by Clay Martin
To the annoyance of some male colleagues, Jake’s cynicism was not entirely without motive. A darkly handsome six-footer, he was among those fortunate few who need put forth little more than a shave (and what his airline considered a too-infrequent haircut) to maintain his masculine good looks. In fact, the only thing at which Jake seemed to toil was the public projection of himself as the carefree New York bachelor: a less-than-accurate image, yet one he did little to assuage.
Because, to Jake’s mind, despite his entreaties that Sandy stay on at the apartment, and despite her clear desire to do so, once the woman now asleep in his bed stirred to wakefulness, he suspected she would come to her senses and take flight as had so many before her, wisely choosing to disappear before anything akin to real feelings for Jake could develop. Yes, Jake Silver had long ago convinced himself that as long as his nightmares and nocturnal ravings continued, each new liaison, however promising it might first appear, was likely to end with a frightened woman beating a hasty, often pre-dawn exit, leaving Jake’s ostensibly precious bachelorhood securely, if not preferably, intact.
So, on this fateful morning, he would do that which he’d done on so many mornings; he would steel himself against what he’d come to consider inevitable. He’d endeavor to deny his feelings for the alluring, but ultimately sensible woman of the moment, and prepare to face the day, his singular expectation being that Sandy McRea remember to leave his key as she left his apartment, his life, and in time, his thoughts.
The latter, he’d learn, was not to be.
As the taxi pulled up to his airline’s curbside entrance, Jake over-tipped the driver and made a dash for the crew room.
The brightly lit room was empty but for the lanky form of Ed James, a first officer with whom Jake had trained a few years back.
A compulsive talker, Ed was the kind of roommate Jake knew awaited him in hell.
Without looking up from his newspaper, and before Jake could bolt, the rangy Southerner drawled a hearty, “Jake-boy!”
“Mornin’ Ed. What brings you to the frozen north? I thought you were living out your golden years on the Miami milk run.”
“I’m deadheading to La La Land with you and Cap’n Willie today.” Ed spoke the words with a wink and a smirk. “I got some important bidness out there, if you catch my drift.”
“Would that bidness be of the blonde or brunette variety?”
“Oh, my Yankee friend,” Ed admonished, “a Southern gentleman does not kiss and tell.”
In contrast to his own romantic reticence, Jake suspected that Ed did a great deal more telling than he did kissing.
“So you won’t be regaling us with details of your little peccadillo?” Jake said.
“My little what?”
Leaving the answer to Ed’s question dangling, Jake decided to forego his coffee, and as he turned back for the door, he fibbed. “It’ll be nice to have some company up front this trip.”
Jake was pleased to see Captain Bill Gance already seated in the cockpit when he arrived. Gance was talking to Operations on the company channel. Jake, who had a special affinity for his boss, had given up a regional captain’s spot so that he might spend a year or so flying the big iron beside this universally revered chief pilot. To the younger man’s mind, knowledge gained at the knee of Captain Gance would prove more meaningful than a seniority-based promotion. A pilot to the core, Jake placed profession before career.
“Mornin’, Number One,” Gance said warmly, welcoming his copilot as Jake took the right hand seat. “She’s holding thirty-four tons,” meaning fuel, “and three-hundred souls.” Turning then to their hitchhiking colleague, who’d entered behind Jake, Gance added jovially, “Top-o-the mornin’ to you, Edwin.”
As Ed wiggled into the small jump seat, Jake’s brow furrowed at the clutter of planes on the JFK ramp. Though the rain had subsided to a mist, he was eager to climb into the sunlit upper air.
“Get me the current ATIS, please,” Gance directed Jake, ATIS being the airport’s automated terminal information system for flight crews.
While Jake and his captain worked as one, the radio crackled with the ground controller’s instructions: “NorthAm Two-four heavy, Kennedy Ground, taxi runway Three-One Left at the Kilo-Echo intersection, via left on Bravo, hold short of Lima. Holding short of taxiway Lima, monitor tower, one, two, three point niner. They’ll have your sequence. Good day.”
As the big jet pushed back, Ed said, “Looks like we’ll get out on time this mornin’.”
