollar bills from his wallet and passing them on to the departing volunteer.

"My treat!" the woman called back and waved his very generous offer off.


"No, no, no. I can’t have you paying for my party," the eldest Gibb brother re-insisted. "I simply won’t hear of it."


"Well, then since we have sort of a joint celebration going on here," Rosanne diplomatically determined, "what d’yah say we split it, 50/50?"


Barry considered the compromise over for a few moments before--reluctantly--conceding. "All right. It’s a deal. It’s not a particularly good deal, but it’s a deal."


"Fi-ine! Thirteen pasties at three dollars a piece…with drinks...and tax…Your half comes to twenty-five bucks."


"That’s it?" the party’s co-host queried in disbelief.


"Yup!" the lady replied, "They’re tasty a-and economical."


"I’ll say!" Barry exclaimed, exchanging the larger bills in his hand for a twenty and a five. "You couldn’t feed thirteen people for fifty bucks back in Miami. If you wanted to walk around here, where would you go?" he inquired--out of the clear blue.


"That’s easy," Rosanne replied as she latched onto his share of their ‘lunch money’. "There’s a brand new highway right outside that is still closed to traffic. It’s paved and secluded--the perfect place to walk. C’mon, I’ll show you," she further volunteered.


Barry took the instrument--which was still strapped to his back--and handed it over to their sound engineer, with the request that he hang on to it--for safekeeping.


Then, the two--er, three of them began walking off again.


The rest of the new arrivals slowly began settling into their window seats.


Speaking of arrivals…


Robin opened the book in his lap. But something Rosanne had said earlier was intriguing him more than the plot of his mystery novel. So, he leaned forwards in his seat, to see around his brother, and addressed Alana, "May I ask you something?"


"Su-ure!" the blonde confidently came back.


"If there are no arrivals or departures scheduled for hou-ours…What are the two of you doing here? I mean, do you have a thi-ing for airport terminals where you just like to come here and hang out, or wha-at?"


Alana laughed, "We were supposed to meet our friend’s plane, but it never came in…well, actually, it turns out that it did come in…our friend just wasn’t on it. You see, her other plane was delayed--for five hou-ours…so she missed her connecting flight out of O’hare…And we live so far away, that--rather than driving all the way home and then having to come all the way back again--we decided to wait--right here--for the next plane from Chicago…which Marion will be on…hopefully."


Her questioner contemplated all that over for a few moments. "Thank you for clearing that up for me," he simply said, and resumed his reading.


"Was your friend flying in from the West Coast?" the Bee Gee seated beside her inquired, sliding his brand new, state-of-the-art, digital camera from its sleak, black, leather case. "Then I can tell you why her plane was delayed," he went on when the lady nodded. "Rick said that a series of storm cells across the Great Plains had air traffic pretty much stalled west of the Rockies. So, he changed our flight plan to a more northerly route…and flew us around all the bad weather. Although, now that I think of it," he paused, as his twin--in anticipation of what was to come--suddenly grimaced and groaned alou-oud, "we di-id hit just a bit of fo-owl weather…" he stubbornly finished, and then quickly changed the subject. "We just got back from a whirlwind promotional tour for the new album. Would you care to see some of the digital pictures I took?"


"I wou-ould!" Alana enthusiastically replied.


"Goo-ood! Could I borrow your laptop? It’s so much easier to view these things on a larger screen…"


"I’m sure Rosanne wouldn’t mind," the little lady determined, and passed the device on to the famous photographer. "Especially, if you were to leave her some of your pictures…"


Maurice was in the process of plugging his camera into the computer, when he had to pause to answer his ‘beeping’ cell phone. "It’s Barry…" he announced, noting the number on his caller i.d.. "Ye-es?…That was fast…No-o…Because it has a wing span of over 60 feet…It matters because it won’t fit in ou-our hangar…We could probably get a bigger hangar, all right. But, then, we’d have to move to a different airport…Because there are no more available hangars at Miami-Dade…I kno-ow. Neither do we. You’ll just have to tell him to keep looking…All right…That’s nice," he turned to his twin, "He says he’s having a wonderful walk."


"I’m...happy for him," Robin stated, not sounding too sincere, and kept his attention centered on his book.


"Rob says he’s happy for you...Ye-es. We’re both delighted…Carry on, then. And, don’t go getting lost--just because you ca-an," he teased and quickly terminated their conversation. And, speaking of getting lost…Maurice stowed his cell phone away and then sat there, staring down at the tangle of electrical cords in his lap. "No-ow…where were we?" he wondered, sounding most sincere.


