Flying Blind

by Howard Hammerman

  “We might have left another bag in the car.”

  “What car?” Maria asked.

  “The car we burned with the bodies.”

  “What bodies?”

  “Henry’s and the two guys who attacked us.”

  “You burned more than a half-million dollars in cash?”

  “I think so.”

  She slapped my face again. I was getting used to it.

  “Are we in this together or not? Tell me now. No more lies.”

  “No more lies.” I nodded, trying to make her see I was sincere.

  “Are you sure?”

  “You and me. No more lies.”

  “What were you going to do with the cash in the bank?”

  “I was going to take about ten thousand out each month until I could find a job. It was going to support my family for at least five years. That’s before I rescued you at the airport. Now, somehow, I need to get it to my family. If I’m with you, it means I can’t be with my family. I owe them something.”

  Maria nodded, turned her back, and started putting on her clothes. I did the same. By the time we were both dressed, she had a solution.

  “Okay, the money should go to your wife. It would be nearly impossible for us to get it anyway. Write your wife a letter. Don’t go into a long story about love and all that. Keep it business-like. The truth is you’re toxic. You’re too dangerous to be with your family.

  “Tell your wife how to get the money and enclose a key and the receipt. Once we sell the drugs, we’ll go to Jamaica and give Richard’s sister her share.”

  “What do we do when the money runs out?”

  “We’ll think of something else. You’re smart. It’s time for you to get creative.”

  We found a truck stop not far from the airport. While Maria bought food and water, I mailed the envelope to my wife at her parents’ address. My hand shook as I dropped the envelope into the mailbox. I tried not to think about Beth’s face when she opened the envelope. I could imagine what her father would say. Would I ever see my daughters again? Would they hate me?

  “All done?” Maria asked.

  “All done.”

  “Let’s fly.”

  Chapter 18

  Flying Blind

  We left the motel at six in the morning on the longest day of the year. The rain continued unabated. The car radio offered no encouragement: “The east coast from Savannah, Georgia to Boston is socked in. There’s a hundred percent chance of rain — heavy at times. Many flights are canceled or delayed.”

  Maria looked worried. “Can we still fly?”

  “Yes, I’ll file an IFR flight plan.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I go to the FAA website and fill out a form that tells them where we’re going and how we’ll get there. We’ll be in clouds the whole way. Don’t worry. I have an autopilot. It won’t be hard. I’ve done this before. It might be scary at first because you won’t be able to see anything out the window. We’ll be flying blind.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “Yes. Trust me.”

  Maria lit another cigarette and made the sign of the cross.

  “Does that help?”

  “It can’t hurt.”

  We parked in the designated spot at the airport. Before I could get out of the car, Maria said, “I never wanted to break up your marriage. This week has been a royal fuck-up from beginning to end.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you regret meeting me?”

  “I regret hurting my wife and kids. That will stay with me the rest of my life. I’m not spiritual, but somehow I feel you and me were meant to be together. You get me. Even when we fight, we fight in a more meaningful way. Bottom line, lady — you’re stuck with me.”

  “You didn’t mention our sex together.”

  “That was … that is amazing. I’ve been thinking of things I want to do with you when we get to New York.”

  Maria smiled. “I can think of some things as well. How long will it take to get there?”

  “About three hours. A lot depends on the weather.”

  “And you’re sure we’ll be safe?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Maria started laughing as we waited at a light.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s really funny, Chico. Muy rico. Do you know about Narcocorridos?”

  “No.”

  “Narcocorridos are ballads about the Mexican drug gangs. They celebrate the cleverness of the gangs and ridicule the stupidity of the police. They’re all the rage in Mexico and in the border states. As soon as your story gets out, someone will write a narcocorrido about a clueless college professor and how he took down a drug deal worth millions of dollars. The Cartel won’t be amused. Aye, Chico, estamos en un mundo de mierda — we’re in a world of shit.”

  I broke the depressing silence. “Let’s get out of here.”

  ***

  The clouds hung about two-hundred feet over the runway. Maria transferred our luggage into the plane while I went to the office to pay for the fuel. The sole employee was surprised to see me. “You didn’t need to bring the car back so soon. I don’t expect you’ll be flying in this soup.”

  “Actually, I need to get going. Did you fill both tanks?”

  “Yep. Here’s the bill. You sure you want to fly? The weather service says there’s fog and rain all up and down the east coast. They’re predicting the rain will come again real soon.”

  “We’ll be fine. I’ll just file an IFR flight plan.”

  “Suit yourself. The computer’s over there.”

  The flight plan form asks for the pilot’s name, the plane’s tail number and details regarding the origin, destination, altitude, and route. I thought about entering false information, but there were too many ways to get it wrong. Not all pilots or airplanes are IFR certified. On the other hand, I was worried that the FAA might have published some sort of all-points alert for my plane. Suppressing my anxiety, I entered the truth then pressed the enter key. The approval came back immediately. I had fifteen minutes to get off the ground and into the air.

  I ran back to the plane just as the annoying drizzle turned into a downpour. Maria read the checklist.

  “Set radio frequencies.”