“Clear on the left.” Gance announced.
“Clear right,” Jake responded in the opening movement of a cybernetic ballet that would ensure safe carriage of this crew and its charges across a continent.
Again, the radio crackled to life. “North Am Two-four heavy, Kennedy Tower. Wait for and follow the second heavy Boeing 767 from your left at Lima. They’ll be your sequence. You’ll be number eleven for departure.”
Groans from the two younger men.
As the plane slowly moved up in line, Jake felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Ed holding up a rumpled copy of the New York tabloid he’d been reading in the lounge. “Seen this yet, Jake-o?”
Looking over his shoulder, Jake read the headline whose font size would overstate Armageddon: IRAQ WAR HERO KILLED IN DRUG CRASH.
“Yeah, right,” Jake said, his voice dripping with cynicism as he turned to Gance, whom the younger pilot knew would disapprove of Ed’s cockpit discipline breach. “Everybody’s a hero now. Some drunk drives into a tree and it’s news because he’s a vet.”
“Not a car crash, y’all,” Ed corrected, shaking the paper, demanding attention. “This boy flew an old Charlie-four-six, Commando into the ocean. Thing was full of drugs. So was the guy, I reckon.”
Annoyed by both the breach and Ed’s penchant for military nomenclature, Jake grabbed the newspaper from Ed’s outstretched hand, aware, as was Gance, that acquiescing to their dead header’s compulsion would be less distracting than ignoring or upbraiding him.
Reading the article, Jake became visibly upset, frantically leafing through the paper, looking for the continuation of the story, tearing pages in his frenzied search.
“Knock it off,” Captain Gance barked, tired of the whole affair.
Rather than comply, Jake crumpled a page in his fist and said, to his colleagues’ surprise, “We gotta go back to the gate.”
Incredulous at his normally disciplined first officer’s behavior, Gance looked askance at Jake over the half-lenses of his wire-rimmed reading glasses. They’d already advanced, and were now fourth in line. “Go back to the gate?” Gance asked. “Is this your hobby now?”
Not responding, his breathing coarse, his expression somber, Jake stared straight ahead.
Gance realized his copilot was serious. “This’s a helluva time...” The captain paused, took a breath. “What is it, Jake? You sick? Got a pain?”
Jake could see his captain’s patience dissipating. “It’s personal,” he said.
“Nothing’s personal on my flight deck. Spill it.”
Two airplanes were released in rapid succession.
Gance picked up the microphone as if to abort, but Jake raised a hand to stop him.
“Talk to me, Number One,” Gance commanded, inching toward the runway. “We’re runnin’ out’a yellow lines, here. What’s this about, son?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Jake said, embarrassed, forcing calm against the gravity of his outburst. “It’s...it’s this story. It’s about Swede Bergstrom.”
“Bergstrom?” Gance replied. “Oh, sure. Bergstrom,” the captain recalled, keeping his gaze straight ahead. “Your flight leader in the sandbox.” Sandbox being GI slang for the Middle East. “He got hit on your first sortie. Right?”
“Right,” Jake said, reigning in his emotions, “after saving my sorry ass.”
Unlike
Ed James shifting uncomfortably in the jump seat behind him, Bill Gance had not seen the newspaper article. “What’s it say?”
“Says Bergstrom was killed yesterday flying dope out of South America. Claims he got lost and went down off Cuba, a hundred miles west of his flight planned route.”
“Really?” Gance asked, surprised. “He was flying an old Curtiss Commando?”
“This’s bullshit, Skip,” Jake affirmed, “Pilots like Bergstrom don’t get lost, and c’mon, what drug runner would be dumb enough to file a goddam flight plan? I gotta find out what’s behind this.”
“North American Two-Four-Heavy, I say again, this is Kennedy tower,” said the irritated voice of the overworked controller, indicating the crew had ignored his initial call.
“North Am Two-four,” Gance responded. “Go ahead, tower.”
“I repeat. North Am Two-four is cleared for immediate takeoff, Three-One-Left, Kilo-Echo. No delay on the runway. Take off or get off, sir.”
