Flying Too Close to the Sun

by George Jehn

  She unsuccessfully tried to pull free from his rock solid grip. “Look,” she said, pointing to her ID, “I’m the captain of this plane and trying to find out why we’re being delayed every—”

  “I don’t give a shit who you are.” Pointing to his badge, which she noted, read United States Treasury Department, he brusquely informed her, “This is official government business. Leave immediately or you will be arrested.” He quickly led her up the narrow Jetway set of steps and returned outside without uttering another word. Regaining her composure and never having experienced treatment like this, she became convinced they had to be carrying something valuable. This made no sense, however, because the guy was listed as a sky marshal. Why would the government go through all the trouble to disguise a guard?

  Once the loading of the bags was completed, Treasury Agent Christopher Norton scampered up the Jetway and without uttering a word or even glancing into the cockpit took his assigned seat, 3D.

  Once seated in her gray checkered fabric cockpit seat Christina’s concern became David and the luggage scam. She would warn him tonight. Once airborne thoughts of David were replaced by wondering what could be in those mysterious bags. Why the guns? She would somehow find out.

  Pulling into the gate Christina saw David with baggage cart and sounded the alarm. She waited in the cockpit for a few minutes acting as though she was examining the ship’s log. Once home, she found him in his usual spot on the old couch, watching television and nursing a Bud lite.

  “Did you hear the warning?”

  “Yeah, why did you sound it? I wanted to try again and—”

  “The sky marshal was on board once again. I attempted to speak with him on the Boston ramp but he started yelling and when I turned around the people with him took out guns. He said I’d better leave or he’d throw me in the slammer.”

  “Guns? Jail?” What the hell’s going on?”

  “You didn’t find out anything?”

  “No. But I did notice an armored car awaiting your arrival. A bunch of guys unloaded something from the forward cargo bin. What the hell could this be about?”

  Christina simply shrugged her shoulders.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  As a gesture of thanks for the good job he did during their emergency, Christina invited Erik out for drinks a couple of nights later. “Let’s unwind a bit. There’s a place nearby called Parkers Pub. Be certain to remove your uniform ‘cause if we got caught drinkin’ the New York tabloids would be screaming out CROCKED-PIT or some such trash. I’ll even buy,” Christina added with a cute smile and Erik readily accepted. She gave him directions there, but she had another task to accomplish first. “I’ll be there in a bit. I have to put my next month’s schedule in the computer,” she told him. “I’ll be bidding the same trips. What about you?”

  “I already did,” a smiling Erik replied, pleased they would be flying together again the following month.

  Christina was alone in the deserted flight operations office with the quiet green glow of the computer screen and the softly humming vending machines that dispensed high-fat snacks her only companions. Hopefully, no one would enter while she was trying to dig up the needed info. She nervously logged into the “Pilots Only” section of the airline’s powerful mainframe. Would anyone discover her search? What about cookies or other telltale identification marks? Was she leaving any? She entered her employee number and confidential password and the usual screen appeared. Scrolling further down, she double-clicked on a category marked OTHER. The monitor now displayed a multitude of additional choices, none of which were familiar, finally clicking on an item marked Delay Codes and typed in flight number 1540 and the date she first encountered the mysterious sky marshal. A code appeared on the screen and she moved the cursor down to a corresponding number on the lower half of the display and double-clicked on it. A warning immediately popped up stating only authorized personnel could view this information. Was someone monitoring the computer? The coded number for the delay was filed under the Abnormal Operations Section, so she went ahead and typed it in and this time an entry made by a Boston supervisor explaining the elaborate details of the flight delay, along with his suggestion Shuttle Air not renew this contract when it expired in September, showed. She then realized the seemingly-desperate plan she had formulated like a hopeful dream just might work. But her window of opportunity was rapidly closing.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Parkers turned out to be a hardcore drinking haunt abutting LaGuardia with an aviation motif; a dimly lit joint with no attempt at chic. The distinctive nicotine funk along with smell of old popcorn in scratched plastic bowls sitting on the bar competed with the odor of stale beer and dead hopes. Erik refused to join the latter. There were a half a dozen or so hard-faced rummies with features distorted by fatty food and cheap booze; pickled people marinated in unhappiness. An ancient pool table with green felt faded by time and stained by spilled drinks, along with a jukebox rounded out the décor. This was a place where people could drink ‘til they dropped without raising an eyebrow. Several sat in the creaky wooden chairs circling a few small round wooden tables scarred with etchings and fogged mirrors behind them. No doubt some were airline types as Parkers lie smack in the middle of the “pilot ghetto,” the area next to LaGuardia many pilots called home during the time spent on flying assignments, while their primary residences could be anywhere within or even outside the fifty States.

