by Read, John
The man showed me to a door and pointed to Eddie’s hangar. It was dark, but the building was illuminated by the parking lot’s lighting. A sign hung over the hangar’s door and read: “WE BUY GOLD.”
I found Eddie Rizzo sitting in a cubicle-sized office behind a stack of a dozen broken tablet computers. He smoked a long silver electronic cigarette, which I could tell had some kick; his office stank of real cigars. He wore a weathered brown leather jacket over a faded white t-shirt.
Eddie spoke with a strong New York accent. “So you’re looking for an aircraft. Going to join SAR are ya? Ya wanna be a hero.”
“That’s the plan,” I said, taking short breaths to avoid tasting the office’s stench.
“Here’s the deal, buddy. I’ve got the only aircraft west of Colorado that wasn’t messed the hell up in today’s apocalypse. If you want my baby, you better have the dough.” When Eddie said the word baby, my eyes shot to his grotesque gut. It looked like Eddie was about to have twins.
“How much?” I didn’t believe him that it was the only aircraft available. It was a classic sales pitch: tell the client you have the last product in town, buy it now, or forever hold your peace.
“Well, seeing as this here’s the last plane, I’d say demand is quite high. The plane is rather valuable. Ya know what I’m sayin’? But not as valuable as the shit on the other side of those there mountains.”
“What do you mean?” Eddie’s comment caught me off guard, another salesman trick? No, he wanted something more than money and I worried I was getting in over my head. This was Vegas where desperate people get extorted.
“Well, it seems to me that Cali’s population has declined and the leftovers are up for grabs. So here’s the deal: the plane is yours for one hundred thousand a month. But you gotta to do something for me. You’re gonna use this equipment,” he pointed to the pile of junk on the table, “and survey every square inch of the Golden State. If there’s a gold ring in someone’s dresser, my scanners will find it. And if you see a corpse with a Rolex, or an abandoned Royce, you let me know and I’ll send my boys in to pick it up.”
“One hundred thousand is a bit steep,” I said. One hundred thousand dollars would max out my savings. After that, I’d be living on charity. Eddie probably figured that a SAR operation would operate in grids. He was probably right. This would provide the optimal data set for his survey. He needed someone like me.
“I’ll tell you what. You flag some good shit, I’ll give you a finder’s fee of one percent.” I began to see Eddie as the typical pawn shop owner. They start by throwing out a highball figure to see if you bite. If you’re a good negotiator, you don’t. You let them talk themselves down, keep them hanging.
“I want to see the aircraft.”
Eddie gestured with his thumb to a wooden door behind his desk. I squeezed past a four-foot-tall pile of magazines, holding my breath as I got a whiff of Eddie’s sweat and cigar funk.
The door led to the hangar where I found an aircraft covered in canvas. I pulled the cover off the Electro-glider and ran my hand along a faded white fuselage. The name “Moneta” was stenciled just below the canopy. The plane had to be thirty years old, a classic, but it seemed to be in workable condition. Made by AgustaWestland, its stingray-like design had been influenced by the bicycle makers of Cascina Costa in Northern Italy. This also gave the aircraft its nickname.
The Stingray had two large thrust-regen fans imbedded in the root of each wing. Each fan had three blades that were at least eight feet long. They provided thrust, yet could also act as windmills, generating electricity to recharge the battery when the aircraft descended.
I grabbed the maintenance record. It was still the law that each aircraft must carry a printed copy of the maintenance records. Even in the digital age, old laws die hard. The fact that this aircraft had a maintenance record was a good sign. It meant that Eddie Rizzo, as rough as he looked, still obeyed the law, and his plane had been cared for, at least according to the log.
I flipped through the reports and noticed that the plane had a ninety-kilowatt battery. This battery made up the bulk of the aircraft’s weight at about three hundred pounds. I had flown electro-gliders before, but none with this much power.
The Stingray had other interesting modifications, like a charge port on the roof. I’d heard of these before, but never suspected they were actually used. The port was designed for in-air supercharging.
I stuck my head into the cockpit and hit the master switch, activating the displays. All the instruments were digital, but they represented the standard “Six Pack” of any small aircraft. The top three instruments showed the airspeed, altitude, and attitude, while the bottom three showed the turn and bank, heading, and vertical speed.
I looked at the airspeed indicator. The Velocity to Never Exceed, or VNE, was three hundred ten knots; this was fast, fast enough to keep up with a military helicopter. The green zone, or cruising speeds, ranged from forty knots to two hundred fifty knots. As the crow flies, Las Vegas and San Francisco are three hundred miles apart, so it would take just over an hour to get from one city to the other.
I walked back into in the office and let Eddie Rizzo know we had a deal. He didn’t even ask to see my pilot’s license.
The next morning I headed back to Henderson airfield. It was strange, waking up alone, getting into a car, and driving somewhere. It felt like a business trip or the first day of school, when you have no idea what to expect, but instead of nervousness, there was dread. I worried at any moment I’d receive horrible news.
I filed a flight plan at a kiosk in the flight club and waved at the dispatch lady who buzzed me onto the tarmac through a single door.
