Chapter 42: New Boundaries

The twin-engine set down on the runway as though I was landing a feather; I greased it. I smoothly brought the throttles back, and adjusted the props one more time. We slowed over about one-thousand feet as I gently braked, and then I took a taxiway, and headed back to the parking area by the FBO.

Next to me in the plane, riding in the co-pilot’s seat, had been Warren Dittmeyer, the FAA Examiner for my multi-engine rating. We’d been flying for one-hour from takeoff to landing. I’d been under the hood on instruments, done several engine-out recoveries, answered about one question a minute, and also done stall recoveries in the plane with engines on, off, and on single-engine. This was all stuff that I’d practiced. When I got my commercial rating, I had an instructor that demanded precision. I thought that I’d delivered precision.

We parked, and I set about tying down the plane while Warren walked to the office. He had been able to maintain the most inscrutable face of any person I’d ever seen for the entire flight. When I nailed a maneuver, I looked to him expecting a nod or frown, but ... nothing; only a suggestion about the next maneuver and a question.

After tie down, I collected my flight gear, locked up the plane, and went inside. Warren sat in one of the ratty looking chairs that surrounded a table littered with flight magazines going back decades. He gestured for me to take a seat.

Warren said in an even tone, “Congratulations. You’re now a multi-engine-rated pilot. You did well, and you know your stuff. What are you going to do next?

“Learn to fly that.” I pointed out the window where the Challenger 350 sat waiting for the next day’s flight up to Camp Forge. If I remember correctly, the prior weekend Bill had taken it over to a service center at PHL to replace the two main landing gear tires. I still lusted over getting into the pilot seat on that craft. I added, “I’ll probably go up to a training center for a couple of weeks or more.”

Warren looked over his reading glasses at me. “I wish I was able to give the check ride in that, but that’s way above my pay grade. Good luck and enjoy. You should get your CFI, too – become a certified flight instructor. How do you happen to have that plane?”

“It’s the one and only business aircraft where I work. My boss will be taking her multi-engine check ride with you in a few weeks. Kim Winslow. I hope she does as well.” I presented him with the requisite check, we signed some papers, and I’d get a new FAA pilots license in the mail in a few weeks with new rating listed among the growing list of qualifications. In the meanwhile, should anybody ask, I had a copy of the paperwork that Warren would send in.

Warren left and I went back to work at TNA. Kim did give me a kiss and her congratulations. She had a lesson in the same plane I flew in the next morning.

Thursday, riding in the jet from North Carolina to Camp Forge, I quizzed Kim with as many questions as I could remember from what Warren Dittmeyer had asked me during my check ride. Kim was doing pretty well answering them, but she did have to think about a few before responding. She was taking notes about her weak areas to study over the weekend.

We were greeted by a security man in our car, as we’d arranged. This man was new – Stu Meyers. He rattled off his qualifications that sounded close to some of the others. He had taught Krav Maga, and in response to a question from me, he said he’d be glad to teach me the craft. I suggested Saturday morning after our run. Usually, we had a security guy tagging along on our group runs, often lagging slightly behind.

I got greeted by Vanessa like a long-lost relative, and to my surprise she even kissed me quite passionately in front of some of the other members of the Circle. I saw a couple of surprised looks, but wisely nobody said anything. I still didn’t know how recovered that Van was, so wanted to play it safe.

Vanessa had prepared swordfish steaks for us as the entrée – and we gave her a five-star rating and a round of applause. Several suggested that she be sure that dish, the sauces, and the accompaniments were on her menu at Vanessa’s when it opened.

Todd gave me a report about the restaurant. He and Heather had negotiated the price of the property they’d chosen down to $1.6 million. They’d also lined up a contractor that knew the building codes for restaurants, and had rebuild several within the past six years. Further, the fire marshal knew him and approved.