Flygirl

by R. D. Kardon

Again Deter looked over at Tris, who nodded, confirming the instructions.

  “Ed, are we ready for the approach?”

  “Yes,” he said, but then corrected himself. “Oh, wait, no. Let me finish the checklist,” he said and started reading it aloud. He was almost done as the needles that would guide them to the ground vibrated, then came alive and slowly swept across the navigation screen. Tris turned on course.

  “Approach checklist complete,” Deter finally called, “pending your briefing that is.”

  They already had the first degrees of flaps extended. The airplane was in a stable descent, airspeed was constant. Everything looked good. The hard part was almost over, and she nailed it.

  Tris quickly briefed the approach. The most critical decision was what they would do if they had to go around. Guaranteed that they were both thinking of Luxembourg. The memory caused a rush of nerves, but Tris shook them off.

  The closer they were to the runway, the more sensitive their navigation system became. The slightest movement could cause their guidance to disappear, and then she’d have to put full thrust on her one overworked engine. No, stay on course.

  “Small corrections,” Bron said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Just then, Deter made the first altitude call. “Five hundred feet.”

  “That checks,” Tris responded. She scanned the instruments in double time to fly within the tight parameters required for a type rating. If Tetrix wasn’t going to let her act as PIC, so be it. But it wasn’t going to be because she couldn’t do the job.

  Airspeed held steady. Descent rate was six hundred feet per minute, exactly what she wanted. Tris was right on course, in the center of the chute. She included a quick outside look in her scan, hoping to see the approach lights. The simulator was set so that she wouldn’t see them until she was two hundred off the ground, but she wouldn’t always be flying a simulator.

  “One hundred,” Deter said.

  “Nothing in sight,” Tris whispered. It wasn’t a standard call.

  “Fifty feet to minimums.” Tris was stable, and so was the airplane.

  “Minimums,” Deter practically shouted. There were the runway lights!

  “Landing,” Tris declared.

  “Wind shear! Wind shear!” The airplane’s synthesized voice screamed.

  “Full power,” Tris commanded as she increased to max thrust on the only reliable engine. No configuration change, pitch up, ride it away from the ground.

  “We’re losing altitude,” Deter said urgently.

  “I see that. Confirm full power.”

  “We have it.”

  “Can’t change configuration,” Tris said as she struggled to keep the nose up. Her voice filled with urgency as if willing the airplane to climb.

  “Too much drag. We’re sinking.”

  Tris fought to keep the wings level against the banging force of the simulated wind shear. And then, just as quickly as the simulation began, she heard the sound of a crash. The screen ahead was black. All the red warning lights on the panel flashed.

  The examiner sighed heavily behind her. She crashed the sim. She was done. This is how it ends.

  But Deter was pissed. “Jim, I need a minute, if you don’t mind,” he growled as Tris stared at the dark screen.

  “Ed, you know I can’t interrupt a ride.”

  “I said I need a minute.” Red-faced, Deter turned all the way around in his seat. He stared Jenson down until the check airman flinched.

  “Ok, we’ll take five,” Jensen said and reset the simulator. He and Deter flew out the door.

  Tris sat dumbfounded in the left seat, surrounded by blinking lights.

  Fifty-Two

  “WHAT THE FUCK was that?” Deter said to Jensen as they stood side by side at the urinals.

  “What do you mean? It was a wind shear demo.”

  “Uh-uh. That didn’t look like a wind shear demo to me, Jim. It looked like the Delta 191 microburst scenario. Nobody ever recovers from that. Did you even train that with her?” Deter extended his chest, eyes intent on his target.

  He was sure of what did and didn’t belong on a check ride. And the Delta 191 microburst simulation did not. That deadly crash scenario was only taught as a cautionary tale. Jensen took a minute to finish his maneuver. He shook, zipped up, and walked over to the sink.

  When Jensen didn’t respond, Deter continued. “And no way that belongs on a check ride. What are you doing, Jim?”

  Jensen looked straight at him. “Christ, Ed, you know what I’m doing.”