***********************************************************

This message has been edited. Last edited by: AngelaToo,

PART FIVE

The hiker--and his shadow--made it back to the boarding area in just under twenty minutes. They had apparently discovered the airport gift shop on their return route, for Barry had three, large, stuffed, cute and cuddly critters with him. The contents of his arms--and coat pockets--were placed onto the security check point's conveyor belt. He tossed his sunglasses, his watch and jewelry and the contents of his pants' pockets--some loose change and a set of keys--into a metal tray. The walker then walked through the metal detector--no sweat! Barry snatched up the glasses, watch, jewelry, coins and keys and then stepped over to the other end of the conveyor belt to retrieve the rest of his belongings--which had also passed through the x-ray screening--no problem!


Unfortunately, things did not go as smoothly for Mr. Glazier. When the Bee Gee's bodyguard flashed his security badge, and announced that he was carrying a loaded gun--in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket--the two boarding guards immediately radioed for reinforcements.


The head of airport security arrived on the run--and in under a minute--with two more guards and a sheriff's deputy!


The center of all their attention exhaled a resigned sigh and obligingly began supplying the security people with everything from his concealed weapons permit to his passport.


Rosanne returned just then, carting a box filled with some incredibly delicious smelling food--and beverages. Curious as to the cause of all the commotion, she calmly inquired of her co-host, "What's goin' on?"


"They've discovered that Donny, here, is packing heat," Barry replied, failing miserably to hide his amusement, "and now they're checking to see that his credentials are all in proper order."


His personal protector flashed him back a look which said that he did not see the humor in his current…situation.


But his boss' smile only broadened.


"All right. You can go through," the head of airport security finally determined.


And Donny exhaled another sigh--this one of relief.


"What happens when people start showing up to see our famous visitors?" the sheriff's deputy wondered. "We could have ourselves a rea-eal mess here…"


The boss lady considered his comments over carefully and apparently came to the same conclusion because she turned to the original two guards and sternly ordered that, "Only ticketed passengers are to enter the boarding area from here out."

(Can you tell this was written before 9/11? This is the way it is all the time no-ow.)


"She's with us…" Barry announced, as all eyes suddenly riveted on Rosanne. "It's true. She had to pop out to pick up ou-our pasties," the eldest Gibb went on to explain, seeing the deputy's look of deep skepticism.


The boarding guards shot their supervisor questioning glances.


The head of airport security found the thought of The Bee Gees eating pasties most amusing, and she nodded for the boarding guards to allow the lunch lady through. "But she's the last. Understood? I don't care if Elvis, himself, shows up here! If he doesn't have a ticket, he doesn't get through!"


The boarding guards suppressed grins and nodded their willingness to comply with her order.


The boss lady began taking her leave, but then remembered something and turned back to Barry, "By the way, I lo-ove the new album!"


"Thank you!" the famous trio's eldest member acknowledged, and flashed their fifth fan a grateful smile, "And thanks for letting us stay here. We're shopping for a new plane. If all goes well, we should be out of your hair shortly."


"Take your time!" their actual host advised, with a broad smile of her own. And then, she and her rescue party departed--almost as quickly as they had appeared.


"That was clo-ose…" Barry realized, and exchanged wry grins with his guests.


And, speaking of orders…


Rosanne gave the guards theirs'. Then she picked her lunch box up from the end of the conveyor belt and accompanied Barry and his bodyguard back over to the remainder of their party…where she continued to dispense their procured provisions.


"Look what I found," the walker exclaimed, and held up an enormous stuffed bird with incredibly long legs and an equally lengthy beak. "You'll never guess what it's supposed to be…" he insincerely added.


"A Sandhill Cra-ane!" his fellow travelers replied--in unison.


"Exactly! It's for Rick. The moose is Ali's. And, of course, Linda gets the wolf…" he announced, and set the animals in his arms down--one by one--on the window ledge.


"His wife loves dogs," Maurice explained--for Alana's benefit.


Barry turned to his bearded brother and curiously inquired, "Have you heard anything more from Geo-eorge?"


Maurice nodded, "He's got a line on a brand new Lear 60--in Minneapolis, of all places. That's only a few hundred miles away--as the jet flies. It's the right size…the right price…and they can have it here in four hou-ours."


"Four hou-ours!" his big brother repeated, going from delighted to dismayed. "Why so long, if Minneapolis is so close?"


"They claim they have to find a pilot…fuel up…file a flight plan, etc. etc.. I told him that--if it could be here in two hou-ours--we'd take it," he stopped speaking to respond to the incessant 'beeping' of his cell phone. "This could be good news…" he realized, following a quick glance at his caller i.d.. "Plea-ease say that you have good news for us, George…" he pleaded into his phone's mouthpiece, "It'll be close, but they claim it's do-able!" he relayed--rather relievedly--on to his business associates.