  A plump gray-haired bartender clad in a striped shirt and black trousers, with stains obviously caused by spilt beer brought his only companion for now, a twelve-ounce bottle of Heineken. As the brew washed away the dry cockpit air he glanced at the images adorning the walls, including faded snapshots of New York’s famous Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia. Erik recalled his high school texts stated LaGuardia was known as the Working Man’s Mayor. Along with these were framed snapshots of airliners which had flown from the airport now bearing Hizzoner’s name; once-famous carriers like Pan Am, Eastern, Braniff and TWA. Had his Honor been buried with a shovel in hand he no doubt would have dug himself up and used it to bash the skulls of the incompetent managers and politicos responsible for these airlines’ demise and destruction of workers’ lives. Out of the original carriers only three remained, with most utilizing bankruptcy filings to screw their employees out of pay and bennies. Would Shuttle Air be next? Would more pilot names be added to the group of former employees? Would his be one? As he sipped the thick hops, Erik wished like mortar, the brew would hold together the bricks of his stomach growing weaker each day. Just as he finished his first and was inhaling the musty vapor remaining at the bottom, Christina entered like a stage-struck starlet and he half expected her to throw a kiss his way. She immediately perched on the stool beside him and sans the uniform accouterments looked much sexier, no longer the captain but like any other attractive chick.

  A smiling Christina ordered Erik another beer and facing him raised her bourbon sour and offered a toast. “You were great the other day,” she said adding with a wry smile, “If I overlook a couple of screw-ups.” Her mind was running at warp speed, busy working out a scheme which would hopefully include Erik.

  He innocently returned the smile and gently patted her back, feeling her brassiere strap and soft skin through the light blouse.

  “Last week was only the third engine I had go bonkers,” she said, “and the first time on a 727.”

  The bartender interrupted, handing them two more drinks.

  “The guy over there,” he said, pointing to a heavyset man Erik took to be in his sixties or seventies seated at one of the tables, “would like to buy you a drink. He said you did a helluva job, whatever he means?”

  Christina and Erik smiled and raised their drinks in a gesture of thanks and the man did likewise.

  “Who’s he?
” Erik whispered. “Does he work for the airline?”

  Christina took another slug of bourbon. “No. That’s Doc Hartman. He gives FAA pilot physicals and I get mine twice yearly from him,” she replied in breath now redolent with booze, referring to the requirement a captain must maintain a current first-class medical certificate and wondering if he could pick up her epilepsy on the next. “You should get your FAA physicals from him. He’s located at LaGuardia and is cheap compared to others and also uses the old type of eye vision chart where every pilot knows the twenty/twenty line; D-E-F-P-O-T-E-C. He probably saw us on TV the other night.” Christina requested another round, ignoring the neurologist’s order she have no more than two. “Perhaps you noticed, but whenever the cameras are rolling I put in a plug for women pilots. I had to put up with all the bullshit in the testosterone oozing cockpits reeking with male hormones, crap like the not-too-quiet whispers of dyke and lesbo.” She guzzled another long pull, stirring the half-melted cubes floating in the bottom of the glass with the straw and watching as they continued spinning and clinking against the sides of the glass. She was descending into a place where former secrets come to the surface and owing to the booze no longer cared. “Maybe I feel this way ‘cause I came from a broken home, one affectionately dubbed today as a single parent household, which was a nightmare for my mother. After I saw her totally dependent on my father for never forthcoming financial support, I vowed that wouldn’t happen to me.”

  “You mentioned you’re divorced.”

  “Yeah, twice, but I don’t get a dime from my two exes,” she added with pride through clenched teeth. “I don’t want my son and my—,” she stopped herself, “anyone to do without. So I pay child support. Unfortunately, alimony went along with it.”

  To change the subject to a more pleasant one Erik asked, “How did you get into flying?”

  “I started hanging around the local airport in my hometown of Lantana, Florida while attending Palm Beach State College. A friend worked there at the fixed base operation as a receptionist and I used to hang around. Aviation began as an escape, but flying also provided a sense of real accomplishment. The more I got into it the more I wanted to fly the big jets. Since most airline pilots were men it made landing the job more challenging. I had to be as good as or better than the boys. After I got my licenses, I flew seven days a week as an instructor and charter pilot and finally landed an airline job. But now, when I’m finished paying rent, taxes, child support and alimony there ain’t much left.”

