by George Jehn
“Christina! Captain Shepard! Over here,” reporters shouted as they jostled for her attention, while others became entangled in the myriad of wires covering the shiny marble floor like spaghetti on the bottom of a large bowl. Christina basked in the limelight. As flashbulbs popped, her blue eyes challenged the cameras. Putting her arm around him and pulling Erik close she declared with a smile, “I want you to know my entire crew, and this handsome young man in particular, helped save us from possible disaster.”
Erik smiled meekly into the lights and cameras, but felt great.
As things quieted down and the media folks departed, another 727 was rolled out and they flew an uneventful flight to LaGuardia, but with fewer passengers. Christina said nothing to Woody about his performance, but while riding in the rickety employee parking lot bus a subdued Montgomery informed her, “Maintenance believes a main engine rotor seized because of a faulty oil pump. By shutting it down as quickly, it prevented a disastrous engine failure when the thing shatters into a million pieces.”
“How do you know that?” she asked.
“I called and spoke with one of the mechanics who gave the engine a quick once-over. As a former Air Force maintenance officer I’m friendly with a bunch of our maintenance people. I sometimes hang around after work just to see what they’re up to or to BS a bit with them.”
“Thanks for the info.”
Woody seized the opportunity. “I’m really sorry for what happened,” adding, “my father’s very sick and only recently got out of the hospital. It’s been very draining and I’ve been drinking too much.”
“Don’t worry. It’s over and everything turned out all right.”
As a somber Woody exited the bus he walked with his head low and back rounded, as though the hand holding his flight bag went all the way to the ground and some unseen weight bowed him over, making every step an effort. Although his apology was accepted, Christina considered giving an accounting of his performance to the LaGuardia chief pilot, Captain Michael O’Brien. She had received a message upon arrival, requesting her to call him first thing in the morning. A hard-ass member of management, he would probably want to know about Woody’s reaction as the outcome would have been different if he’d been in command. Should she tell him?
Erik and Christina disembarked at the next stop and ambled slowly toward their cars. Erik asked, “You gonna tell anyone what happened with Woody?”
Christina stopped, turned and looked directly at Erik, her icy blue eyes seemingly burning a hole in his. “You’d better hope not, ‘cause you also made some mistakes.”
Erik felt his face redden. “I worked for a long time to get this job and I’d hate to think because of one screw-up I might—”.
She held up her hand. “You’re brand new and still on probation, which means you can be fired for virtually any reason, with no recourse. But your mistake could have caused the number-two engine to conk out. That’s probably why it ran so hot. If it quit we would have really been up shit’s creek.”
Erik began to utter an apology, but she smiled. “No need. You also did Woody’s job. But, I have to weigh everything, just in case Woody noticed, which I doubt. If I write him up…well, you never know what he might say about you. Just be certain to memorize and know all the emergency procedures,” she added, patting him on the shoulder.
Erik thanked her, but wondered if she had already said anything.
. . .
While starting her car and without warning Christina’s head began pounding. A sensation of lightheadedness came next so she placed both hands under her thighs and sat on them as if to hold them in place while her breathing became heavy. She considered crying out to Erik, but no matter how hard she tried, no intelligible words came forth. Then, as quickly as they had started, the symptoms abated. She sat in her car confused and feeling drained, unsure of what might happen next but certain her epilepsy was the cause. She finally very cautiously drove the fifteen minutes to her rental pad, pulled into the driveway and switched on the car alarm, recalling David wasn’t there. He was having dinner with his parents and would be spending the night with them. She went right to bed feeling exhausted and awoke the following morning with a slight headache the only remnant. It was still raining lightly so she put up a pot of coffee and turned on the TV. After watching the news for a short time she felt a bit better and called O’Brien. His secretary, Rose answered on the first ring.
“Hello Rose. It’s Captain Shepard.”
“Hi Captain Shepard; Captain O’Brien is awaiting your call. I’ll put you through.”
The Chief Pilot immediately came on the line barking, “How are you Captain Shepard?” Without waiting for a reply he added, “That was one hell of a job you did last night. On behalf of Shuttle Air I wanna thank you.”
“It was nothing. I just did what they train us—”
“Nothing? You were great, taking a potentially disastrous situation and turning it into a routine job.” A wary stirring in her gut said more was coming as O’Brien wasn’t the type to simply bestow a pat on the back. He quickly added, “Were there any specific problems I need to look at?” his tone implying he might know more.
Typical O’Brien she thought, probably referring to Woody. Perhaps he had already been informed about him, although she didn’t think Erik would say anything. Exactly what did O’Brien know?
“Can you be more specific?”
“I’ll be very specific,” he bellowed. “We removed the cockpit voice recorder tape after your plane was towed to the hangar and heard everything. So, I know what Montgomery did, or rather didn’t do. However, your union contract prohibits us from using any information on the recorder for disciplinary purposes so there’s nothing I can do unless you file a formal complaint.” Before Christina could speak he added, “But even if you did, I wouldn’t take any action because like me, Woody’s a former military pilot and otherwise has an excellent safety record. I would simply have the instructor go over the emergency items more in-depth during his next proficiency check ride.” He allowed a moment for his statements to sink in.