And the brothers again exchanged thoughtful glances.


"So-old!" Maurice said, following a silent consensus with his fellow Bee Gees.


"Which reminds me…" Barry muttered to himself, and pulled a small roll of paper from his coat pocket. "Thi-is is for the new pla-ane…" he declared--with a broad, devious grin. Then he held the little scroll up and uncurled and unfurled it--for all to read. It was a bumper sticker, and it sai-aid: "Say yah ta da U.P., hey!"


Several members of his rather mystified audience were quick to point out that planes do not have bumpers.


Undeterred, the sticker's purchaser simply replied, "Then I shall paste it upon the cockpit door!"


Robin stared disgustedly up at his brother's little banner. "It should read: 'THIS PLACE IS FOR THE BIRDS!'" he corrected, sounding a bit bitter.


"Actually, we were flying over northeastern Wisconsin when the birds hit us," Rick informed them, as he came strolling up. "And, what is that incredible smell?"


"Lunch," Rosanne replied and passed their no longer missing pilot his pasty and a drink.


"I found you a co-pilot…" Barry teased and pointed to his present--setting there on the window ledge.


"Thanks," Rick told the lady who had handed him his lunch. "And thank you-ou--for your little momento," he added, and exchanged grins with his eldest boss. Then he took a seat on the ledge beside his crane and continued, "I'm afraid you may have the wrong bird, though. The FAA folks claim that--at that altitude--it was probably turkey vultures."


His passengers paused in their pasty devouring to exchange amazed, amused glances.


Rosanne passed Barry his lunch.


He flashed her a grateful grin and then set his drink--and himself--down on the ledge beside their pilot. "We just bought a 2001 Lear 60." Barry glanced around and noted that everyone was eating their pasties right out of the paper sacks they came in. He opened the little white bag in his hands, "It should be arriving in a couple of hours, and--when it gets here--we would appreciate it if you would fly us on to New York…If you feel up to it, that is…" he added, before bravely taking a big bite of the U.P. Specialty. "This is fantastic!" he quickly determined, and turned to his co-host, looking pleasantly surprised.


His equally courageous companions unanimously concurred.


Rosanne was happy--not to mention tremendously relieved--to hear that their visitors liked--er, loved their lunch.


Their pilot's face had lit up at the very prospect of flying the brand new, multi-million dollar--state-of-the-art--aircraft. "I gotta have the greatest job in the world…" he muttered, half to himself.


"Goo-ood!" his eldest boss exclaimed, "We'll take that as a ye-es."


"I'll get a couple a' guys to off-load the old plane while I file a new flight plan…" Rick continued muttering, under his breath. "About the new plane…I'm gonna need some more detailed information for the FAC…"


"We'll get a hold of George again--right after lunch," Barry said, upon seeing that Maurice had already concluded his conversation with the man with all the needed details.


Speaking of needed details...


David's very vague fax had left much to be desired. He needed a song. Yes...But, what kind of song? For what purpose?


Barry set his scrumptious lunch down on the ledge and dug his satellite cell back out. The frustrated songwriter tried--and failed, for the umpteenth time--to reach their mysterious friend. "David, call me! A.S.A.P.!" he requested, before disconnecting to punch in another number from his speed dial. "Carolyn, Barry here. What's up with David? I've been trying to reach him all day. Doesn't he ever check his voice mail?!...O-Off?! How odd!...I see...But, you're certain he's all right?..." David's very worried friend exhaled an audible sigh of relief. "Yes...Thanks. And, if you should happen to hear from him again, tell him to turn his bloody phone back o-on!" The still frustrated songwriter replaced his cell and retrieved his lunch. 'What was up with David?' he silently wondered.


********************************************************


What was up with David, indeed!


Turns out, their friend's mysterious behavior was the result of a chance encounter in a hotel elevator, earlier that very morning.


David had flown in to New York to attend the UN banquet, honoring The BEEGEES with a Humanitarian Award, for all of their fund-raising efforts--in behalf of UNICEF. Of course, the boys weren't interested in public accolades. However, they had agreed to accept the award because, to quote the United Nations High Commissioner For Refugees, "... any media coverage of the event might serve to promote public awareness to the plight of refugee children and their families." (Not to mention that, at over a thousand dollars a plate, and, with almost a thousand seats available--and, sold out--the banquet, itself, would add--considerably--to the coffers of this most worthwhile of charitable causes.)


At any rate, David was in the lift--descending to his hotel's lobby--when he was joined, on the twenty-seventh floor, by a family of four: two teenage girls, accompanied by their parents.