It was sunrise when I opened the hangar. I didn’t see Eddie Rizzo, which didn’t surprise me. The guy came off as a night owl. I found the survey equipment, two aerodynamic wedges shaped like a ship’s radar. I grabbed the devices and slid them into place. They fit under the wings like missiles on a fighter jet. Once attached to the aircraft, they booted up. A small display on each device registered “Auto Sequence Start,” indicating they were ready to go.
Eddie’s request to have me survey California made me feel dirty, like I was invading someone’s privacy. I even wondered if the SAR guys would take issue with me using the equipment. They probably wouldn’t even ask. It wasn’t any different than a prospector with a metal detector or a scuba diver looking for shipwrecks.
Grabbing a tow bar, I dragged the aircraft out onto the tarmac. One wing rested on the ground, a rusty skid protecting the wingtip from the concrete. The other wing rose into the morning sky.
After returning the tow bar to the hangar, I climbed into the cockpit. I closed the tinted bubble style canopy and checked the controls. Rudder left, rudder right, I said to myself, stepping on the foot pedals and looking over my shoulder to see the twin rudders moving freely.
I checked the ailerons, swinging the control stick to the left and right. Using my left hand, I extended the dive brakes, making sure they could be fully deployed and fully retracted. All the controls seemed in good shape. I hit the master, activating the displays and watched the dials move silently into place.
Activating the turbofans sent a whirring noise through the cockpit. As the volume increased, I grabbed the headset from behind the seat and pulled it over my ears. The headset smelled like Eddie’s office. I’d be used to the smell in a few minutes, so I ignored it.
The Stingray leveled itself as the motors pulled air over the wing roots. The frequency of the motors canceled each other out, leaving a smooth hum like riding a Cadillac on freshly lain concrete.
I flipped on the radio and tuned in to the airport’s frequency.
“Henderson Tower, this is EG-niner request clearance to taxi to runway seventeen left,” I said.
“EG-niner, cleared to taxiway Foxtrot for takeoff on runway 17L.”
The aircraft coasted across the tarmac as I adjusted the pressure on the throttle. I brought it to a stop
at the button, the line that separates the taxiway from the runway.
“Henderson Tower, EG-niner is ready for takeoff.”
“EG-niner, cleared for takeoff runway 17L. At five hundred feet, turn to heading three four zero,” replied the tower.
“Copy three four zero.”
I pushed in the throttle and felt the acceleration generated by the electric motors. The plane went from zero to sixty in under five seconds and was airborne after two hundred feet. The city of Las Vegas sank down below me and I admired the colorful lights that littered the strip. For a moment, just for a moment, I forgot why I was here and marveled at the wonder of human flight.
I thought of a poem written by RCAF pilot John Gillespie Magee, Jr:
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
my eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace,
where never lark, or even eagle, flew –
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
The second to last line struck me today. The high untrespassed sanctity of space. We had trespassed on the sanctity of space, a place previously reserved for exploration and wonder. We had brought a piece of space down to Earth with horrific consequences.
John Magee died in his Spitfire days after penning that verse. I wondered if he knew that, in the end, there was no sanctity.
With that thought, I banked my aircraft to heading three-four-zero, climbing high in the sunlit silence. The Stingray’s hybrid-electric engines cut out; they were no longer needed. With the turbine blades feathered, I glided silently all the way to Nellis.
When I landed at Nellis, ground control directed me to the Search and Rescue hangar. The electro-glider bumped along the old taxiways and I could feel every crack in the pavement through my seat. To save weight, the plane didn’t have a tricycle landing gear like a traditional aircraft. Instead, a single gear extended from below the cockpit, while a small tailwheel hung off the rear. An airfoil behind the turbo fans stabilized the aircraft, but it still felt like riding a unicycle.
The SAR squadron wasn’t hard to find with its insignia painted forty feet high on the hangar door. Parked outside the hangar were ten heavy lift helicopters. Three other vertical takeoff aircraft, all third generation Ospreys, sat nearby. There were also two civilian tail draggers parked off to the side, both Cessna Bird Dogs, scouting aircraft used as far back as the Vietnam War.
I parked the Stingray in an electric-aircraft-only parking spot and climbed out. Opening a small hatch in the tarmac, I pulled down the Electro-Glider’s charge cord and plugged into the base’s power supply.
As I walked toward the hangar and the helicopters, I saw three people who looked to be in the middle of a briefing. One person excused himself and walked toward me. The man walked with military confidence, his jet-black hair cut to military spec. It was the first time I had seen Avro without his helmet. He hadn’t shaved that morning, which accented his square jawline. If it weren’t for the flight suit, I’d swear I was looking at a professional soccer player.
“Johnny! Glad you could make it.”
“Glad to help.” I was anxious, nervous and scared, but knew I was where I needed to be. “I’m still wondering how I’ll be of any use.”
“Let me dispel that confusion,” Avro said, shaking my hand. “There were two rescue squadrons on the West Coast. The 129th Rescue Wing at Moffat field…”
“I used to eat with those guys in the cafeteria at AMES.”