“Roger,” Jake responded to the tower in a reactive protocol breach that preempted his captain. Turning to Gance, he then said, “I’m good to go, Skipper.”
Knowing his first officer as well as a mentor could, and ever conscious of both the CVR and sterile cockpit rule, Gance found himself committed to act.
His eyes burning into those of his errant copilot, he pressed his transmit button. “Two-four is rolling,” he growled at the mic.
“Are you…?” Jake began.
“Harness,” the captain barked, cutting off the younger man, and asserting his authority.
“Harness secure,” Jake responded, relief evident in his voice.
“Flaps.”
“Fifteen and fifteen. Two green…” and so on the pair went through the takeoff checklist.
When Gance eased forward on the thrust levers he felt Jake’s hand come down gently atop his own. “No sweat, Cap,” the younger man said, his voice calm yet well aware that he’d not only abused his authority but compromised his captain and would be called to the carpet—or worse—for his actions.
Equally aware that the CVR was recording the crew’s every word, Jake said nothing more.
Gance nodded and both men applied power exactly as they had hundreds of times before and the big jet accelerated.
“Vee-one,” Jake called.
“Rotate,” Gance replied, and they were flying.
As the airplane rolled into a climbing departure turn, Manhattan’s sun-draped spires glistened vermillion through the mist. And, though disappointed by his copilot’s brief but serious transgression, Captain Gance took confidence in Jake’s recovery and in doing so allowed himself to be awed by the beauty so unique to their vantage. Knowing, too, that he needed to ease the residual tension on his flight deck, the captain waxed poetic, saying, “Red sky at morning...”
No one heard Ed James respond, “...sailor take warning.”
- Chapter 2 -
Once at altitude, and not content to endure the uneasy silence that permeated the cockpit, Ed spoke first. “Sorry, Jake. It was a dumb thing I said about your friend being on dope and all. You know how I do.”
“It’s okay, Ed,” Jake said. “Don’t dwell on it.”
But Ed did dwell on it, and Gance, knowing the CVR would record over itself in two hours, allowed it while collecting his own thoughts. “I, well…I just didn’t know,” Ed said. “The paper called him Leif Bergstrom. But you just called him Swede. Ain’t that right, Cap?”
“Swede’s a nickname,” Jake corrected, “a call sign.”
Gance, forcing calm, gestured toward the newspaper crumbled on Jake’s lap. “Okay, Number-One,” he said. “It’s time to come clean about Bergstrom.” A pause. “I know you don’t like to talk about your time in Iraq,” he went on, “I get that. But, if something disrupts procedure, I have to know why. So, spill it or we do this by the book.”
“I flew one recon mission with Swede,” Jake finally groused. “I hardly knew the guy”
“Do not push me, Jake!” Gance admonished. Having himself flown F-4s in the first Gulf War the captain was not about to put up with patronage from a fellow combat pilot. “You learn more about a man after five minutes of war fighting than you can in a lifetime at anything else. If that man risked his life to save your ass, he’s your brother for life. So start talking.”
Embarrassed, realizing how far his captain had stretched the rules on his behalf, Jake relented. “Look. I just can’t believe where a pilot like Swede ended up, that’s all. Learning a thing like that, it’s like a punch in the gut.”
“At least he was flying again,” Ed James noted, referring to the news article. “I thought he’d been badly wounded.”
“You thought right,” Jake affirmed. “But that doesn’t make him a drug runner.”
Observing the younger man’s performance, his deft touch and movements, the captain knew Jake was back in control of both his emotions and the aircraft. So, and with a qualified man in the jump seat, he pressed. “Was Iraq the last time you saw him?”
“Yes. When Swede disappeared, my fighter was really shot up, but I circled the area until my last drop of fuel reserve was gone, so were half my systems. I never saw his chute or any wreckage, never heard a beacon. He just disappeared.” Jake shifted in his seat, uneasy with the memory “I know he got picked up alive. But that’s all I was told. Of course, Command and Control knew exactly what happened in that sky, but Swede and I had engaged against orders and it was the day after the president had made his Mission Accomplished speech from that carrier deck, so nobody said shit.”