Christina figured Montgomery had already called or been to O’Brien’s office and given him his father/son mouth to ass resuscitation sob story, so she was probably wasting her time. “You wanna know why Montgomery screwed up? He was hung over and admitted as much. In my opinion he oughta be placed in rehab.”
“You show me a pilot who says he doesn’t drink and I’ll show you a liar,” O’Brien responded, dismissing her statement. “What I really want to know if anything could have been done to prevent the damage. Was there something your new second officer, Erik Preis might have missed during his preflight inspection, which if had he had noticed would have prevented the problem? Did he mention oil leaks or anything similar?”
“Wait a minute,” she snapped. “Preis helped me while Montgomery just sat there with his head up his hung-over butt. He also accomplished a number of Woody’s tasks in addition to doing his own job. I certainly don’t think that—”
“Let me make this clear,” O’Brien interrupted. “Management is very unhappy about what happened, and not from the standpoint of what was or was not done in the cockpit. What Woody failed to do didn’t cost the airline a dime. But if there was some telltale warning sign it should have been picked up; something which could have been repaired beforehand and that responsibility would fall on Preis.”
“I’m pretty sure if he had seen anything he would have said—”
“But, you’re not a hundred percent certain he would have told you? He’s brand new and there was something about him I didn’t like when he reported here after his schooling. He’s not out of the military, looked very young and I sensed adolescence irresponsibility still running around inside him. Since he’s on probation I can wa
sh him out anytime during his first year. If his performance isn’t up to snuff he could cost us a lot more somewhere down the road. Hell, the engine damage is going to cost Shuttle Air over two hundred thousand bucks and—”
“Like I said, he did an excellent job no matter how young he might look and even said so with the cameras rolling,” Christina replied, uncomfortable with where this discussion might be headed. “Let me ask you a question. Why are you looking for a scapegoat? Can’t you accept maybe it was an unavoidable accident that fortunately didn’t turn into a disaster?”
“I believe there had to be some warning sign.”
“In this case you’re wrong.”
An unyielding O’Brien just sighed into the phone. “Someone was responsible, perhaps Preis.”
Before ending the conversation Christina seized an opportunity. “Since you claim I did such a great job how about giving me today off, with pay?”
“You mean this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Let me put you on hold and see if we have another captain available.” The line went silent and O’Brien came back on a moment later. “We have coverage, so take the day off with full pay as a reward from the company.”
“Oh, thank you,” came her high-pitched, sarcastic reply.
After hanging up, Christina shook her head. Per the norm O’Brien was attempting to assess blame and was on a military-like search and destroy mission, looking for a scapegoat rather than correcting a problem like poor engine maintenance or Woody’s lousy performance. For as long as she could recall this was his management technique, with fear and intimidation his modus operandi. She hoped he would drop his witch-hunt against Preis but doubted it.
Her thoughts turned to her epilepsy and she went to the medicine chest in the small, grimy bathroom with the standup shower stall and plastic shower curtain reeking of mildew, and removed a bottle of Gigotor tablets. Although the doctor said the medication might stop her seizures, he wasn’t definite. Last night showed her it wouldn’t, but she nonetheless took two tablets from the three-month supply the doctor had provided and would do so twice per day. Hopefully, it would work the next time?
She had asked the doctor if her epilepsy could be genetic. He explained it might be which caused her great consternation. From his studies he believed the disease is at least partially genetic, with female offspring being more predisposed to contracting it. He also emphasized the symptoms could also be brought on by stress and asked if she worked in a stressful environment, but she informed him she was a housewife. Although he mentioned some promising new drugs, she held out little hope. Once again she felt as though she had suddenly crash-landed and couldn’t extricate herself from the wreckage her life had become, overnight.
CHAPTER FIVE
When Erik arrived home his parents were asleep, but the blinking message light on the home telephone got his attention. It contained a terse message from Captain Michael O’Brien summoning him to a meeting prior to his next day’s flight. Maybe O’Brien wanted to thank him for his performance in Boston, but after considering his blunder he became concerned. Had Shepard or Montgomery mentioned it?
A tense Erik climbed the flight of steps to O’Brien’s office a full hour before his normal 2 PM check-in time and found the chief pilot rigidly seated behind his large polished desk, waiting. Rumor had it the only time he stood was if the Shuttle Air President entered. The long desk looked like a dark mahogany aircraft carrier with more than a hint of power, underscored by the Bachelor of Science degree from the US Naval Academy hanging on the wall directly behind it. O’Brien waved him to enter while the heavyset man kept attempting to fasten the top button of his shirt, which looked like a size sixteen on an eighteen-inch neck. As the starched collar bit into his neck he finally admitted defeat and left his tie, which appeared to need a large dose of Viagra, hanging at half-mast. He motioned Erik to be seated in a dark green, faux leather chair across from him. Skipping any formalities, O’Brien asked in a raspy voice, “Prior to last night’s engine problem did you see anything that didn’t look right during your preflight inspection?”