  “Check, frequencies set to the common airport frequency and FAA control.”

  “Set altimeter.”

  “Check.” I turned the knob, so the altimeter matched the airport altitude.

  “Set transponder.”

  “Check.” I entered the code from the website.

  I pressed the radio button and announced, “N Two Three Five Tango departing runway ten, heading east.”

  The old man in the office responded. “Read you loud and clear Tango. Have a safe flight.”

  Even then, I could have changed my mind. Richard-like, I could have turned to Maria and said, “Me plans dey be changed,” but I didn’t. I was caught like a leaf in a swiftly flowing stream.

  I released the brakes. Maria put her hand over mine. Together we advanced the throttle and started to roll.

  Seconds later our tires left the pavement. I pressed the microphone button and said, “Morgantown Center, this is Cessna N Two Three Five Tango, airborne out of Cumberland, Maryland, IFR to Caldwell, New Jersey.”

  The controller replied: “Roger, Tango climb and maintain 7000, proceed en route.”

  We continued to climb. First, the cars disappeared, the smaller buildings followed then the trees. For a moment only the church tower peeked through the haze — a narrow, wooden island in a white sea of fog. Then it disappeared as well.

  Maria held her crucifix and muttered a prayer in Spanish as the clouds closed in.

  It’s hard to convey the sense of spatial confusion while flying blind. Normally we depend on outside clues to let us know which way is right, left, up, or down. There are no visual cues in the clouds. My instructors taught me not to look for any. Pilots, who look outside their cockpits while flying
blind, often end up as morbid statistics.

  I had to do four things at the same time. Maintain the proper heading to the next waypoint, stay within one hundred feet of the assigned altitude, calculate the heading to the next waypoint, and communicate with ATC. That’s a lot. That’s why, over my wife’s objections, I used one of our credit cards to purchase a $10,000 autopilot. It manages the first two tasks, leaving me free to handle the rest.

  I clicked the button marked “ON.” Normally, a green light would blink four times, then the servo motors would take control of the yoke. This time the red “FAULT” light illuminated. I turned the device off, then on again, pressing the button more forcefully. Come on you expensive hunk of junk. Take over!

  The extra force didn’t make a difference. The “FAULT” light stayed on. I would have to fly by hand.

  “Shit. The autopilot isn’t working. I need you to help.”

  “I don’t know anything about flying an airplane. You said that you knew what you were doing. Let’s land and rent a car.”

  “Calm down. We’ll be okay. Take a breath.”

  “Dios mio. What the fuck have I gotten into.”

  “We’ll be fine. Your job is to keep the plane at 7,000 feet. If we lose altitude, pull up on the yoke. If we go up by more than a few feet, push down. Do it gently. I’ll be here to help.”

  “How do I know if we’re at 7,000 feet?”

  “You have two gauges. This one tells you the altitude. This one tells you your rate of climb or descent. Try to keep it at zero. If you see that we’re climbing, push down. If you see that we’re going down, pull up. That’s all you need to do.”

  “That’s all I need to do. What will you do?”

  “Everything else.”

  “Madre de Dios. She put her shaking hands on the controls. “I’ll do the best I can.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll help.”

  I took responsibility for the heading, navigation, and communication. Fortunately, there was almost no wind. We were able to fly almost directly to each waypoint without having to correct for a crosswind.

  As I crossed each waypoint, I contacted the appropriate control facility, checked in and let them know my estimated time of arrival at the next waypoint. I tracked our progress on the chart in my lap. We were heading almost directly east toward Smyrna, Delaware where I planned to turn north towards New Jersey.

  Other pilots in other airplanes followed the same route. We were an airborne community, each depending on the others to stay alive.

  ***

  Just west of Smyrna and forty-five minutes into our flight, ATC announced: “Cessna N Two Three Five Tango, you are hereby directed to change course immediately and land at Dover Air Force Base. Descend to 2000 feet, now. Turn left and head north. We have you on radar and will direct you to runway ten. Acknowledge.”

  That type of announcement was reserved only for hijacking and national emergencies. I knew the police would be waiting. I tried not to show my panic.

  Before I could respond, Maria asked, “What does that mean? Do we have to land?”

  “Yes, they want to talk to us.”

  “It’s the police, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess they found us.”

  “Do something! They’ll throw us in jail.”

  “There’s nothing I can do. They have us on radar. We better dump the cocaine.”

  “No fucking way! Anyway, they’ll find traces all over us and in the plane.”

  ATC broadcast again. This time the speaker had a deeper voice. “Cessna N Two Three Five Tango, you are directed to change course and land immediately. Click your microphone twice if you can’t respond.”

  Maria slapped my hand away from the controls. “Dan, we’re not gonna land. I’m not going to prison. My sister died in prison. I’ll kill myself first.”

  My finger hesitated over the transmit button.

  The FAA controller repeated the order: “Cessna, did you copy? You are instructed to land now!”

  Maria turned off the radio. The woman was a quick learner.

  “What are you doing?” I yelled. “We have to land. That was an order.”

  “Fuck their order. We’re not landing. I’m not talking to the cops. I’m not going to prison. Think of something.”