  “I don’t. That pilot is flying the hell out of the simulator. Did you make a mistake? Did you program the wrong demo?” Deter stood up close to Jensen at the sink. He stared Jensen down, trying to get him to admit what he’d done.

  “Jim, did you do that on purpose? Why?” Deter had a striking moment of clarity—and a moment of surprising kinship with Tris. Both pilots were completely in the dark.

  Seconds passed as the two men considered each other’s mettle. Finally, Jensen stepped away from Deter and raised his arms.

  “Ed, did you talk to Zorn before you came out here?”

  “Briefly. Why?”

  “Well, I thought he’d let you know,” Jensen said, tentatively.

  “Know what?”

  Jensen washed his hands. He pulled several paper towels from the dispenser and dried one finger at a time.

  “When did you speak to Zorn, Jim?”

  Jensen patted his breast pocket. A pack of Marlboro Reds peeked out from the top, along with a book of matches. Jensen began to pull the pack out, but his fingers were trembling.

  “Well, Zorn asked me to make sure this, uh, pilot, could really fly. That she was, you know, worthy of a type rating. Really earned it, you know?”

  Deter had no idea what Jensen was getting at. Only that it smelled bad. It wasn’t right, and he wouldn’t have it.

  “Jim, she didn’t make one single mistake. And I’m wondering now, when I review the Practical Test Standards for the Astral check ride, the requirements published by the FAA—people that you answer to—if I’ll find that they endorse giving a microburst on final on a single-engine approach.” He stared unblinkingly at Jensen.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing, Jim, but we both know that’s not in the rules.”

  Jensen’s fingers fiddled with the Marlboros. Deter walked up to him and stood just inches away, shoulders square, neck muscles pulsing.

  “Look, Jim,” Deter said, his voice stilted as he slowly enunciated each word. “I’m sure you just made a mistake. Maybe pressed the wrong button? Yeah, let’s say that’s what happened.” His eyes narrowed. “Let’s go back into the sim, reset, and let her finish the approach.” He paused, never taking his eyes off of Jensen. “Make sense?”

  Even though Jensen probably outweighed Deter by thirty pounds, there was no doubt that Deter could take him hand to hand. Jensen looked down at his feet. No help there. Finally, he took the paper towel he’d been massaging in one hand and the cigarette he’d fondled in the other and tossed them both in the trash.

  “Sure. Let’s finish up. After you,” he said and pointed to the door.

  Fifty-Three

  I CRASHED THE sim. I crashed the sim. I crashed the sim.

  She’d flown that demo a dozen times. But they trained the maneuver on takeoff, with the gear and flaps already up, on two engines. Well, she had to be ready for anything—turns out she wasn’t. I just busted my ride. This is how it ends.

  She’d been so worried about the V1 cut. Tris laughed out loud. Nailed it. But the wind shear demo, she’d flown it to perfection every time during simulator training until the only day that really mattered.

  Thankfully, Jensen had turned off the simulated sounds of the crash before he and Deter left the box. She was grateful not to hear the recorded loop of crash truck sirens and the crackle of burning fuel. Tris realized she couldn’t feel her fingertips and she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled, then started gulping air.


  Tris felt the heavy push of tears behind her eyes and pressed them back with her balled fists. Everything she’d worked for these past four years gone in just seconds. She unhooked her belt and tried to slide out of the seat. What now? What now for me?

  Does it really even matter?

  She pivoted to other endings, final moments, last words. That final night in her apartment. They argued. Well, disagreed. Bron didn’t argue. He had a perpetually sunny disposition. She’d asked him once why he was always so happy. “Born this way,” he’d shrugged. Born this way.

  He wanted to move in. Not get married, not right away, but live together. He was ready.

  She loved Bron with her whole heart but simply could not fathom he felt the same way, so she deflected her feelings and his. Tris had learned her childhood lessons well.

  “But aren’t things great the way they are? I’m very happy.”

