Pain. What an outlandish notion to the pedantic masses. A lump the size of a cantaloupe in your throat for a piece of noisy steel and fuel. Maxie's emotions would be considered sheer silliness to the crowds who never dedicate themselves to anything other than selfish, mundane pursuits and are content to remain untouched. They'd never understand. A few people coulda few privileged ones. A wildlife biologist watching the last remaining sandhill crane fly away would understand.
The low, dreary gray clouds raced across the tarmac, pushed by the chilled winter winds. They turned up their collarsthe small band of pilots, navigators, and mechanics who were there. There was no music, no press, no speeches, no fanfare. Just the wind and the Phantoms starting up the big J-79 engines. There wouldn't even be a four-ship flyby; the weather was too low for that. First a flight of two taxied out and roared away to the west. Then another single ship left, departing to the east. And finally the last lone Phantom started up and taxied to runway one nine.
He watched as it powered up and lit the burners, accelerating away from them, growing smaller, two slender plumes of amber-blue light under the tail from which the earthshaking thunder emitted. Then for a few brief seconds he could see the top profile as the long nose rotated off the runway. For the last time he saw the peculiar jointed wings, angled upward at the outer sections; the ludicrous downward angles of the tail surfaces; the dull gray paint; growing smaller, then abruptly being swallowed by the grayness. The roar lingered behind like a great invisible tail, leaving the airfield and the wooded countryside, for the last time, awash with its rolling, fading thunder. He stood there a long time looking in the direction of the dying roar. Before it faded completely, it became intermittent, reflected and absorbed by ragged cloud thickets, then it was gone. Only the wind sounded, and it was a bit colder. And as Maxie walked away, nursing the cantaloupe, he realized that the uncelebrated departure was strangely appropriatejust the way he and his band of brothers would have wanted it.
I sink back into the seat and wonder about Maxiea fighter pilot to the core, cast headlong into the world of the "heavies." Had the aircraft change not come about, his old unit might have been thrown into the fray with Iraq. He's got to be thinking about that. And what must he think of us? I would like to go downrange with him. He needs to be broken in by another ex-fighter driver turned trash hauler. But he has eleven weeks of training to go through first, and God willing, this will be over by then.
Our flying time cumulatives are high, and so we may be able to talk the stage manager at McGuire into sending us home to "burn down." In case that doesn't work, as likely it won't, we are preparing a scheme. In a little while we will establish contact with our own command post back in Jackson and ask the controllers there to bring their influence to bear on McGuire. Sometimes that works even though they are subordinate to McGuire. It depends on how busy our maintenance section is and who is working the command post console at the time.
As we settle in for the oceanic crossing, one of the many radio transmissions from other pilots catches our attention. The voice comes clear through our radio receiver. But something is amiss. I know after the first five words what's happening and look around at the grinning faces of my crew. They've picked up on it as well. The voice is clear, calm, and thoroughly reassuring.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain. Welcome aboard flight 1623 to New York's Kennedy Airport. It's a real pleasure having you with us today Please note that I have turned off the fasten seat belt sign, so go ahead and take a stretch if you feel the need."
It's a speech I've made in similar fashion many times before. But I've never been able to do it as smoothly as this guy He's been around a while, that's for certain.
"I strongly suggest, however, that you keep your seat belts securely fastened when you are seated in case we encounter any unexpected rough air."
He knows the territory. Most companies advise against using the "T" word. That sounds too technical and scary. "Rough air" is better understood but is an understatement. Turbulence can, and has been, so sudden, unexpected, and violent as to nail people against the ceiling of the plane. Necks and backs have been broken. But the marketing departments say that passengers would rather not hear of such unpleasantness.
I really admire the captain's style; he's very articulate. His voice is deep and soothing. He could narrate a National Geographic broadcast. Too bad the speech is going to waste.
"We'll be flying at an altitude of 33,000 feet today. Our en route time is seven hours and forty-one minutes. We should be touching down at Kennedy at 12:15 p.m. local time."
The poor guy still hasn't realized that he's flipped the wrong switch. He is not on his plane's passenger address system; he is, of course, broadcasting on the air traffic control frequency, which happens to be Scottish Control. We and dozens of other planes are hearing the eloquent address and in fact cannot do business until he finishes. This blocking of the frequency is potentially dangerous, but it would be rare that harm could result from it, especially on a high-altitude frequency such as the one that we're on. He thinks he has a captive audience, and he does: for two hundred miles in all directions.
"Kennedy is currently foggy; but it should have burned off by our arrival time. We can expect partly cloudy skies, a slight breeze from the northwest and an unseasonably pleasant temperature of around sixty five degrees."
His error is not uncommon. The communications panel on most large airplanes is a thick forest of switches and knobs, crowded together and easily confused by a pilot who may have recently changed over from another type of aircraft. Grabbing the wrong switch isn't catastrophic, but it can be humbling. Sooner or later, everyone screws up with the radio and broadcasts on the wrong frequency or, like the captain, goes "out" instead of "in" with his message.
"The weather across the Atlantic should be fairly good today We're presently over Glasgow, Scotland. Our route from here will take us just south of Iceland and Greenland, across Newfoundland and the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, and down through New England into New York. If the weather cooperates we should get a nice view of the Canadian coastline."
He's really dragging the speech out. It's one of the longest I've heard. He's obviously a people-oriented captain, one who enjoys talking to and interfacing with his passengers. He's the type who stands in the cockpit door and greets them as they disembark. He probably wears a vest beneath his uniform jacket and takes the flight attendants out to dinner occasionally. He's the kind who sends cards back to the first class passengers with a personal greeting. Airline executives like pilots such as he.
He's beginning to wrap it up now. I know what's coming next. Along with every other pilot on the frequency, I start thinking up a wisecrack.
"Relax now, and enjoy your flight. We want it to be as enjoyable and as comfortable as possible. And please, don't hesitate to ask if you have any questions about our flight or if you need anything at all."
He's finally finished. Now the inevitable cracks begin to pour in from civil and military pilots alike, all across the sky.
"Thank you for sharing that with us."
"Can I have a pillow captain?"
"I need another glass of wine, please."
"Captain, can you warm up the cabin? I'm too cold."