Price For A Patriot

by F. Denis King

  The center fuel tank lay ahead. It seemed to grow out of the floor, reaching to within sixteen inches of the control cables, hydraulic lines and electrical wires above. It could not be bypassed. Light in hand, slithering like a snake, Daniel made his way across the fuel bladder and dropped to the floor on the far side. Moving in a crouch, he reached the forward bulkhead of aft cargo, and discovered a panel identical to the last. To prevent the hatchway from snapping fully shut and making it difficult to pull open from the other side, Daniel used a walrus tusk to create a handhold when he eased it shut from the other side. The overhead lights flared and the aft cargo net revealed its catch of neatly stacked cash packs, full of freshly printed currency.

  17

  The Flight Deck Crew; Meet Carson Brock

  In the cockpit, Captain Jim Murphy, a thirty-year veteran, called out, “Starting #1,” and flipped a switch to begin the sequence. Compressed air rushed in to spin the turbines and when revolutions per minute reached the required level, the First Officer raised the #1 start lever, adding fuel and ignition.

  “Light off,” the Engineer announced as he monitored the rising exhaust gas temperature and the increasing RPM. “EGT and RPM are stabilized.”

  “Roger,” Captain Murphy replied in the well-orchestrated series of commands, actions and responses. “Starting #3.”

  The sequence was repeated and with the two wing-mounted engines stabilized at idle, the Captain radioed the Ground Crew-Chief whose headset was plugged into the external comm panel on the left side of the fuselage, directly below the Captain.

  “Pull external power and air,” the Captain ordered.

  “Roger, Captain. Pulling power and air. Prepare for pushback.”

  With that, the external air compressor was shut down and its hose was pulled from its receptacle beneath the fuselage. The huge, electrical generator was shut down immediately afterward and its bulky power cord was disconnected too. With all access panels shut, the Crew Chief made a last check of the tow bar, making sure it was securely attached to the nose wheels. All was in readiness. The Crew Chief jumped aboard the powerful, low-slung tug, still in radio contact with the cockpit. The tug revved its diesel engine, blowing black smoke into the air, as it waited for the Captain’s next order.

  “Brakes released. You are clear to push.”

  “Roger. Brakes released. Clear to push.”

  As the giant bird began to roll rearward, Megan Soule, the #1 Flight Attendant, stepped into the cockpit.

  “Captain Murphy, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to meet you in Operations. We were late connecting from LaGuardia, and just barely made it. I was afraid we’d be replaced. Thanks for waiting.”

  “I’d like to take credit, Megan, but we were delayed waiting for the passengers and freight that came off a cancelled flight. Nonetheless, it’s nice to meet you. I’ll let these charming fellows introduce themselves.”

  The co-pilot or First Officer turned in his seat, saying, “Hi, Meg, I’m Greg Fox.”

  The Flight Officer, the pilot/engineer, said, “Hi Megan, these guys call me Charlie, but I prefer you call me ‘Often’. I’m yours for life.”

  Megan smacked the Engineer on the head. “Oh, you!” she said, playfully.

  “Beat me, mistreat me, but never ignore me.”

  “You behave, Charlie. I’m a married woman,” Megan said, punctuating her words with punches on his outstretched and imploring arms.

  Charlie laughed. “What a coincidence. I’m a married man. I knew we had a lot in common.” Charlie was a retired Navy Commander, now a junior Flight Officer, who enjoyed and nurtured his bad boy image.

  “Oh, brother! Captain I feel sorry for you. Does this guy fly with you all month?”

  “Yes,” Captain Murphy replied. “But it already seems much longer.”

  Megan laughed good-naturedly, and promised to return with freshly brewed coffee. As she closed the cockpit door she added, “This is going to be an interesting trip.”

  How right she was.

  Aft Cargo Invaded

  The net released its catch and eight cash packs were selected and removed. Daniel slid the boxes across the aluminum floor toward the access panel and then returned to re-secure the net. At the bulkhead, he pushed his fingers through the opening created by the tusk and pulled the hatch open. Using one cash pack as a vertical door stop, Daniel lifted and pushed the other seven packs through the opening to the other side before it was the doorstop’s turn to be hoisted up and over the sill into the mechanical space. This was not easy work. Each box seemed heavier than its advertised thirty-five pounds.

