by Ted Minkinow
"Don’t tell me you use the ground for a runway." It was more an accusation than a question.
"Come on, Cassie, would there be any other reason to call it a grass strip?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Takes you back to the roots of aviation," he added as if that explained everything. "I'll show you all that later; I want you to meet a friend right now."
Tom took her hand—seems natural enough, she thought—and led her toward the small building. It looked shabby…kind of run down. As they approached the door, Cassandra saw the faded sign of a previous tenant peeking out of the brick like a ghost from a different era. “Jerome’s Gro and Dry Gds.”
They stepped through a screen door…the kind with a long, rusted spring attached at the bottom. An oversized window took up most of the wall and a sleepy window-mounted unit sputtered cooled air over a metal and plastic kitchen table surrounded by four mismatched chairs. Another wall bordered two restrooms and supported an old pay telephone, the kind with a rotary dial and push-to-receive change button. Numerous T-shirts were nailed around the phone. Each contained two names and a date, all handwritten in various shades of magic marker. Some were artistic in their calligraphy or drawings of little airplanes.
Tom followed Cassandra’s gaze. "Solo shirts," he said. "Each time someone solos an aircraft for the first time, tradition says they rip off their shirt and nail it to the wall." Cassandra smiled, nodded, and wondered about collective sanity.
"I bet it's a happy day when they fly an airplane by themselves."
"It is,” he replied, but then added with a moment’s consideration, “but only after landing. Up to that point, it’s mostly jelly calves and shaky hands.”
A glass display case sat in front of the final wall. It contained pilot wares—headsets, maps, slide-rule things, and red tags embroidered with “Remove Before Flight.” An elderly but trim man leaned against the case, engrossed in a newspaper. He glanced up only when Tom called his name.
"Sam, I want you to meet a friend."
Sam put the paper down and smiled at Cassandra.
"Cassie, this is Sam Howard, he's the owner, head pilot, chief liar, and guy who never forgets to turn on the bathroom fan at Blown Oak Airport."
Sam offered a hand and Cassandra took it.
“You flying tonight?"
A nod.
"In that case, coffee or sodas?" They sat down at the table and gabbed for half an hour. Sam led the conversation and more than once Cassie found herself unable to restrain a giggle.
“Let me tell you about the time when,” or, “when I was flying in Korea,” or, the fighter pilot’s standard, “y’all are never going to believe this, but-.” Tom smiled through the hundredth replay of Sam’s stories. Cassandra sat rapt.
After a while Tom pushed back his chair and stood. “Cassie, we've got to get moving if we want to use the last bit of daylight."
She placed both of her hands lightly on Sam’s and stood to follow Tom.
“Sam seems like a nice guy."
"He's the best…and a great pilot. Some of the bilge he spouts is true.”
She smiled. “So, what about the bilge you’re going to spout tonight?”
Tom wouldn’t let the jibe catch him off guard. He had not spent four years at the Naval Academy and nearly a decade in fighter squadrons to be greased by an amateur.
“I’m a much better liar,” Tom said. “But Sam, he’s special, a no-kidding ace. Shot down seven enemy jets during the Korean War.”
“Impressive.”
“Amen to that. Guys like him are rare.”
Cassie spotted a sagging house trailer sitting on a small concrete pad next to one of the hangars.
“Anybody live there?” she asked.
“Sam.”
“Must be lonely.”
“No way. This place is heaven.”
They stopped beside one of the little airplanes and Tom loosened the ropes that secured it to the ground. A blue stripe ran the entire length of the fuselage, accenting the highly waxed and polished ivory paint scheme. The single wing sat above the cockpit’s roof. Tom opened the passenger's door and motioned for Cassie.
"Stand on the strut there right above the wheel, grab the handle on the inside of the door, and lift yourself in."
She did as he instructed and ended up in a bucket seat on the right side of the cockpit. A set of flight controls sat ready to her front. Tom helped strap the seatbelt and shoulder harness around her body. He climbed into the other seat and, after flipping through a series of switches, started the engine. Vibrations shook the airplane as the propeller came to life.
