by George Jehn
Flying Too Close to the Sun
George Jehn
© Copyright George Jehn 2021
Black Rose Writing | Texas
© 2021 by George Jehn
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.
First digital version
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-698-2
PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING
www.blackrosewriting.com
Print edition produced in the United States of America
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–KIRKUS REVIEWS
To my children, the three "Lights of My Life,"
Lorrainie, Christy and Matthew.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Although I loved working for my entire adult life as an airline pilot, my first true love was always writing because in doing so, I could always “soar” whenever and wherever I wanted to.
After retiring from piloting, the most difficult transition was realizing that I no longer had to get up in the middle of the night, slip into the uniform and drive to the airport. But alas, I quickly learned that as with my old career, I would still awaken before the sun arose, but now with pen in hand to jot down ideas for inclusion in this book. Ah, but such is life.
Along with the deepest love to the lights of my life, my children Lorrainie, Christy and Matthew and my eight grandchildren, I also want to extend my deepest gratitude to former NYPD plainclothes detective Nicky Castellano who provided me with the needed information on police tactics and investigative procedures.
Sincere thanks also go to Reagan Rothe, the creator of Black Rose Writing.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Recommended Reading
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
BRW INFO
CHAPTER ONE
Christina Shepard’s heartbeat was racing almost as quickly as her mind as she exited the neurologist’s office located on Sixty-Third Street in Manhattan. She went to a public telephone, put in a quarter and called her boyfriend, David Bennedeto. He answered on the third ring. “You home?” she barked.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve gotta speak with you. It’s important. Could you meet me at the Starbucks near the subway stop? I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“Sure, but why—” The line went dead.
The ride on the air-conditioned F local Eighth Avenue subway line to the Kew Gardens Queens station should have provided a respite from the heat, but hot air billowed in at each stop, fighting the car’s a/c. Upon exiting a perspiring Christina saw David dressed in his usual summer garb, white muscleman tank top, tight cutoff jeans and sandals. They got two iced lattes and grabbed the only available seats, outside under a small striped umbrella. His tanned strapping body was wider than the ladder-backed, uneven metal chair making the unspoken statement to stay and enjoy your drink, just not for too long. That wouldn’t be a problem today as the sun and unseasonable humidity were nearly unbearable.
“I visited a neurologist ‘cause of the headaches and occasional speech problems I have when I wake up. The ones I told you about.” She hesitated. “But it wasn’t from migraine headaches, like I thought,” she mumbled while scrunching her face, trying in vain to fight back tears from her mirrored eyes staining her cotton summer weight dress. “This stuff’s bitter,” she muttered, but realized it wasn’t the latte but the cramps born of stress and fear twisting in her stomach. She inhaled deeply and blurted out, “I have epilepsy,” not wanting to believe a Shuttle Air Boeing 727 captain and unofficial female pilot media spokesperson could fall victim to such a dreaded ailment.
“Holy shit! What are you, we, gonna do?” David asked loudly, immediately adding in a lower voice, “Can I catch it? We’ve been sleeping together now for…”
David, always number one. “It’s a seizure disorder and not contagious. The doc, Friedman’s his name, said the problem could be genetic or might be from a head injury I suffered as a kid while riding my bike. The headaches could be either the result of a nocturnal seizure I had while asleep or an aura, a sign of an impending one.”
“That’s probably why you’ve been moving around so much while you’re sleeping.” David hesitated. “Could he be wrong?”
“No. He was certain ‘cause he administered an electroencepha
logram to confirm the diagnosis. That’s why my hair looks like a punk rocker’s. It’s from the glue used to attach the electrodes.” As a light summer breeze blew she raised her right hand over the sparkling cobalt eyes to the unruly spikes of golden hair over the clear skin on the right side of her forehead and again tried to push them down with a sweeping motion, as if to say, See. I still have complete control, but how long would that last? “He said the EEG seemingly indicates I have the less severe form producing partial, rather than Tonic-clonic seizures where you lose complete control. But he has to analyze the results further and wants me to get a MRI of the head to rule out a possible brain tumor. I’ll have to save for the MRI ‘cause I won’t, can’t, use my medical insurance.”