  The quiet, haunted house he transited just minutes before, now sounded like a busy machine shop. Daniel fished in his pockets for the foam earplugs his team had provided and placed one in his left ear. His right ear housed the tiny transceiver. The wireless battery pack for the radio was clipped to his waist, and as he was adjusting the volume, he heard Harold speak.

  “We’ve left the ramp and are on a taxiway now. The Captain hasn’t said which runway we’ll use for departure, but he did apologize for the flight delay and said we’d make up some time by departing to the north. Whatever. I just know that’s good for us because Phil said, ‘North means a longer taxi time.’ From my window I can see planes in line ahead of us turning west, so it’s a sure thing we’ll be following them across the bridge to the other side of the airport. That’s the good news, Daniel; the bad news is we’re taxiing pretty fast. Over.”

  “Roger that. Keep me posted.” Moving in a crouch, Daniel lugged each cash pack from the forward bulkhead of aft cargo to the center tank fuel bladder, stopping only briefly to wipe the sweat from his eyes. The clock was running and he was in the race of his life. Holding the Mini Maglite in his teeth, Daniel lifted one pack from his newly placed stack and muscled it onto the bladder. The second pack was placed behind the first and used to shove the first pack forward, and then a third and forth were placed behind the second and shoved forward forcing the first to fall onto the floor on the far side. It was exhausting work that would be easier if Daniel were kneeling but the bladder height was just a little too high for that. He continued the backbreaking process of lifting, placing, pushing. When the last of eight packs had been pushed as far forward as possible, Daniel hugged the tank with wide spread arms and pulled and wiggled his way on top alongside the last three packs waiting for the next shove. With one arm extended toward the packs, he tried to sweep them forward in the queue. They wouldn’t budge. He needed leverage.

  As he raised his right shoulder to increase power and gain mechanical advantage something struck him. The force of the blow spun his upper body to the right and flung his arm rearward. The Mini Mag flashlight followed when his head was whipped in the same direction. It clattered and rolled on the metal floor behind him as another object a second later grazed his ear like a middleweight champion’s jab. Instinctively, Daniel flattened his body onto the cool surface of the tank, ducking the blows of his unseen attacker whose assault continued to whistle overhead. Painfully, he slithered off the tank like a snake in retreat. He crawled to the beam of light that vibrated on the trembling floor, clutched it and aimed. Now illuminated, he could see a hard rubber disc attached to a cable. It had emerged from the shadows to strike him, like a predator from a cave, snapping back and forth. Now the cables were still. Daniel reasoned these must be the flight control cables Phil had described. The pilots had just tested the ailerons, elevators, and rudders.

  “Daniel, this is Harold, over.”

  “Go, Harold.”

  “We just caught a break. The pilot is taxiing south for a north takeoff. That’s worth at least five minutes. How’s it coming?”

  “I need the five but it’s a walk in the park.” The reminder that he didn’t have all day to solve his problems energized Daniel. He scrambled back to the tank. Ignoring the burning sensation in his shoulder, he r
emounted the tank, careful to stay well below the cables that seemed asleep but might snap at him at any moment. He was transported back in time to basic training, slipping beneath barbed wire toward his objective while live rounds zinged overhead.

  With gritted teeth, Daniel wrestled the packs, one at a time, over the edge of the tank. It was painful and exhausting work. When the last pack tumbled out of sight, Daniel briefly rested his forehead on the cool surface before sliding head first into oblivion. He landed on the jumble of packs with a sense of relief and a momentary lapse of memory. He stood. The impact of his head colliding with a heating duct staggered him. He lost his balance and tripped over the boxes strewn at his feet and plunged into the darkness. Lying on his back, atop boxes cocked at various angles, he was only vaguely aware of the corners that dug into his flesh. He wasn’t yet ready to rise.

  The noise level in the mechanical spaces increased dramatically as the tail mounted center engine, spun to life. Takeoff was imminent.

  “Daniel, come in.”

  No answer. Daniel squeezed his eyes tightly shut and opened them, and did that once again.