“I thought no F-16s were lost to enemy action since like the Nineties,” Ed pondered aloud. “Hell, didn’t one of ‘em just shot down a MiG-21 in India or someplace?”
“I never said…” Jake began to explain, only to have the captain cut him off.
“…and the other side claims it was their MiG that took out the F-16. That’s the fog of war, Ed,” Gance declared, satisfied with Jake’s explanation, the hard-earned wisdom and quiet comprehension of a combat warrior relieving the younger man of further painful recollection.
“Ever reach out,” Gance went on, “call Swede’s folks?”
“Absolutely,” Jake answered, relief at the unexpected tolerance apparent in his captain’s tone. “Even visited his parents out in California first time I deployed back stateside. Lemme tell you, it was, uh…interesting. But it’s how I learned what became of him.”
“Sounds like he fell on hard times,” Gance said.
“A man’s gotta eat, y’all,” Ed offered.
“There’s more to the story,” Jake added. “Swede’s father, Truls Bergstrom, told me what he knew.” Both men listened intently as Jake began. “Whoever got hold of Swede, worked him over good. But he didn’t talk—he couldn’t, none of us knew shit. You were Navy in the first go, Skipper. You get it. We were tip ‘a the spear, period–but they pumped the poor bastard full of pentothal anyway and God knows what else. Between that and the beatings, he came back, well, different, y’know, according to his father.”
“But whoever had him, released him, right?” Gance asked.
“Right. Swede spent a year in Walter Reed. After that some desk-jockey dropped his discharge papers and a couple of campaign ribbons into his B-4 bag and sent him home. But what he went home to was also different. He had a kid sister, talked about her all the time.” With that, Jake paused, pensive, thinking. “For the life of me, I can’t recall her name. I only know she thought Swede hung the moon, and he doted on her like a mother hen. After the family learned he was MIA she, well, she was at that age, maybe thirteen or so when you still think you can change the world. She got bitter, started going to protest rallies.” Pensive, Jake shook his head as if rejecting the image. “Anyway, Swede had always said she was a good-looking kid, not that you could prove it by me. The kid I saw was a mess. But, anyw
ay, it wasn’t long before one of the rally leaders got his hands on her. Prick’s name was Philippe… probably bullshit. He was just a grifter with a tie-dyed shirt, working his con on the kids. Pretty soon, she’s living with him, strung out on his heroin, hooking for him. Apparently Swede found her that way when he got out of Walter Reed. Truls had been told of his son’s release, but Swede never went home. He just swept in and out of town like a ghost.”
“But his sister made it back home?” Gance asked.
“Affirmative,” Jake continued, his gaze distant as he struggled with the memory. “Kid was in bad shape when I saw her. Looked like a zombie, but I guess she was trying. I dunno. Old Truls Bergstrom dragged her into the room when I visited. She kept her head down, trying to hide her face. She didn’t look like the other Bergstroms. She was a scrawny little thing with black hair. The rest of them were big, round-faced blondes. She was different…trying to be different, too, I guess. Huge eyes, skin white as a sheet, just stuck on her bones like wet paper. But what really turned my crank was she had needle marks up and down her skinny arms. Man, I never seen that before. But Truls made sure I got a good look, pushing her in front of me like he expected me to scold her or something, and all the time she’s trying to hide herself as if she were a leper. She didn’t say a word the whole time I was there, which wasn’t long, believe me.”
The other men listened in silence as Jake mused. “But, y’know what sticks out in my mind the most?” he said. “Despite the way old man Bergstrom pushed that strange, skinny kid around, I was dead certain she scared the shit out of him. She had a menace about her, and it filled the room like the stink of the place.”
“What happened to the drug dealer, Philippe?” Ed asked.
“Disappeared.”
“Swede’s doing?”
“I’d bet on it,” Jake said, handing the crumpled newspaper back to Ed. “So, like I said, knowing what I know about Swede, about his family, and especially about the kid sister he adored, I know Swede Bergstrom didn’t smuggle drugs or knowingly fly airplanes for the scumbags who do.”