by C. J. Stott
“Oh? What seems to be the matter with those releases?”
“On 100, the computer went crazy. It added 45,000 pounds to the normal release.”
He put his cigarette down, looked at Becky over the top of his glasses, and turned back to his computer screen. That amount was busted and the new amount of shown to be 185,000. Finally at the bottom of the screen, Lazlo read, “CAPT - WEBBER. D.” He made several additional keystrokes, and instantly, the screen blinked and came to life. Silently, the computer screen came to a stop and displayed more information about Flight 100.
His thoughts interrupted his speech. He slowly continued, “Let me look at something here.” With several keystrokes he instructed the computer to rework the flight plan for 100 from San Francisco to New York. Within seconds, the task was completed. Lazlo looked at the numbers and saw that the computer still insisted on ordering 185,000 pounds of fuel for Flight 100.
“You see, these new computers have a memory. It doesn’t just add one hour additional holding fuel, it looks at the history of this segment from San Francisco to New York, the departure time, the arrival time, the historical fuel consumption patterns for this particular 747, the anticipated weather, winds and various altitude information, then it decides what is an appropriate fuel load.” He was out of breath.
He pressed two keys and immediately the screen went blank, and then came back to life with more detailed information. He studied this latest information on Flight 100.
Becky interrupted, “San Fran ops just sent us a message on the printer about the fuel load for 100.”
She waited for his response. She heard none, looked to him for a comment, then slowly said, “ So...I sent a message that we were reviewing the load and would get back to them...I hope that was okay.”
When she said, “okay,” she winced.
Lazlo looked up at her, but said nothing.
Impulsively, he silently and quickly pressed several keys on the computer terminal. The screen blinked immediately filled from top to bottom with more data about Flight 100. The displayed data included an aircraft maintenance history, taxi fuel burn history, even a two-week history of departure and arrival delays. He gave a Germanic nod of his head and seemed satisfied. Twice the screen blinked, but then provided him with the names of the cockpit and cabin crew on Flight 100. The Captain’s name was first. The list ended with last of the flight attendants.
Lazlo ran the cursor over the Captain’s name and pressed a function key. The computer responded with the FEI, Flight Experience Inventory, from which Lazlo quickly determined that Captain Don Webber was quite new on the 747.
Even though Captain Webber had been to flight school on the aircraft just a year ago, he had only flown the 747 for the past five months. He had only accumulated 151 flight hours on the 747, which Lazlo considered quite low. The computer prompted Lazlo to advance the screen. He looked up the Flight Experience Inventory of the First Officer, Fredrick Paul O’Day, which showed O’Day had been on the 747, both on International as well as Domestic operations, for more than five years, with 4,169 hours accumulated total flight time.
Based on raw data for the aircraft and normal fuel consumption, the planned fuel load suggested by the computer was excessive. Lazlo gave careful consideration to Don Webber’s being new on the aircraft and then carefully considered the route and arrival weather. After a moment of thoughtful deliberation, he decided not to change Flight 100’s planned fuel.
The old days intruded on his thoughts. In times past, he had personally known every captain and most of the copilots. Of course, there had only been two hundred captains and copilots. Today, there were more than three thousand pilots, each with a place on the pilot seniority list. The only way to keep track of all the crews and their assigned flights was with the computer. He muttered to himself, “Vut ever happened to da good old days?”
“Beg your pardon, Sir. Were you talking to me?”
He looked at Becky quizzically. Then he paused, lit a cigarette and said, “No. No, Becky. I wasn’t taking to you. I was chust mumbling to myself.”
His quizzical glance changed to one of wistful thinking as he said, “Send a message to San Fran Ops. Advise them the 185,000 pound fuel load plus taxi fuel of 5,000 pounds on Flight 100 stands.”