The younger of the two girls was listening to some music on her Walkman. Without even realizing it, she began singing along--rather loudly--to the CD's current song. "...Caught up in sorrow...lost in my soul...But if you don't come back...come home to me, darlin’...Don't you know there's nobody left in this world to hold me tight...Don't cha know there's nobody left in this world to kiss goodnight...goodnight...goodnight..."


David immediately recognized both the catchy tune and the slightly tweaked lyrics...and smiled.


Apparently, he wasn't the only one familiar with the melody, because the girl’s father suddenly inquired, "What’s that you’re listening to, Erica?"


"My new 'Destiny's Child' CD. Why?"


"I know that song!"


"I don't think so, Dad," Erica quickly came back and exchanged amused glances with her older sister.


"‘Survivor’ only came out yesterday," his eldest daughter announced.


"That may be, Tanya. But, I distinctly remember--when I first got my driver's license--I can remember cruising around town with my friends, listening to that song playing on the radio."


The girls giggled outright. "That’s not possible, Dad!" Tanya determined.


"Yeah," Erica joined in, "'Destiny's Child' ain't that old of a group!"


"Isn't," mom corrected her once again giggling girls.


"Your dad's right," David declared, coming to the poor outnumbered man's defense. "The BEEGEES wrote that song waaaaay back in 1978."


"Are you sure?" papa pondered. "Because, I seem to recall a woman singing it..."


"Samantha Sang recorded three BEEGEES' songs on an album. Their title song, 'Emotion', was released as a single and quickly rose to the top of the charts. 'Destiny's Child' just recorded a cover version of their fabulous song, for their ‘Survivor’ CD."


They reached the lobby. And, the whole incident might have ended right then and there--if the now amazed girls’ mother hadn't issued the following statement...using the past tense.


"I remember The BEEGEES," the woman fondly admitted, just as they were all exiting the elevator. Then, she added, for her daughters' benefit, "Now, they were a great group! If you listened to music like that, I wouldn't complain so much about the volume."


"Actually, The BEEGEES are still going strong. They've never stopped writing...and recording chart topping tunes," David informed their former fan.


"Really? They just sort of dropped out of sight. I haven't heard anything from them in decades! I just assumed the group had dissolved."


"Yes...well...The BEEGEES were unfairly targeted during the big disco backlash...toward the end of the seventies. They were actually black-listed by American dee-jays. To this very day, many American radio stations refuse to give their remarkable music any airplay. The BEEGEES have just released their 32nd studio album, ‘This Is Where I Came In'. The new songs are fantastic! I'm sure that--given a chance--one or more of them would make it into the Top Ten. But, you'll have to go out and buy the CD, if you want listen to them. Because, I'm afraid you'll never hear any of them on the radio. "


"Thirty-two albums?! That is remarkable! And...It's funny you should mention radio stations," the woman went on. "You see...my husband, here, collects them. In fact, that's why we've come to New York. Richard is about to add another station to his ever-growing collection. What is this? Number 384? "


"387."


"Really?" David turned to the radio station collector and extended his hand, "David English."


"Richard Jameson," the woman's husband introduced, and gave the Englishman's proffered palm a firm shake.


"Mr. Jameson--"


"--Rich’."


"Rich’, perhaps I could buy you a cup of coffee sometime...? I have a little business proposition I'd like to discuss with you."


"Why don't the three of you go on," Richard told the three now-fidgeting females. "And, when you've finished shopping, we'll all meet back here for lunch...or--more likely--dinner."


His wife gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "First stop is going to be a music store," the former BEEGEES' fan informed her daughters. "I have some major catching up to do!"


******************************************************


"Let me see if I've got this straight," Richard Jameson said, following his fourth cup of coffee, "I play their song on my radio stations--for a month. If it reaches number one on the charts, you don't owe me a dime. If it doesn't make number one, you will pay for all the airtime?"


Those were the agreed upon terms of the bet--er, business proposal. So, David flashed him a smile of deep satisfaction and nodded.


"You realize we must be talking close to a million bucks..."


David managed another confident smile and nod.


Richard shook his head, in absolute amazement. "You really think The BEEGEES can write a number one song--in the time it takes them to fly from Los Angeles to New York?!"


"I don't think they can do it," David calmly corrected, "I know they can do it!"


Mr. Jameson, being the shrewd businessman that he was, realized it was a sound wager--er, proposal. So, Rich’ proffered his palm, this time, and the two gentlemen sealed the deal with yet another firm, hearty handshake.


David was delighted! As far as he was concerned, their friendly little wager was a win/win proposition. Either way, he would get to hear The BEEGEES back on the radio--where they belonged! Besides, Mr. English knew something that Mr. Jameson didn't know: Barry, Robin and Maurice always give their best to their friends. And, with that little realization, their friend's confident smile broadened into a confident grin.


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