  “Yeah, of course. But I just got the training department job here in Exeter. It makes sense right? I mean, we’re together every night anyway.”

  She’d dreaded that day, which she always knew would come. He’d want more, and she wouldn’t be sure she had it to give. Her feelings for him were so strong they coursed through her like white water. But she couldn’t process them, couldn’t control them. That flash of fear she’d get when he unexpectedly said he loved her. The same terror when she wanted him to say it, but he didn’t. The daunting part of love.

  She didn’t understand what was inside her, so she shut it down. Right then, at that moment, all she had to do was let him in.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Can we talk about it tomorrow?”

  “Well, yeah. But aren’t you going to stay tonight?”

  He grinned and put his hand on her shoulder, the touch that immediately relaxed her. “Not tonight. I’ll head to the crash pad. We’ll talk tomorrow, ok?”

  They stood at the door of her apartment and held each other for a long time.

  Bron’s last words to her that night were, “I love you.”

  Hers were, “I know.” And then he was gone.

  Tris looked around and realized she was still in the captain’s seat. She tried again to get up, but the sound of footsteps on the metal catwalk outside the box stopped her. She didn’t want to run into anyone she knew, other trainees, or instructors. How could she face them?

  Jensen and Deter walked back in like nothing had happened. Deter sat down in the right seat and fastened his belt and shoulder harness. Jensen took his seat at the control panel and pushed some buttons. She tried to get a sense from Deter what was going on but couldn’t get his attention.

  “Ma’am,” Jensen said. “Let me set you up on final again. Just fly it down to the runway and land, ok?”

  Tris turned toward Deter, who looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She mouthed, “What’s going on?” He ignored her, jotted something on his notepad, and picked up the checklist.

  “Sure, I can do that,” Tris replied, still confused. She flew the approach again, single-engine, and put it down smoothly, right on the centerline.

  “Astral Nine Tango X-ray, you have your engine back. Taxi back for takeoff,” Jensen-as-ATC commanded.

  Deter read the checklist. “Time for a two-engine takeoff and visual approach to landing,” Jensen said. She had no idea why he made her fly the final required maneuvers. But the longer she was in the sim, the more time would pass before her failure was official.

  Fifty-Four

  ZORN HUNG UP the phone and took a deep breath. He’d heard Devon’s words but didn’t quite understand them. If he could only discuss it with Ross over a beer at O’Slattery’s. But that wasn’t possible. Ross was dead.

  Just yesterday at the hospital, the doctors said Ross should regain consciousness and might not even have brain damage. Something to hope for.

  Zorn touched the wing of one of the airplane models on his desk. Devon said Ross had a seizure overnight, leaving him brain-dead. Ross’s parents were there, and the three of them had agreed to pull the plug.

  She was crying so hard on the phone Zorn didn’t press for details. He assured her that the folks at Tetrix would do whatever they could to help, and asked her to let him know the arrangements. The department would be out at the funeral “in force,” he said. Devon quieted long enough to respond that they were free to mourn however they wished, but Ross’s body was going home to Indiana.

  Zorn needed to inform Willett, although he had no idea what he’d say. His mind was blank. The lights were off in Willett’s office. He wasn’t flying; the Gulfstream and the Astral were in the hangar, and he didn’t hear the sounds of the flight planning computer spitting out printer paper or the laughter of crews. None of the typical pre-trip noise.

  Then Zorn remembered there was a budget meeting downtown that day and Willett always went straight home after those. He lifted the receiver and pressed the number “3” on his speed dial: DW/Home.

  “Brian?” Willett was surprised to hear from him.

  He could tell that Willet didn’t know yet. Zorn wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.

  “Dave, we just got some bad news.” He could barely spit it out. “Larry’s gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where? Isn’t he still in the hospital?”

  Zorn felt like a character in a bad B-level movie. “Gone, Dave. Devon just called me.”

  “Devon?” Willett sounded confused. “So what’s going on?”

  “Larry died. Of his injuries from the accident. He’s gone.”