  I ignored her protests and reduced power. I would use my GPS to find the airport.

  “No,” Maria shouted. She pushed the yoke all the way forward. The plane pointed toward the Delaware farmland at a sixty-degree angle. We’re gonna die.

  The plane spun clockwise. I felt like throwing up.

  “Maria, we’re gonna crash!”

  She didn’t respond.

  Our airspeed crept close to the red line. Over the red line, planes can lose their wings.

  We passed six-thousand feet in a blink of an eye. Then five-thousand, then four-thousand. Only dumb luck kept us from hitting other aircraft.

  “We’re not landing at some fucking Air Force base!” she screamed.

  I pulled the yoke up with enough force to overpower her. We leveled out. She let go. We started to climb. Tears streamed down her face. She looked like a cat cornered by a pit bull at the end of an alley.

  “Maria, it’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay. I’m not going to prison!”

  She pushed her seat back. Thank God. She’s letting me take over.

  Then she lifted her knees to her chest.

  “No, Maria, don’t!”

  She positioned her sneakers firmly against the yoke. I knew what was coming and pulled up with all my might. She pushed down with her strong leg muscles. Our airspeed dropped. The stall horn sounded.

  “Okay, okay, we won’t land,” I shouted. “Let go. For Christ’s sake, please let go!” We were at less than two-thousand feet — still in the clouds.

  Maria looked at me to judge my sincerity. Finally, she returned her feet to the floor.

  I added power, leveled out and headed east toward the Atlantic Ocean, staying at 2,000 feet. Time to be creative. I turned the transponder dials to 1600.

  “What are you doing?” Maria asked.

  “Code 1600 is used for airplane hijacking. ATC will think we’ve been hijacked.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “They’ve been tracking us since we took off from Cumberland. We didn’t comply with their orders and turned off the radio.”

  “Don’t forget our aerial tug-of-war.”

  “Yeah, that too. ATC will think there’s a third person in the plane. We struggled, tried to land. He overpowered and made us head east.”

  “Sexist pig! What can’t our hijacker be a woman?

  “Okay, she overpowered us.”

  “That’s better. How does the transponder fit in?”

  “That’s the clever part. Our hijacker doesn’t know about airplanes. I was able to enter the code.”

  “Ok, I follow. Our imaginary bad person is in the back seat with a gun to our heads. What’s next?”

  “He or she will kill us. We’re going to die.”

  “The imaginary person will shoot us?”

  “Not exactly. The person will do something to make us crash into the ocean. It’ll be very sad.”

  “How does that help?”

  “Our deaths will get both the Cartel and the federal agencies off our backs.”

  Maria thought for a moment. “You do have a plan B in mind, right?”

  “Yes.”

  She extended her hand for a high-five. “Bravo! See, I knew you could use that over-educated brain of yours. Let’s go die!”

  ***

  I tried to imagine the chaos we created at the air traffic control. Someone would call the Cumberland airport. They would try to call me. They’ll probably call my wife. I didn’t think they would scramble Air Force jets to shoot us down. At least, not as long as we were over land. Once we were over water, all bets were off.

  About fifteen minutes after our aerial tug-of-war, my GPS showed we were now over
the ocean. I stayed at 2,000 feet, just low enough to stay off any land-based radar

  We said nothing as the miles clicked by. The fuel gauge showed the tanks at just under three-fourths full. We could fly for three more hours.

  When we were twelve miles away from land, I reduced power to idle and descended towards the waves. If the clouds continued to the surface, we would drown.

  I kept my eyes locked on the altimeter. At five hundred feet, I said, “Please look down, and tell me what you see.”

  “I see nothing.”

  Four hundred feet — “What now?”

  “I still see nothing. I’m scared.”

  My concentration shifted. I thought about how my family would feel when some official told them I died. A puddle of sweat formed in the small of my back.

  The stall horn sounded. I lost concentration and let my airspeed drop.

  I added more power, using more fuel. The horn silenced.

  Three hundred feet. “See anything?”

  “I see something.”

  I looked out, and sure enough, I saw the green, cold waves of the Atlantic through a hole in the clouds. Then the clouds closed in. I ventured lower.

  We finally broke through at one hundred feet. The clouds formed a ceiling above us as we flew at the height of an eight-story building. There were no landmarks, just endless water below and the endless clouds above.

  We still headed east. If I had the fuel, we could reach Europe in about twenty-four hours. Lindbergh did it with a less capable plane.

  My flight instructor’s voice came back to me — “Stay in the present. Don’t think about what might happen. Don’t think about the mistakes you’ve made, the things you should have done, the things you might have done. Just deal with what is happening at the moment. Use your training and all the resources at your command.”

  One hundred and fifty pounds of resources sat in the passenger seat to my right.

  “Maria, you need to fly the plane.”

  “Some other time. Just get us back to land. We need to get to New York.”

  “This is important. Just put your hands on the controls and keep the plane steady. You can do it. You’ve done it before.”

  “Yes, but we were way up in the air. What if we go down?”

  “You can do it. Don’t worry about the heading. Just keep the plane at this altitude.”