  “Daniel, do you read?”

  He rolled over. Pushing with his arms and pulling with his legs, he managed to get his knees beneath him and sat on his haunches. The flashlight now cast a warm glow beneath the jumble of cash packs. “I read you five square.”

  “Had me worried brother. The Captain said we’re number two for takeoff.”

  “Well, that’s just wonderful,” he said while fumbling for the source of light that glowed beneath the cash packs. Finding it, he clamped his teeth around it, freeing his hands for work. He pushed desperately through the pile of boxes until his feet found purchase on the deck, and hunched over like a chimp, he heaved the boxes forward. Sweat stung his eyes and dripped from his face. His hands swept the area around him feeling for scattered packs. Swiveling left and right, Daniel moved the circle of light to reveal what he had touched and another pack soon skidded and tumbled forward to join the pile at the bulkhead.

  The engines began to spool up. The floor shook.

  “Holy Mother!” Daniel cried as he burrowed through the boxes to reach the panel that would lead to mid cargo and safety. The oxygen cylinder had held the door partially open waiting for his return, but the tightly sprung panel was resolutely opposed and bit down on the cylinder, as if to say, “You cannot enter.” Daniel pushed on the door to no avail, and then heaved a pack into it, adding his weight to the effort. The gap widened, the hinged panel swung upward and the metal tube fell away to clatter on the aluminum floor.

  The engines briefly howled as the number-two engine joined its wing-mounted mates. Thrust increased and the big bird moved swiftly forward before the howl again subsided to a powerful growl. The engines breathed their eagerness to race, like horses at the starting gate. Daniel knew this was the calm before the storm. The aircraft was probably on the runway awaiting word from the tower.

  “Daniel, the Captain told the Flight Attendants to prepare for takeoff. We’re in position now.”

  Daniel pushed the pack over the sill and from his knees, lifted and shoved a second cash pack into the first, but it was stuck fast. The engines roared with sudden fury and the airframe shook. Boxes danced on the floor as did his knees and Daniel inched rearward. On the flight deck, Greg Fox had called out, “eighty knots,” and checked the Captain’s airspeed indicator for agreement. Seconds later, he called out, “V1, rotate,” followed by “V2”. The aircraft had reached “refusal speed,” the speed at which it was safer to continue than to stop on the remaining runway. Four primary forces were acting on the airplane at this critical juncture: Thrust had overcome drag and lift had overcome weight. The Captain manipulated these forces by pulling back on the yoke. The elevators responded and the nose tilted suddenly upward. Daniel was sitting on his haunches holding the second cash pack on his thighs when Captain Murphy continued to smoothly rotate the aircraft skyward. Charlie, the Engineer, guarded the throttles as the heavy machine defying logic but following the laws of physics, leapt into the air. The Captain increased his speed to V2 + 10 knots, and held it, by increasing the deck angle, trading speed for altitude.

  Daniel dived forward to prevent being flipped onto his back, and clung to the cash pack like a life preserver. As the nose angled upward, both sailed downstream.

  At one thousand feet Captain Murphy lowered the nose and Charlie reduced power by pulling the throttles backward to a setting appropriate for sustained climb. Daniel was disconsolate. He had tried but failed. And he recalled Phil’s warning: “At altitude, Daniel will need supplemental oxygen to survive in the unpressurized mechanical spaces. At higher altitudes, even with oxygen, he can’t last long.” Daniel’s oxygen bottle was in mid cargo and he had no idea of the aircraft’s altitude. He wondered if he was already hypoxic and might keel over at any moment. If he did, it wouldn’t be while sitting on his ass. With steely determination, he struggled uphill again.

  On the flight deck, Charlie swiveled his seat to face the engineering panel. “Captain, we’ve got a pressurization problem.”

  “Are both packs on?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Can you control it?”

  “I’m working to close the hole, but we may have a ruptured duct.”

  “Okay, Charlie, keep me advised. I’ll slow the climb and request permission to level at 5,000 feet.”

  Below deck, Daniel felt the rush of air pouring through the opening he had created but didn’t comprehend its significance. The mechanical space was an unpressurized area, and with the hatch open, the huge air-conditioning and pressurization packs couldn’t compensate for the leak in the system. The entire aircraft was unpressurized.