Tom spoke in his headset. "Blown Oak UNICOM, Skylane six niner echo taxiing to runway zero nine."
In her own headset, Cassandra heard Sam Howard reply, "Cessna six niner echo, y’all have a good flight.”
3
The radio did not pick up a rending noise—a sound like double-panel draperies ripping in half—because that happened outside the small building.
4
“See you in a few hours Sam."
With a goose of the throttle, the plane lurched forward and began moving across the manicured lawn. They taxied to the western edge of the grass strip where Tom increased engine power and checked his instruments before takeoff.
He pushed the throttle full forward as he aligned the aircraft with the runway. They bumped along until Tom eased back on the controls and the aircraft's wheels left the sod. The light airplane pointed into the wind as it became airborne. Cassandra saw green hills and fields grow smaller as they climbed into still air. Tom reached down to a long lever between them and pushed it firmly to the floor.
"Flaps," he said.
CHAPTER 27
Saturday, July 14, 5:45 pm, Blown Oak Airport, outside Vienna, Alabama
1
Sam Howard watched as Skylane six nine echo disappeared…first from sound, then from sight. He liked Cassie and hoped she might help Tom start living again. Sam shifted his thoughts to the beautiful evening.
A glance at the parking lot. Nobody around. Easy decision…Maybe just half an hour or so…put the old bird through some paces. The unexpected joke delighted Sam. Old bird applied to himself as much as it did his biplane.
Old bird, he thought, and laughed again. Two old birds for sure, Sam thought as he stepped onto the turf.
His tiny two-seat Pitts Special biplane waited inside the largest hanger. Sam pushed the door back on its rails and walked to the front of his Pitts. He opened the cowling to expose the engine. He stooped to inspect the exhaust system and did not know that he was not alone.
It moved on silent footsteps. Sam opened the other cowling and his peripheral vision detected movement, though much too late. He jumped when he felt a needle in the calf of his left leg.
"Confound it Spike," he reached down and picked up the old Tomcat. "You scared the shitake mushrooms out of me."
Spike purred as Sam scratched the animal's neck. "You should find something quicker to hunt. I'm not much of a challenge for a tough guy like you." He put the cat down, pushed the airplane through the hangar door, and climbed over the fuselage and into the back cockpit.
Spike was not the only silent being who monitored events on that balmy evening.
2
So, Hattie's white child found a woman.
That pleased Leland Graves. The more the merrier. He would weed Tom out of the old woman’s life and, though many people seemed fond of the old hag, he knew this man held her heart…perhaps was her heart…just as Hattie was the heart of Sally Jackson more than a blood-pumping sack ever could be.
Leland Graves possessed little or no idea why things on this side worked in such a way…they just did. Cut out the heart and the body dies…everyone knew death represented the first step in product reclamation. So Leland Graves would invest some bandwidth in Thomas Brunson, and in those orbiting the fractured orb that represented the young man’s being.
Never one to shy from c
omplexities of a transaction, Leland Graves coined a secret phrase for his private list of best practices: “Indirection is often the best direction.” He was right to get started as early as he did on Thomas Brunson, back in the desert.
3
"Clear prop!" Sam shouted. No response. He fired up the two hundred and thirty horsepower engine and taxied to the runway. "Runway's clear, final's clear," Sam said aloud to himself. "Blown Oak unicom Pitts eight four bravo departing runway niner." He aligned the Pitts with the sod’s center and added power.
In a few seconds he lifted the tail wheel and danced on the rudder pedals to keep the nose tracking straight. Only the scent of honeysuckle kept pace and at eighty miles per hour he brought the stick back and the Pitts Special leaped off the ground. Sam eased the stick forward and flung it hard to the left, executing a perfect aileron roll while the aircraft flew a scant twenty feet off the ground.
