Michael drove back to work, knowing he was on the cusp of a major life event. He parked the car in the employee parking, and he left the keys in the car, knowing he wasn’t returning. He grabbed his suitcase and ever-present backpack, rolling them to the turnstile, after scanning his badge he humped his bags to the bus stop, and caught the shuttle to the United Airlines concourse. Going through the known crew access, Michael spent the next two days working airplanes, logging massive overtime because there weren’t but three mechanics available, and sleeping where he could until the morning of the 27th.
He wrestled his suitcase and bags into his truck, and headed to his lead’s office, to see him throwing a couple of things into a bag,”You still here?”
Michael shrugged, “Soon.”
“I’m out of here,” said the lead, “I have a flight to catch, and you need to get out of here today! The company has already shipped most of their airplane parts out of the state in cargo, and whatever is left has been rendered unusable. The company is fixing to fry the computer network so information can’t be pulled off it and used against us.”
Michael held out his hand, “You are a good man, a good boss, and I hope to see you again.” The lead shook his hand and walked out of the door.
Michael headed to the 767 on the concourse. Parking his truck, he climbed up the ladder carrying his small suitcase, walked into the Jetway, and stepped into the forward galley, sliding his bag into the corner. He picked up the logbook, looked to see that everything was good, and signed the airworthiness certificate.
Dave stuck his head out of the cockpit, “I suppose you need a ride. Did you get a slot?”
“If you don’t mind, you said you’d save me a seat. I’m going to be working out of Dulles. Seven six maintenance again.”
Dave gave him a thumbs-up, and motioned to the jump seat, “It’s yours once we push back.” Michael stood in the galley as the passengers loaded, fidgeting as the clock in his head counted down. Finally, the cabin door closed, and Michael stepped into the cockpit, pulling the door closed, as Dave and his co-pilot were going through the checklist.
After pushback and engine start, the 767 started rolling down the taxiway as Michael let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The sounds of the cockpit washed over him, as they took the runway and Dave said, “Okay, here we go.” He pushed the throttles to full power, released the brakes, and the plane started rolling down the runway.
The copilot called V1, and Michael felt the plane lift off , as Dave and the co-pilot worked through the checklist, the noise as the gears retracting, flaps coming up and the vibrations smoothed out as the plane climbed.
Michael felt tears rolling down his face, a mixture of joy, sadness, and relief as the plane banked left and started climbing to cruising altitude in the early morning sky. To the south, there were a bunch of flashes of lights and a couple of seconds later there was a bit of turbulence.
Dave immediately contacted LAX Departure to get a report, and Michael grabbed the spare headset. The tower told them that there was a lot of military activity in the San Diego area and to come further left to avoid the area. Michael commented to Dave, “Looks like an airstrike, or set of strikes. I recognized the package and the pattern; looks like something blew the crap out of the naval station at San Diego
As the big 767 climbed toward the sun, Michael smiled. He was going to see his wife, live in free America, and start over, like that Lee Greenwood song that was so overplayed during Desert Storm.
Michael hummed the lyrics softly, as the plane headed east.
Carpetbaggers
Cedar Sanderson
Ryan sat at the top of the stairs, and listened hard to the conversation below him. It felt faintly ridiculous — he was, after all, fifteen — nearly sixteen — and technically almost an adult, not a toddler to be sitting here while the adults discussed stuff he wasn’t supposed to know. But what he did know was that if he went downstairs, the conversation would shift, and they wouldn’t be talking about what they were.
It wasn’t the political part. He could hardly escape knowing that he was no longer a resident of the Beaver State of Oregon. He was now residing in the bright shiny newness that was Jefferson, a product of the messy split of California from the United States of America. That tear had left ragged edges, like ripping a sheet of paper from a notebook, and the inhabitants of the southern part of what had been Oregon and the northern part of California, had banded together against all others, and formed the territory. It wasn’t a state yet. According to his social studies teacher, it just had to be ratified into statehood by Congress. But according to one of the lively conversations that took place below him in the big great room of his parent’s ranch house, being a territory meant more independence from the Feds, and that was a good thing. They might vote to pass on statehood.
Ryan wasn’t sure where he stood on the issue of independency, to use a word from his mother’s favorite movie. In theory, he liked it. He was looking forward to becoming an independent adult, unlike his friend Brynna whose family had stayed behind during Calexit, and who had just found out that driver’s licenses were no longer available to minors. She wouldn’t be getting hers for two more years, while he would have his in just two months. Cali had decided that kids could get hurt, driving too early, and it was part of the sweeping Nanny Laws they had passed following their leave-taking from the good ol’ USA. Ryan had been driving since his feet could reach the pedals while he could see out the windshield, on the ranch. The license was just a formality. He remained indignant on Brynna’s behalf, though. She’d been quite vocally unhappy in the group chat they both belonged to when she found out she was going to have to wait. She couldn’t get a job, either. Child labor…
But politics was not the central part of the low-voiced and urgent conversation under him. That, he’d have been down there for. No, this was far more disturbing, and he strained to make it all out.
“…the Wilman’s place was hit hard.” His father’s low voice was gravelly, and hard to hear.
His mother’s voice was higher, and clearer. “I offered Vi and the girls a place, but they are going up to her aunt’s in Portland. There’s a hospital there, although she did finally give in and let the SANE nurse collect samples from them at Medford General.”
Ryan knew Pat — she purely hated Patty — Wilman. He went to school with her. She was a good kid, not girly at all. He was worried about her; he had texted her earlier and no reply yet.
“It was an atrocity.” And that voice, cutting through the murmurs, was Doña Marguerite. She wasn’t formally a Doña, but everyone called her that. Ryan thought he understood. She was regal, a real Lady.
She kept talking. “These Brownshirts are a plague on our land. They think they can come in, and take, and the Law matters not at all to them. My great-great-grandfather would have hunted them down and shot them. Or perhaps strung them up on the routes out of town. He did have a flair for the dramatic. He was also a law-abiding man, and would be horrified to see his race represented so.” She snorted. “La Raza, indeed.”
Ryan still felt a little cognitive dissonance — he rolled the word around in his mind, liking how it sounded — at hearing the tiny Hispanic lady talk about the formerly illegal immigrants who now made up the majority of the Cali Border Patrol.
“It’s not just the Brownies, although I think Don Miguel would indeed be rolling in his grave. It’s the carpetbaggers.” His mother was very close to Doña Marguerite, and Ryan thought it was weird both of them referred to a long-dead Mexican-Californian Don like he was still alive and in the room. He guessed that was what came of having a historian for a mother.