Chapter 11
07:05 Pacific Standard Time
San Francisco International Airport
The sun had just begun to backlight the East Bay hills and threw long shadows, with golden highlights, across San Francisco Bay. Captain Webber took a front seat in the old, converted school bus from the employee’s parking lot to the hangar and terminal. He tossed his bags on the luggage rack, made small talk with the driver and settled into his seat.
Mindlessly, his thoughts drifted until memories of Kathryn Lundgren raced through his mind as he clearly remembered his last encounter with her in New York. They had gone to a small, Italian old time restaurant in the Village. He remembered the name with great clarity - Mineta Tavern on MacDougal Street in New York.
After dinner they walked half a mile back to her apartment, taking the long way back. Once inside he started to undress her, but she resisted his advances.
Don’s variety of moods climbed the scale; anger, frustration and then finally an apology. Kathryn had reluctantly invited him to spend the night, but had intentionally not invited him to sleep with her. Don slept on the couch. After a fitful night, the next morning he decided this was the last time he was going to see her. He was not going to be pushed and pulled by anyone, even by this amazingly beautiful woman.
The next morning she walked out of the bathroom into her living room and slowly came toward him. She wore a man’s long sleeve oxford cloth dress shirt. Not one of his, he recalled.
Later that same morning they left her apartment for a leisurely brunch. During the meal, they only talked about superficial things. By the end of their lunch, Don was thoroughly confused.
Kathryn laughingly dragged him back to her apartment, where they made love during much of the early afternoon until it was time for him to catch a taxi to back to the Milford Plaza, the crew hotel in Manhattan. The rough ride across the tarmac brought him back to San Francisco and his thoughts of Kathryn were placed on hold.
Don looked through a dirty window on the bus as they approached the Employee entrance at the hangar. As usual, there were no guards on duty in the small security hut adjacent to the entrance. Don mused to himself, “That probably made sense, seeing as no one had ever hijacked an airplane hangar or the crew bus.”
The American Airlines Flight Attendant who had gotten on the bus at the last stop looked at him oddly as he spoke to no one in particular.
Don felt embarrassed when he realized she was watching him. To fend off these feelings of foolishness, he looked directly at her and said, “With the increases in terrorism attacks against the airlines, airport security should be stepped up.”
She smiled her best. A very non-committal grin, then in a laconic and indifferent voice said, “Whatever you say, Captain.”
The ancient school bus finally groaned and shuddered to a stop in front of the domestic terminal. Don waited for the American Airlines Flight Attendant to exit, grabbed his bag and navigation kit and lightly jumped off the last step onto the concrete deck. He dropped his flight kit on the ramp and slipped into his raincoat, then pressed his uniform hat squarely on his head.
He had only recently started to wear his hat, as a concession to Kathryn. She said the contrast between the dark charcoal color of his hat and his thick white hair made him look even more the part of an airline captain. “So handsome. So dashing,” she had said.
In his mind’s eye, he felt he was the personification of an airline captain. He smiled as he wore his raincoat collar turned up and his hat at just the right angle. Don grabbed his bags, quickly walked through the open entrance.
Don entered operations on a lower level of the main passenger terminal and was assaulted by the vibrant colors used in this
part of the building. Some time ago, upper management at the airline had hired an industrial psychologist. Their professional and clinical credo must have been, “A colorful work place is a productive work place.”
The consultant had been long gone from the airline business in San Francisco. However, her colorful recommendations seemed to live forever.
He rounded the last corner and nearly collided with a ramp service person. She was dressed in the dark brown pants, tan long sleeve shirt, a brown vest and a baseball cap which was set on top of her sun-bleached blond hair. Her cap held the airline emblem, a union badge, and a giant button calling for freedom of choice in abortion.
He quickly stepped aside to let her pass and apologized, “Sorry, blind intersection.”
“That’s okay.” She paused, looked at him and asked, “Are you the Captain on 100 today?”
“Yes. Afraid so.” He looked at her. She was young with an impish air about her. She queried, “You’ve already been fueled. Is 185 plus 5 for taxi going to be ok?”