He climbed above Blown Oak to an altitude of five hundred feet, leveled the Pitts, and allowed airspeed to build. Green mountains and valleys beckoned over the empty cockpit in front. Laughing out loud, he added full power and pulled back on the stick.
The nose shot up and he dropped his head back to catch a glimpse of the horizon as the aircraft reached fully inverted. "Wings level inverted coming through the horizon," he called to himself as he pulled his nose to the earth. "Easy on the round out."
Wind buffeted over the glare shield and onto his face. "Wonder what the poor folks are doing today," he yelled through the turbulence. It began as the wind carried his voice away.
The headache struck with the sudden fury of a lightning bolt splintering an old tree. Through the pain Sam’s mind saw an old USAF jet fighter flying beside his wing…just like in the war. Confusion seeped into Sam’s head; confusion brought on by an ache between his ears that thundered in synch with beats of his heart. Through the haze of pain Sam believed the lies his eyes transmitted.
He snuck a glance at his instruments and gazed upon the cockpit of an F86 Sabre, the jet fighter he flew for more than 150 combat missions in Korea. Sam didn’t take long to marvel—or even wonder at the incongruity—because a blinding flash and billowing streak forced his attention outside.
His wingman was under attack. Sam saw tracer bullets streaking past. “Break left!” he screamed over the radio. The other Sabre did not respond. It continued in a straight and level vector—an easy target—oblivious to the lethal danger. An orange fireball indicated that metal met metal…Sam’s wingman was dead. Moments later, tracer bullets flew over the right wing of Sam’s aircraft.
Sam strained his neck backward to see a Chinese MIG saddled up in a perfect kill position about fifteen hundred feet behind. Fighter pilot Sam turned hard into his enemy, causing the enemy pilot to overshoot and move in front. Tables turned in his favor, Sam went to work. The MIG pilot rolled inverted and pointed his nose at the ground in an attempt to escape the American fighter. Sam trailed, seeing the Yalu River’s familiar outline fifteen thousand feet below.
"You can't out dive me," the American ace said, "you know it and so do I." The headache intensified but Sam ignored the pain. He closed in for the kill, diving vertically and picking up velocity in the process. That much he knew by feel—heavier buffeting of wind over his airframe—and by sight—the enemy jet grew larger as distance between the fighters decreased.
"Just a second or two and I'll make you the newest patriotic hero." He pulled his nose in front of the MIG's flight path, centering the enemy jet in the Sabre's sight. Sam reached up with his finger for the trigger and…both headache and MIG vanished.
Six crucial seconds elapsed before Sam regained his wits. When they did return, a startling view loomed over the front cockpit. Beneath his aircraft, and less than one hundred feet away, he saw the Blown Oak pilot's building. Sam never tensed or attempted the pullout; he knew the low altitude would not allow recovery.
CHAPTER 28
Saturday, July 14, 5:42 pm, Above Northern Alabama and in Birmingham
1
They climbed through haze that thickened until it obscured most of the ground below.
"I thought the weather looked clear," Cassandra said.
"Warm days generate haze in the Southeast. You can’t see it from the ground."
After fifteen minutes of silent flying she asked, "Where are you taking me?"
"Thought we'd go to Birmingham for a quick supper."
"Birmingham!”
Tom glanced at Cassandra.
“Did you think we were going to fly around the airport?”
“Well,” she said, “yes.” Of all the towns in Alabama, he picked the worst one…at least for a first date. “Isn’t Aunt Hattie expecting us?”
Tom said, “She’s OK with it.”
When more from Cassandra did not follow, Tom said, "Relax, Cassie, should only take thirty minutes each way. I've got a car waiting for us. I'll have you back in three hours."
No reply and Tom likely interpreted silence as agreement.
She recognized Gardendale, a Birmingham suburb, as it passed underneath. Tom spoke to Birmingham tower as they neared the airport and Cassandra felt a nervous twinge as Tom brought the Cessna lower for landing. Wheels kissed runway and she forgot the apprehension.
"Nice landing!"
He winked.