The stark reality guiding her throughout her thirty-plus years kicked in. Although the ghastly diagnosis dictated accepting her fate, she would not relinquish control of her future. “I got his name from the phone book. He was kinda nerdy-looking, but nice. I used an alias and paid cash, meaning neither the airline nor the Federal Aviation Administration will find out and automatically ground me by revoking my Airline Transport Pilot license, which is mandatory when you have epilepsy. I’ll decide whether or not to stop flying.” Shaking her head she whispered, “Hell, it’s the only job I’ve ever known.” Further thoughts of this horrid illness and how it would alter her life caused more brackish-tasting tears to involuntarily migrate into the corners of her mouth. David reached over to hand her a napkin, but instead she used the tip of her tongue to capture them, silently vowing to do whatever was necessary to ensure she could live comfortably for the rest of her life. But the clock was ticking. It couldn’t be seen or heard but she could almost feel each reverberation in her bones. She had to do something, quickly.
CHAPTER TWO
Pressing the button on her digital watch, the soft glow confirmed it was past departure time. Although she was in command, no one had informed Captain Christina Shepard why the jet’s forward cargo door wasn’t secured and the pushback from the gate commenced for the evening’s final Boston to New York shuttle flight. They weren’t waiting for fuel, as she had seen the fueler detach the long snake-like black hose providing kerosene, the energy lifeline used by the three fuel-thirsty Pratt & Whitney fourteen thousand-pound thrust engines powering her Boeing 727. Nonetheless, she glanced over her right shoulder to double-check the three fuel quantity gauges located directly behind the copilot on the flight engineer’s panel. The two wing and one center fuel tank each showed eight thousand pounds, twenty-four thousand pounds total, just under four thousand gallons. A 727 or tri-jet as it was better known in airline lingo could hold up to forty-six thousand pounds. With that amount you could practically fly coast to coast, meaning they had more than enough for their approximate forty-minute flight, even on a night like this with lousy weather. She recalled the wise words of an old-timer she had flown with as a new copilot, seemingly a lifetime ago. “The only time you have too much fuel is when you’re on fire.” The cursory smile faded as she glanced out the electrically heated cockpit window to the wet asphalt tarmac, so shiny it looked like smoked glass. Nothing was moving.
The weather had returned to normal for this time of the year, meaning the torrid heat was gone. This was a usual northern New England early summer night, with a gloomy sky hanging low over the entire airport like a shadowy tarp, matching her mood due to her recent medical diagnosis. Everything from her hair to the plane’s controls felt like a cold, damp mop. Cuddling up under a blanket with a good book in her tiny rental home in Queens would be a welcome respite. She was about to ask the flight engineer to radio the company when an out-of-breath boarding agent burst into the cockpit. “Sorry Captain, but your flight’s gonna be a few more minutes late,” he gasped in a thick Boston accent while handing Christina a large, sealed envelope. “We’re waiting for a connecting passenger.”
“You mean late, again?” Christina sighed. The fidgety agent exhaled and shrugged his shoulders, while offering what he probably hoped was a seductive smile as she swiveled around to face him. The four blue-and-silver-striped shoulder epaulets underscored her deep blue water-colored eyes and anchored the shiny, shortish blond hair framing her alluring Nordic features. “This is the third time this week,” she added, ignoring the obvious come-on. “But thanks for letting me know.”
Shepard knew with so much at stake with each flight, nothing could be accepted at face value. Her definition of the words flight safety meant stacking the odds in her passengers favor as much as humanly possible and confirming everything was in order. After opening the envelope she read the official contents, which again stated they were waiting for an armed United States sky marshal. The requirement to notify the plane’s commander also specified no other crewmembers were to know the lawman was on board. Notification was a necessity because post-9/11 if a captain so desired and passed the required background security check and weapons training, a sidearm could be carried and no one wanted a shootout if a passenger was spotted with a gun. But the airlines’ agreement with the federal government also stipulated the flight couldn’t be delayed on account of the sky marshal program unless there was a known and immediate terrorist threat. There was nothing of that nature because yet another regulation also required notification, so she was puzzled.
The balding agent, with flecks of dandruff decorating the shoulders of his dark blue uniform shirt remained standing in the cockpit entrance, so Christina asked, “You know who’s responsible for these delays?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea, Captain,” he nervously blurted out. “I’m pretty low on the totem pole.” He quickly exited from the doorway with a forced smile on his now slightly reddened face.