  “Sorry, Captain, I can’t control the pressure,” the engineer ruefully announced.

  Without preamble, the Captain radioed, “Departure Control, Global six twenty, we need vectors to return to base.”

  “Roger, Global Six twenty, do you need CFR?”

  “Negative, no assistance required, just a pressurization problem we have to get checked out on the ground.” Turning to Greg, Murphy said, “I hate to disappoint the Crash, Fire, Rescue team. I know they’d love to scramble, if only for the practice.”

  Departure Control gave a series of vectors and descent commands to place Global 620 in the stream of arriving aircraft. Captain Murphy had declined priority treatment, because this was an inconvenience, not an emergency. His decision to decline priority handling gave Daniel the time he needed to put the last of the cartons into mid-cargo and crawl through himself. Holding the panel’s edge in both hands he used his foot to shove the box aside that had held the panel open. When released, the panel slammed shut like an alligator’s mouth.

  Immediately, Charlie noticed. “Captain, the hole has closed. We’re good to go.” Without responding to Charlie, the Captain keyed his mike saying, “Departure Control, Global 620 requests departure vectors. Cancel RTB.”

  “Roger, Global 620, understand cancel RTB, turn to three two zero degrees, initial vector to rejoin the departure.”

  Daniel pressed his back into the aft bulkhead of the mid-cargo compartment, and closed his eyes, exhausted. At level-off altitude twenty minutes later, engine power was reduced from climb to cruise thrust making the cargo hold just a little quieter. Daniel, now somewhat rested, stood briefly in a crouch, before stretching in the luxurious, lighted space. At his feet, lay a yellow oxygen mask with clear plastic tubing. The tube was attached to the oxygen cylinder he had used as a crowbar. He donned the mask, and turned the red control knob counterclockwise. A cool rush of oxygen flowed from the mask and he breathed deeply. Minutes later, refreshed, he closed the valve and laid the cylinder near the galley hatch, checked his watch and thought ahead to what would follow.

  Harold was ticketed in 37C and had the row to himself. Before departure, however, he slipped across to
37 A, a window seat. From there he had seen Phil speaking to a well dressed man on the ramp, a man who later climbed the external stairs to the aircraft. He had to be the courier. He was now seated in 39 J on the opposite side of the cabin. After the seat belt sign was turned off, Harold continued with his detective work. He thought he’d check out the courier who wouldn’t know him from Adam. It was exciting and a little dangerous. Harold eased out of his seat and slipped back to the lavatory, nonchalantly scanning the faces of passengers as he walked. He was careful not to let his gaze rest on anyone. What he noticed was that only the courier looked up as he passed, and it startled him. When he emerged from the lav, the courier was next in line. Was he staring? “If his intention was to get a good make on me,” Harold thought, “he did, but chances are I’m imagining things.” Nonetheless, Harold swore off detective work and returned to his seat.

  Global Flight 620 had been handed off by Departure Control to Fort Worth Center long ago and was passing over Plainview, Texas, north of Lubbock, when beverage service began in Coach. Kerrie Lettieri, was working the #2 position on this crew of eight Flight Attendants, and had taken the P-Lift to her station in the lower galley fifteen minutes earlier. Daniel heard her rummaging around shortly after she arrived. Megan, the #1, had called on interphone telling Kerrie to commence the service. Dutifully, she rolled the first of many carts to the C-Lift for the ride topside.

  Meet Carson Brock

  In First Class, the beverage service had begun much earlier. Mr. Carson Brock had already drained his second Bloody Mary and hoped his plight would soon be recognized. He was a heavyset man with thinning hair and rubbery jowls. Tiny spider veins on his nose and cheeks gave him a ruddy glow that belied his true condition. Carson held his glass chest high and gently swirled the melting cubes by habit, as he scanned the cabin for help. When Megan brought his last drink a hundred years ago, he had jokingly held the glass at eye level and scribed an imaginary line on the glass saying, “Darlin’, when this glass gets to that level, we have a bona fide emergency on our hands.”