As promised, the rental car waited at the parking spot. Tom secured the little aircraft with tie down ropes to each wing. They got into the car and drove through the airport gate.
"Now you're in my town," she said. "Where did you plan on eating?"
"The best restaurant in the city. A Persian place near the mall."
"What's it called?" she asked, "Never been to a Persian place in Birmingham."
"Ali Baba's," he said, "and if you don’t like it or I'll let you fly home."
He merged onto the interstate and then took the Red Mountain Express south. As she looked up at the giant statue of Vulcan standing above the steel city, Cassandra felt a pang of guilt. Guilt or not, Mom and Dad would not get a call from her this evening.
Her mother would insist on a visit. Wouldn’t that be just grand? Hi Mom, hi Pop. I’d like to introduce you to my new friend here. Yes Mom, this white boy is my date.
No thanks, not tonight. She’d make it not any night.
Ali Baba’s Iranian expat owner lingered at their table.
“Tom, my friend, where have you been?” and “So, who is this beautiful young woman?”
Cassandra smiled and nodded at the appropriate moments and looked around.
The restaurant was small: industrial ceiling, four walls covered by an assortment of Iranian décor, hard wood floor. About fifteen tables—all occupied—each an island in a sea of velvet candlelight. Persian music wafted in the background.
More yada yada and the friendly host left the couple to privacy and menus.
"I suggest Ali's special," said Tom.
"It's your place," she said.
They ordered lentil soup and an entree of spiced beef, grilled chicken, roast beef, and steamed rice.
"So how did you like the flight?"
"I never knew flying small airplanes could be so much fun. No lanes or speed limits." She congratulated herself on the perfect answer.
The cozy ambiance relaxed, as did the fabulous meal. Cassandra decided to push for personal details, those he seemed reluctant to give at the hospital.
"What brings you back to Vienna? You told me you flew in the Air Force. You don’t fit the country boy stereotype."
Her machine-gun queries boiled down to one question.
"I'm retired from the Air Force."
Disbelief on her face.
"Please, Cassie," he rolled his eyes, "Medically retired… not age."
"Oh," she nodded, embarrassed and as if she understood. Cassandra placed another fork full of the spiced beef in her mouth.
"I was injured in the Gulf War."
"How?"
"Shot down."
2
&
nbsp; Tom glanced at one of the rugs covering the wall…at the Star of David woven into the center of one of them.
Still some outcasts in Babylon, he thought…and how was he so different from the Shadrachs, Meshachs, and Abednegos of the world? Exiled from his career…from his life. He’d been through the fiery furnace…and as it tended to do, his mind caught glimpses of that day he entered his private lion’s den.
"Saddam’s boys may show you something new and exciting.” That’s what the squadron intelligence officer—Major Nyland—briefed Tom and Jeremiah that day.
"We can only hope,” said Jeremiah. “And what might we see?"
"Picked up signals consistent with an SA-6 surface to air missile's acquisition radar. Nobody thinks the Iraqis actually deployed an SA-6 site so close to the border. Our best guess says they want us to think the missiles exist so we'd commit resources on a wild goose chase."
Jeremiah perked up at the news.
"Show me where the signal plots."
Tom brought his mind back, but only part of the way. Saddam had something interesting for us alright.
For the umpteenth time he saw the old buzzard—an image he never shared with anyone…not even Jeremiah—riding the missile. Something interesting…but maybe not from Saddam. Missile, man, or wraith, it did not make any difference to Tom because his career ended and his life should have.
Cassandra’s words leaked through to his mind.
3
“Shot down,” she said. "How horrible.” After a second or two of awkward silence, “You parachuted out of the airplane?"
"I lost consciousness when the missile hit so my backseater ejected me.” He paused to sip his iced tea. “Combination of shrapnel wounds and spinal damage from the ejection gave our flight docs enough ammo to discharge me, though Uncle Sam was kind enough to provide a pension."
"In the desert?” Visions of sweat-soaked and grizzled French Legionnaires offering their souls for a drop of water came to her mind. “How did you get out?"