“No sir,” Erik immediately replied. “Everything appeared normal. There was no oil or other fluids on the engine cowling or the ground.”
“Were you thorough enough?” O’Brien asked, raising one eyebrow above eyes as cold as the blue of ice. Without waiting for a reply he continued. “Management doesn’t look lightly on what happened because in addition the high cost engine repair, the FAA will now scrutinize our maintenance procedures with a fine toothcomb. This translates into higher expenditures of scarce dollars.” Erik opened his mouth to protest but O’Brien held up his hand. “Most pilots fly out lengthy careers without having a close call like last night. If it weren’t for Captain Shepard a whole planeload of people might’ve been killed,” immediately adding, “I’ll be following your actions closely and you’ll be held accountable for any future incidents.”
Following a long moment of uncomfortable silence and a stare-down, O’Brien asked about Montgomery’s performance. Erik was troubled answering anything about Woody because although just starting out, he knew the code of the airline pilot brotherhood demanded he keep his mouth shut. Any damaging statements would mark him forever as a lackey or a turncoat who would do or say anything to endear himself with management. Shuttle Air was a small airline and when the word filtered out, Erik suspected his would be a very long and lonely career. Plus, what happened was really between Woody and Christina. He stated in a calm voice everything had gone as well as could be expected under the circumstances, with the proof in the final outcome. Erik was secretly pleased when O’Brien’s face became beet red. The chief pilot growled something indecipherable under his breath, which Erik correctly took as his cue to leave. This was hopefully the last time he would ever hear anything from Captain O’Brien.
CHAPTER SIX
Christina attempted to get her mind off her medical problem by immersing herself in paying bills, which only created more stress because of the small amount in her checkbook. She instead decided to drive to the airport and have a cup of coffee with David, a baggage handler at Shuttle Air and also a part-time acting student studying at NYU. Although they had been sharing a bed since her latest divorce, she had doubts about any long-term relationship.
With her photo ID prominently displayed, she proceeded to the security checkpoint and after being wanded by a Transportation Security Administration woman who looked more like a terrorist than a cop, she took the staircase down under the building into the central baggage loading area. It was ironic that following 9/11 the Feds instituted strict security measures for the airlines but the remainder of the aviation industry, in particular privately owned jets, had none. One of Osama bin Laden’s top henchmen could be flying on one and the TSA wouldn’t have a clue.
Christina passed a large room where a number of federal workers were busy x-raying, opening and going through passengers’ checked luggage. They then re-secured and tagged them, placed them on a noisy conveyor belt for airline workers who placed them on one of the carts, all of which were then attached to a tug. A baggage worker like David would then load them into the cargo compartment of a flight. The entire area reeked of foul fumes and Christina’s eyes burned as if she were in a room full of cigar smokers. Through squinty eyes she could pick out a number of video cameras. Were there were also other hidden ones? David noticed her and flashed what resembled a toothpaste advertisement smile, removed his earplugs and facemask and shook hands. Christina had made it clear there were to be no public displays of affection between them because she was a captain and he was a ramp worker. David said he told any fellow workers who inquired, he and Captain Shepard as he always referred to her, were simply good friends. She didn’t know if what he said was true.
“You got time for
a cup of coffee?” she hollered over the din. When combined with the low-pitched racket of the loading belt, speaking in normal tones was impossible as there was nothing on the bare concrete floor to quiet the racket.
“I’m due for a break. I’ll meet you in the coffee shop,” he shouted.
A stern-faced Christina went into the fluorescent-lit cafeteria and purchased two cups of cardboard-tasting coffee in Styrofoam cups from a clerk who sized her up with predatory eyes like a snake’s. She drank hers with milk and sugar, but put only milk in David’s because he didn’t consume carbohydrates. A moment later he slid into the seat alongside her. As they chatted Christina related the details of the engine problem and cockpit goings-on while sipping the bitter brew.
“That’s pretty scary shit. Maybe they’ll slip you a couple of days off with pay for the great job?”
“Today’s the only day and I had to practically beg for it,” she sighed. She steered the conversation back to the problem now constantly on her mind. “At this point I don’t know what I’m going to do about the medical shit, other than not telling anyone. My next required FAA physical isn’t for three more months.” She hesitated a moment, altering her train of thought. “To make things even worse that prick O’Brien,” pointing in the direction of the chief pilot’s office, “asked me to call him this morning. I figured he would want to know the Boston details, and he did. He thanked me but then wanted to pin the blame on someone.”
“I thought everything turned out fine?”
“It did, but you’ve got to understand his military thought process, fault must be assessed for everything. He believed the second officer should have seen oil leaking from the engine or some other such crap so the whole thing could have been avoided.”
“But you said it was the copilot—”