She waited, aimlessly rocking from one foot to the other. “If it isn’t, let me know. It’s no big deal. I’m still hooked up.”
He thought for a moment and tried to remember the last fuel load he had to New York. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen the weather or the flight plan for New York. I’ll let you know.”
Don quickly calculated that 5 1/2 hours flying time to New York at an average of 25,000 pounds per hour would be about 140,000 pounds. He looked at her. “Actually, 185,000 probably is too much.”
He considered it, smiled and said, “Tell you what. I’m sure that a 185 will be okay, maybe more than okay.” She made no pretense of leaving but continued to rock back and forth, “Why don’t you go ahead and disconnect. I can’t see that we’ll need any more fuel.”
She touched the bill of her cap turned and said, “Thanks a lot, Skipper. I have three other flights to fuel this morning and I’m running late.”
She turned toward the hall, looked over her shoulder. “See you on your next trip.” She then disappeared down the mustard colored hall. He caught a brief whiff of her sweet perfume, but thought no perfume could mask the even stronger lingering odor of jet fuel.
Chapter 12
07:10 Pacific Standard Time
San Francisco International Airport
The office in flight planning was a mess as usual. The graveyard crew used this area for their break room. The desks were covered with day-old newspapers. Half-full coffee cups and yesterday’s copy of the Racing Form scattered about on the chairs and floor. Blank air traffic control flight planning sheets, pilot bid forms for vacation slots and expense reimbursement pads. With disgust, he shoved some of the clutter toward the round waste bucket at the end of the table.
This basket had not escaped the psychologist’s brush. The barrel was marked vertically, from bottom to top, in large green letters, “REFUSE.” An unknown author had written in indelible felt tip pen, “I REFUSE to empty this can.”
Don went to the counter and slid open the clear glass window that separated the operations dispatch clerks and flight crew schedulers from the rest of the flight planning office.
Through the opened window Don saw a pilot who he had previously seen in the employee’s parking lot this morning. He was taller than Don, probably close to 6’ 3”. He was talking to Shirley, an overweight Teletype operator in her mid 40s. Don thought she probably was a divorced single parent, earnestly looking for a husband. She gave her rapt and uninterrupted attention to the pilot, who was telling her what appeared to be an incredibly funny story.
Don reached through the open window and across the counter, where he rummaged through the disorganized pile of envelopes until he found the manila and red flight dispatch envelope for flight 100. The top piece of paper was the completed aircraft fueling slip, on the bottom he saw a happy face plus a scrawl, “Have A Nice Day...Suzi.” Don thought the notation probably had the same sincerity as a waitress’ sentiment at an airport coffee shop.
Don concentrated on the documents as he scanned information regarding Flight 100. More than twenty five pages covered pre-planned routes, fuel consumption on various routes and altitudes, departure, enroute and terminal weather forecasts. He carefully read certain messages, ignored most others and then from experience, reread several pertinent items.
Without looking, Don became aware someone was standing behind him. He turned and saw another pilot. They looked at each other and he smiled. Don noticed that both of his uniform shirt pockets were filled with pens, pencils and aircraft pocket reference cards.
He seemed chunky, not thin. Maybe in his early forties. He had thinning sandy blonde hair, and his face had a pinched look. The pilot wore steel framed glasses, the lenses of which were perfectly round, but too small for his face, so much so that the centers of the lenses did not line up with the pupils of his eyes. He gazed at Don through the outer third of each lens. He looked as though he had mistakenly put on a pair of children’s glasses.
They spoke at the same time. “I’m Stan Kurtz, Flight Engineer on 100 today.”
“Glad to meet you. I’m Don Webber. How long you been on the ‘47?” Don didn’t wait or pause for an answer, but continued, “I’m fairly new on the bird. Just over a year, but I haven’t flown her much, been on reserve call. Any information or insights you might have would be appreciated.”
Stan thought that was a nice comment for a new guy on the airplane. “Afraid I won’t be of too much help in that area, I just went to school last spring.”