“The other was stationed at Edwards. We lost both squadrons. Those women and men were the best of the best.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Avro accepted my sympathies with a nod, “So here’s the plan. Each rescue helicopter is getting a civilian wingman. Your job will be to tag prospective targets for evacuation or termination.”
“Termination!”
“You heard me correct,” Avro said. “The helicopters are armed and we’ll have drone support. This is a war zone, John, and attrition is part of the strategy.”
“So you need us as decoys?”
“We’ll be adding an electronic countermeasures package to your aircraft. You’ll be fine.” I looked back at my plane, which from this angle, looked very much like a stingray. I wondered how it would hold up under fire. It was definitely maneuverable enough, but I’d need to rely heavy on countermeasures if I was going to be dodging bullets.
“When do we start?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we be at that briefing?”
“That’s not a briefing,” Avro answered. “Those pilots are waiting for their wingmen.”
“But what about those civilian aircraft? Where are their pilots?” I asked, glancing over at the Bird Dogs.
“The other pilots didn’t show. We’re having trouble finding pilots to fly into an area full of Cartel loyalists who think the government just tried to bomb them into oblivion.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Come with me. Let’s grab your SAR computer and countermeasures and get in the air.”
Metal shelves ran along the walls of the hangar. The shelves held devices of all sorts stacked in cubbies. Avro walked over to the wall, picking up a tablet and something that looked like a pipe bomb. That must be the countermeasure package, I thought.
“You got piss bottles?” Avro asked. “It’s gonna be a long day. Tomorrow we’ll get you a catheter.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I’ve got piss bottles.” I had water bottles in the cockpit that would do.
Avro tossed me a sharpie. “Label them, so you don’t accidently, well, you know.”
“Thanks for the advice.” I pocketed the sharpie.
Avro nodded, “All right boss, let’s get you set up.”
Back at the electro-glider Avro handed me the SAR flight computer. I took the device and walked towards the cockpit. The SAR computer had a flexible arm with a screw-clip on its end. I secured the tablet to the airframe inside the cockpit.
Avro headed to the tail. Using specialized quick-ties, he fastened the countermeasures device to the empennage.
“This is a good set up you’ve got here,” Avro said, running a hand along the wing.
“How so?” I asked, feeling ashamed to have shown up with an electric aircraft. Like early electric car owners facing questions about range anxiety, I worried there would be a similar stigma around electric aircraft.
“Most light aircraft top out at a hundred sixty knots. You can go north of two hundred. Also, other aircraft have to refuel about every three hours.”
“Technically, I need to quick-charge every three,” I said.
“Technically,” said Avro, “But we’ll be flying across the mountains where you can expect plenty of updrafts. That’s free gas for you.”
“True,” I said.
“And,” Avro said, “I can release a thousand volt mag-line behind the chopper. I notice that supercharger port you got on the roof.”
“You do, eh,” I said with a slight smile. “I think you know something about electro-gliders.”
“I do, actually. I sold this one to Eddie.”
Avro and I took off from Nellis and headed west. We were quite the pair, him in his Super Stallion, a beast of a machine, and me in my little Stingray. Avro’s helicopter would be heard for miles and shook the ground as it approached. My aircraft was barely audible. For a moment I felt unworthy, but as we climbed into the sky I realized the electro-glider was much faster than th
e Stallion. Any anxiety I had about being a drag on the operation drifted away.
We climbed up and over the red rocks to the west of Vegas, getting our first view of the mountains that had protected it from the air-blast. My engine cut out and switched to regeneration mode as the electro-glider soared along the windward side of a mountain range like a surfer on a wave.
We reached cruising altitude and completed our radio checks. To our left and right, snowcapped mountains rose beyond my aircraft’s operating ceiling. “Take the lead, Johnny,” Avro said over the radio. His voice came through my headset with perfect clarity. “Head north through Death Valley, then cut west at Yosemite. Rendezvous north of Sacramento. Let me know if you run into any trouble.”
“Roger that. See you on the other side.” I could see Avro in his cockpit on my starboard and I gave him a quick salute. He saluted back, and I wondered how he saw me through the tinted glass. I pushed my throttle forward and accelerated ahead of the lumbering chopper.
I swooped down over the remains of Yosemite Valley. Oh my God, I thought, looking at the devastation. Half Dome had broken off, embedding itself in the valley floor, while El Capitan had split in half like a V. A dozen multicolored tents near Glacier Point caught my attention. There was movement between the tents. I banked the aircraft around for a closer look. Six brown bears milled about between the campsites; three of the bears had their heads in coolers. By the look of it, the survivors had already been rescued, so I continued on.
I flew down from the mountains and into the foothills. The area reminded me of Pompeii: a city frozen in time. Cars were burnt to a crisp and several dead bodies lay nearby. I gagged, but held it in.
The landscape improved as I flew north. I let the throttle idle, the aircraft’s long wings allowing me to cruise at under forty knots. Besides the earthquake damage to the roads and buildings, the natural landscape looked unaffected. Birds circled in the breeze as if it were just another beautiful day.