“Whatever the reason, this must be important,” she muttered to her heavyset copilot, Howard Montgomery who went by the nickname, Woody. Montgomery had his feet propped up on the base of his instrument panel, nonchalantly scanning the evening edition of the Boston Globe. She had always been curious about his nickname but never quite had the guts to glance down there to see if it was the case. The recorded ATIS or Automated Terminal Information Service for Boston’s Logan airport providing recorded information such as the weather and which runways were in use was repeatedly blaring over the cockpit speaker. Besides ignoring her comment Montgomery seemed oblivious to the repetitive message. There were a couple of reasons why she didn’t care for Montgomery, the main one being he had a ridiculous air of macho immaturity about him. Plus, his body always had a very faint sweaty odor, signaling he could be apprehensive about flying and the mannerisms might be just a cover. So she kept a wary eye on him. “No one around here seems to know what’s going on,” she continued, attempting to use her glacier-like, I-am-the-captain cobalt stare. The older copilots like Woody always seemed to resent a woman’s authority. But the coolness in her eyes, which could have frozen his tabloid, was wasted as Montgomery didn’t even put the paper down. Shrugging his shoulders he finally replied in a gruff voice from behind his protective wall of newsprint, “If they won’t tell a high-powered lady captain, why the hell would anyone say something to a low-life copilot?”
Christina wanted to rip the paper out of his hands, but didn’t. Besides being against company policy to read in the cockpit, it was rude. “But why do you even care?” he added in his normal whiny tone. “We get paid by the hour and these nightly delays add up to a few more bucks each paycheck. I can use the extra dough.”
This provided an opportunity to vent. “A bunch of our passengers complained to me about our last delay,” she sarcastically added, “and I couldn’t provide a reason other than the pilots earn a few more bucks.”
Montgomery finally looked up, ran his fingers through thinning hair cut in military style, let out a muted “Oh,” and returned to reading.
Christina vowed to unearth the cause. Maybe the reason was locked somewhere in the airline’s computer? The sam
e one the pilots used for bidding their monthly schedule and vacation. She would check it out.
Just then the same agent stuck his head into the cockpit and in a poor Ed McMahon imitation announced, “Weeee’re ready.” After taking a final peek at the captain, he added with a broad smile, “Hope to see you again; real soon.”
With all doors now secured, Christina pleasantly requested, “Woody, please put the paper down and get us a pushback clearance from Ground Control. And, turn off the ATIS. Everyone in earshot has been listening to the same message for the past twenty minutes. Let’s read the before starting engines checklist.”
The copilot, also referred to as the first officer at Shuttle Air was required to read all of the checklists when the engines weren’t running, with the flight engineer, or second officer taking over the duty when underway. As the mechanics smoothly pushed the plane away from the gate and onto the tarmac with a huge tug, Woody read the printed checklist aloud, with each pilot responding to their required items.
Erik Preis was the second officer, the systems operator and third member of the 727 cockpit crew. This was the starting position and he would next move to copilot and eventually captain. He hit the books hard for two months at Shuttle Air’s flight school to secure his FAA Flight Engineer turbojet certification, which is different from a pilot license. The young man from Farmingdale, Long Island had just completed his first week on the job, finally realizing his airline pilot goal. To reach this point had taken over five years of grueling work. He had to first earn his FAA pilot and flight instructor certificates and then build additional flight hours by teaching others to fly. Each hour spent instructing also counted toward his total flight time, the means to gain the needed experience. The three metallic stripes on the sleeves of the uniform he now wore was the recognition passengers entrusted him with their most precious commodity. He was nearly able to leave his weighty personal problems behind whenever the shiny silver jet needle penetrated the deep indigo sky. Life was great—almost. Preis took his job of monitoring and running all of the 727’s systems as seriously as a policeman would a life or death situation. Even though his seat faced sideways for much of the flight he was a vital part of the crew. Hopefully, his opportunity to fly copilot would come soon. For now, hearing the moan of the hydraulics and smelling the big jet’s aroma: a unique blend of brewing coffee and jet fuel was enough.