Don smiled. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to keep an eye on each other.”
Stan looked at the fuel slip, tapped the happy face with his pencil, “Suzi’s quite a gal. She’s a good kid. Never a problem with her work, like some of the stations.” Stan picked up the fuel paperwork. “It never ceases to amaze me. Look at this. She’s only off by 35 gallons. In New York, they’d be doing well if they hit the fuel load within 500 gallons.”
Don looked at the fuel slip, but was not clear on what Stan was talking about. “I almost ran her down in the hallway this morning.”
Briefly, Don thought about the mixed smell of Suzi’s perfume and kerosene. His mind wandered to Kathryn’s perfume, when he realized Stan was still talking to him.
“Why do we have so much fuel today, is the weather that bad in New York? I don’t remember ever having seen a Kennedy fuel load like this before.”
“Sorry, Stan. What did you say?”
Stan repeated his observations and Don responded, “I don’t know, I haven’t had a chance to check the weather or the flight release. But like you, I can’t for the life of me figure why we have so much fuel.”
Stan did some rapid mental calculations and said, “Makes no sense to me either, we can’t burn more than 125 or 130 tops, even if they drag us way out over the water for a Canarsie arrival. We have enough fuel to hold for over two hours. Or, we’d have enough fuel to make Atlanta our alternate. Looks like somebody wasn’t doing their homework.”
Don shrugged his shoulders and said, “Maybe it had something to do with the fact that 100 was supposed to have been a DC-10 and then they put a 747 on for today.”
Stan looked at him through his off-centered glasses. “Don’t think so. It’s been set up for a 747 for the past couple of days.”
Don turned his back to Stan and started to look at the weather for the east coast arrival corridor from Boston to Washington, D. C. The weather was not particularly good. Later in the forecast period, there would be a gradual dissipation, followed by a general clearing with improved visibility. Don confirmed his unwritten declaration that JFK again would have lengthy delays at their scheduled local arrival time at 17:30.
To no one in particular, he said, “We’re going to be right in the thick of the evening departure rush at Kennedy.”
Stan thought, “If weather were to be a problem, the departures would start to back up. Eventually, the airport would become saturated and the inbound arrivals
would have to start airborne holding in established patterns near the three main airports in New York - JFK, LaGuardia and Newark.”
Don shrugged his shoulders again and thought, maybe the dispatcher knows something that we don’t. Stan’s remarks were muffled by the roaring laughter coming from the other side of the counter.
Stan and Don both looked across the room and saw the chunky teletype operator laughing hard, so hard she wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her pudgy hands, each finger covered with a gold-colored ring.
For some reason, Don assumed that perhaps the mirth maker was his copilot.
In a harried voice, with a bit of frustration, Don spoke loudly to the pilot across the room, “Are you on 100 today?”
Fred O’Day nodded in the affirmative.
“Do you think you can tear yourself away from the ladies,” then with more than a touch of sarcasm, “and give me a hand with this flight plan?” Don looked at his Rolex and snapped, “Which, I might add, leaves in less than an hour.”
The copilot was put off by this rude introduction by the Captain with whom he would spend the next six or seven hours. Fred had earlier looked at the weather and the flight plan. He knew that dispatch added Pittsburgh as an alternate for JFK. He had also noticed the large fuel increase.
Casually, Fred walked over to Don and Stan, removed his uniform hat and tossed in on the counter, where it spun and slid to a stop a couple of feet from them. Fred decided the Captain’s temperamental outburst probably was nothing more than the subconscious pleading of an unsure individual. Most likely one of those who verbalized their insecurities by being brusque and irritable. His outburst about planning for their 747 trip was another not-so-subtle clue the Captain was unsure of himself in the aircraft. He quietly wondered where the airline got such men.
Fred unbuttoned his uniform jacket and reached past Don and picked up the contents of the flight information envelope. He again read the information for the second time this morning. He reflected on the odd personality of Don Webber.