  For some individuals alcohol is like anesthesia on ice, but it had the opposite effect on Christina. A few bourbon blasts was as though the warden opened the jailhouse door and Erik didn’t know what to say with this transformation. Taking another swig she continued, “Before I knew it, the media sought me out for information on women in aviation and the semi-celebrity status created a lethal marital mix. My first husband’s lawyer argued because of my lifestyle and job, not only should he raise our son, but I should pay him alimony to become a househusband. My attorney tried to steer me away from agreeing, but pride and a lot of stupidity took over. After Michael’s precedent it was pretty easy for number two, Charlie to get money even though we never had kids. No more of the marriage game for me ‘cause it’s anything but.” She hesitated, and after another gulp continued. “I wish I had stepped out into the world earlier, like during the sixties, or there was a time machine to transport me back to when there was still lots of hope. From what I’ve read and seen on TV just about everything in aviation we take for granted today was new back then. But for pilots it was asshole Jimmy Carter’s airline deregulation, when pilots got royally screwed by big business and the government officials they bought and when our high expectations took an immediate nosedive. The idiots took an excellent operating system and supposedly fixed it when it wasn’t broken. Despite the bullshit hype it only succeeded in destroying airline employees’ job security. Hell, I haven’t had a raise in over three years. Some of us tried to warn our colleagues airline deregulation wasn’t the route to fly but weren’t successful in convincing the pilot union hierarchy to go to the trenches with a nationwide stoppage of service. So the sixties’ peace and love came to a screeching halt, taken over by the current sorry state where the airline landscape is nastier and littered with lots of corpses. Used to be when you got a pilot job with a major airline, it was for life. But one stroke of the pen changed it. Now, job security is history so management and the investment banker pricks could fill their pockets and buy their big fucking mansions. Meanwhile we’re always afraid, wondering if our airline, our jobs, our pensions and our lives are going down the shitter next. I also liked the world better, pre-9/11 before all the security crap came along and we had to bend over each day in front of the passengers so some previously-unemployed TSA goon can look for a pair of killer sewing scissors.”

  Her comments made Erik picture where his life was heading and he didn’t like the snapshot he envisioned. He wanted to burn off his fear, so he added, “In every other business, hell, in life, you get what you pay for. But for some unknown reason the passengers think airlines are different because they believe the FAA is looking out for them, when the FAA could give a shit less.” He took another swig of beer. “I know what you’re talking about when it comes to money or lack thereof,” he almost involuntarily heard himself saying, his thoughts swimming with the Heineken in his gut. Why was he was telling her this? Was she sister confessor or was it bottle courage? Or, maybe she had something to offer, a way out?

  “You couldn’t. You’re too young—”

  “You might think so, but the post-9/11 pilot layoffs were followed by lots of airline bankruptcies. United, Delta, Northwest, US Airways, are just a few. Shuttle Air finally came through, but only after I sent out applications to every American and foreign airline, along with hefty rip-off application fees. Then there’s another personal problem…”

  “What’s that?” a probing Christina asked.

  “Like you, I worked my butt off building the flight hours needed to land this job. But the flight instructing pay was so low I barely earned enough money to get by, not to mention repaying a debt—”

  “What debt?” Where might this be headed?

  To avert her intense stare he looked at her through the green bottle. “I simply kept pushing it aside, paying off a measly fifty or a hundred bucks a month which was all I could afford. Hell, I still owe all of it and the interest just keeps pilin’ on.” After taking another hit of truth serum he looked directly into those sparkling eyes now glowing electric blue in anticipation. “I just kept putting it off, so when Shuttle Air hired me I was elated. They must’ve run a credit check, meaning they had to know about it but for some reason it didn’t matter.” Erik recalled the guy who interviewed him seemed to be enamored by his good looks. “I figured a forty grand debt only made me a typical fiscally-challenged young American male. I recently spoke with the bank manager where I borrowed the money for my flying lessons—”

  “You borrowed the dough for your pilot licenses?”

  “Yup, I told this banker asshole when I landed this job I’d be making good money in just under a year. Our first year pay sucks, only about twenty seven grand. Hell, by the time taxes and social security are taken out there’s nothin’. I swore to him next year I’d start repaying every last dime and mentioned my extra weekend flight instructing job that’s off the books. I’m even living at home to save money, which I hate because I have to pay my parents rent and put up with their crap.”

  “So what happened?”

  “This banker prick was adamant and said they weren’t gonna give me another year, said they’d be calculating a full settlement timetable and if I didn’t pay they’d go to my employer.” His barstool squeaked loudly as he swiveled it to face Christina, the joy gone from his eyes. “To make things even worse the old man raised m
y rent and I’ve got three-hundred buck monthly payments plus life support for the bucket of bolts I drive that’s seen better days, along with credit card debt, college loans, blah, blah…” He took another slug of beer. “The bank came up with an eighteen-month repayment schedule and said if I don’t comply they’re gonna call the loan with the full principal and interest immediately due. They wanted me to start last month but I convinced them to wait ‘til July.” He slammed his bottle onto the bar and pushed it away. “My fallback plan was to go to another bank or credit union, borrow money and pay off the first loan, but discovered my name is in some fucking deadbeat data bank and no one will lend me a dime. So, July first it is and that’s only a short time—”

  “What about your parents? Won’t they—” Christina interrupted.

  “No.”

  “Even with your job on the line?”

  He looked directly at her with crimson cheeks. “They are total assholes, from another country and generation. I asked my old man to forego the rent for a while and his answer was to go screw myself.” He hesitated but realized it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but you mentioned you were also in financial straits.” Shrugging his shoulders he asked, “You know of any way I can come up with a quick forty grand?”