  “That’s…I don’t know, Brian. Wasn’t the accident just two days ago? He had surgery, right? You just saw him. You said he was improving. What happened?”

  Zorn fell silent.

  “Ok, Brian. Ok. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Who does?”

  “Ok. Well, I’ll let the rest of the crews know. Unless you want to…”

  “I’ll call the center in Dallas. Can you call Basson? Thanks, David. This is…just…so…bad.”

  Zorn hung up. He covered his face with his hands and rubbed his forehead as he considered the devastating consequences of the accident. Even if Ross had survived, his life, as he knew it, was over. This would have been his third drunk driving conviction. This time, Ross’s blood alcohol was .19.

  According to the police report, Ross sped through a stop sign going sixty-five miles per hour on a residential street. He’d be convicted of voluntary manslaughter for the deaths of the three people in the other car, and he’d likely go to prison. There’d be no way to keep the information from the FAA. He’d never touch the controls of an airplane again.

  Zorn wiped his face with the back of his hand and sniffed. His grief turned to anger as he thought about the cavalier way Ross had treated the privilege of being a pilot. His eyes caught a glimpse of the “World’s Greatest Pilot” clock his son had given him. No way he’d toss his career away the way Ross did.

  This would never happen to me. He got what was coming to him.

  Fifty-Five

  TRIS TAXIED THE simulator to a stop, and she and Deter ran the shutdown checklist. Deter had done his job. He’d been a good co-pilot. That was something at least. Tris was proud of her crew, and that helped her to stand tall, ready to accept the judgment that was coming.

  As soon as the door to the sim opened, the receptionist Deter had been so friendly with earlier waited for them. She shifted from foot to foot with a piece of paper in her hand. As soon as he was clear of the simulator, she pulled Jensen aside and handed him a pink message slip.

  Tris looked down. The color of the message slip was the same as the FAA check ride ‘pink slip,’ the one they gave to trainees who failed their check rides. She should know.

  Tris headed to the ladies’ room, Deter ostensibly to the men’s, and both planned to meet up with Jensen in the briefing room. But the examiner cut them off before they had a chance to walk far.

  “I’ve got an urgent message for both of you to call
Zorn at home,” he said, waving the piece of paper at them. “Do you need the number?”

  Tris and Deter looked at each other blankly. Deter breezed by Jensen and headed directly to the pay phone, whipping his calling card out along the way. Tris took the pink message and followed behind, figuring she’d have to wait until Deter was finished. She couldn’t hear Deter’s end of the conversation, which was short. He cast his eyes toward the ground as he turned toward her.

  “Larry’s dead. He died early this morning before we went into the sim.” For the first time since she’d known him, Deter looked bereft. Tears pooled in his eyes. He kept them open and stood as though he’d frozen in place.

  “Call Brian if you want, but that’s what he’s going to tell you.” He turned away slowly, and Tris heard him mutter, “What a fucking waste.”

  Tris was paralyzed, watching Deter move forward, shifting his weight from side to side. As he walked, Deter’s rubber-soled shoes twisted on the tile floor, the unique sound of his gait so familiar to her now. It struck her that the sound of every person’s walk was different, unique. Such an odd thought, right then.

  After a few steps, Deter stopped and turned back to face her. Tears spilled, but his eyes were never clearer, bluer, or more resolute than they were in that moment.

  “For what it’s worth, you flew a great ride.”

  Dizzy, Tris braced herself against the wall for support. She was back on the corner of Albemarle and Vaughn. If only she’d said yes. If only he’d stayed over. If only…then he’d never have been on that corner, at that moment. Ross, Bron, the circumstances of their deaths were jumbled in her mind. No, she shook her head vigorously. She wasn’t responsible for Ross. It was Bron that she killed.

  Her legs slowly collapsed under her as she slid down against the cold, metal wall. Crumpled on the catwalk, sobbing, the only other sound she heard was the simulator sliding up and down on cylindrical hydraulic legs, the staccato breath of a body removed from life support.

  PART V:

  RED OVER WHITE