Chapter 51

Cindy’s turn:

I sort of took charge of getting Nikki back into the swing of things.

“I’m NOT an invalid, Cindy Sue,” she told me.

“I know you’re not.”

“I’m not frail.”

“Never said that, Miss Nikki of the Pen.”

She snorted. “We have Munchkins to supervise, Miss Cindy of the Twelve Gauge.”

“I know. And a quadrupedal, two-armed Bot-bot.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Yesterday they were arguing with two industrial design students over ideas about the physical packaging.”

She smiled. Yes, tragedy. But yes, Nikki’s on her way back. We know that nobody can replace what she lost, but we can darned sure be the support for her as she finds her way out of it. “I would’ve loved to see that. What’s the discussion?”

“The pTerridactyl likes her industrial look. Says that it makes people realize that they’re dealing with a – in her words – REAL robot, and that colors their expectations and actions.”

“And the argument?” Nikki asked.

“The college students wanted something slick and plastic and kind of sterile. pTerri said they needed to rewatch Wall-E and see which character got their heartstrings tight.”

Nikki giggled. “That’s my kids...” As soon as the words left her lips, she looked at me. “Dammit, Cindy Sue! You’re playing me.”

“I am assuredly NOT playing you, my dear sister. I’m being Cindy and you’re being Nikki and we’re interacting with our lives just like we always do.”

“I know,” she said. “But I just had a moment. They really are MY kids. Everybody’s kids, really. But mine as well. If I ever have one, then I shall relish turning part of his life over to this group, as well. I think I...”

“I know you did, Sis.”

About halfway through the day, my cellphone rang. Unrecognizable number. “This is Cindy Richards. Can I help you?”

“Cindy, this is Geno Haugen, from the other day at the Mobile airport. You got a minute?”

“Sure, Mister Geno. What you got?”

“I have a quick charter next Sunday. Birmingham to Miami and back – same day. Buncha lawyers want to see a football game. You said you’d be interested in a flight. This is one.”

“Oh, wow! Gee! I’d love that, but I have to clear it with my husband.”

“Good. I need to clear it with my wife, too. You can meet ‘er at the Birmingham airport. She’s got a sister there.”

“So it’s out and back in a day?”

“Yep. Hour and a half there. Dump the load. Sit around the FBO, put ‘em back on the plane, bring ‘em home. We’ll be back before ten.”

I’m excited, but I try to maintain some decorum. “I like the itinerary. Let me discuss with Dan.”

“Okay, Mizz Cindy. Let me know soon.”

Kelsey, one of the grad students working with us on the robotics end of the Munchkin Mafia, rolled her chair back to look at me. “What was THAT?”

“Am I THAT obvious, Kelsey?”

“I distinctively heard a Cindy giggle. That’s usually a good thing.”

“Oh, it’s pilot stuff. I just got offered a chance to sit in the right seat of a bizjet for a short trip.”

“One of those Gulfstream things?”

“I wish!” I said. “Nope, little Cessna Citation. Eight seats, four hundred and fifty miles an hour.”

“You do some interesting stuff, girl,” Kelsey said.

Like I said, grad student. Five years older than me. Smart, as one would expect for somebody who’s pursuing advanced degrees in electronics and robotics. We’re glad she’s part of the program.

“Just flyin’,” I returned. “Like a superset of driving. Three dimensions. More rules.”

“Are you gonna do it?”

“If Dan doesn’t mind me flying to Miami with another pilot and a plane-full of lawyers.”

“Not overnight, huh?”

“Nope. Back home before midnight.”

“Dan’ll buy it,” she laughed. She’s met Dan. Everybody, actually. “He adores you.”

“I AM adorable,” I laughed.

“Yeah,” she said. “I wish I was adorable.”

I slid my chair next to hers so our conversation was a little more private. “I thought you and Major Ken...”

She sighed. “Couple of dates. Well, a few...”

“And...” Sometimes it’s fun to do that ‘girl talk’ thing.

“Well, I’m evaluating. Observing. Recording.”

“Yeah, you’re a scientist,” I said. “Can’t pass gas without making a set of data points.”

“I’m NOT that bad,” she squealed.

“So what’s the projection based on current data...”

“He’s sane. Not THAT big a lech. Smart. YOU know he’s good-looking.”

“But he doesn’t adore you...”

“Not overtly. Like Dan does YOU.”

“Just be careful. You know how those military types can be,” I giggled.

I waited until I got home to talk with Dan. “You’ve met Geno. You’ll meet his wife if you fly with me to Birmingham. It’s one of those round-robin things for some guys to see a football game. They signed an agreement for the itinerary.”

“And you get to fulfill an airplane dream,” he said.

“But none of my dreams are worth upsetting the man who makes us a marriage.”

“Do it,” he said. “You get a chance YOU want, that not many people are in a position to accept.”

“Thank you,” I squealed, throwing my arms around him for kisses. Honestly, sometimes he makes me feel like a little girl getting her own pony. This isn’t even MY pony, but I squeal anyway.

“That’s why,” he smiled.

“Why what?”

“Why I trust you. You’re still that little thirteen year old girl in so many ways...”

“Yeah,” I said. “That first time you took me to dinner. Pizza. And you let me play those silly games.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That look on your face.” He smiled. “I still see it, and I adore it, and I want to spend my life seeing a look of happiness and wonder in your eyes.”

“You old poet, you,” I purred, kissing him.

“Call Geno and tell ‘im. You’re gonna be flight crew. Ask him what to wear.”

“As long as it’s not a miniskirt, I’m good,” I said.

So Sunday morning we fly into the Birmingham airport in our old faithful Cessna 180. I’m ready for this. I have my, well, everybody calls it ‘Cindy’s combat backpack’ and I suppose in some ways it is. In it are my MacBook and a few other odds and ends I determine are necessities for little emergencies. I’m wearing a pantsuit. I know – the lady who sold it to me said, “Hon, this thing makes you ... you should get something that shows off a little.”

“Thank you,” I demurred. “But I’m going to be co-pilot on a charter jet. I’m not there to titillate the clients.”

“Then this looks good.” She paused. “Wait. Pilot? I have this over here. It’s got epaulettes.”

“Great!”

So I have a very modest pantsuit with epaulettes. Geno said he’s bringing me a pair of ‘First Officer’ tabs to go with them.

We meet Geno and his wife at the big FBO at Birmingham. He and Dan did a mini-ceremony in the FBO office, each installing my First Officer tabs.

Geno reached into his pocket, pulled out a dollar bill, handed it to me. “There! I just paid you. Now you’re officially a commercial charter pilot.”

Dan laughed. “I give up.”

Geno’s old eyes twinkled. “See, Sonya?” he said to his wife. “That’s how to pick a co-pilot.”

“He’s completely harmless, Cindy baby,” Sonya said. “Y’all have a good trip.”

I kissed Dan, one of those polite, chaste public kisses. I knew he was going to fly back to Auburn. He’s enjoying his own football weekend. It’s rare. I try watching a game with him from time to time, but after about ten minutes one of us ends up doing something to distract the other. Today he’s going to watch a game with no distractions. I watched him look over his shoulder at me as he went back out to our plane.

“Let me show you our flight plan,” Geno said. He ran through familiar steps, stuff I’ve done before, except that this time the cruising altitude was Flight Level 250 – basically 25,000 feet. That’s waaay above what my planes will do. I could get the twin to 25,000 feet, but there’s no reason for it. She’s not pressurized and I’d have to breathe oxygen. Not fun.

I asked a few questions, then we went out and did the preflight on the Citation. We saw a big SUV pull up, and four guys get out.

“Our passengers,” he said. “We’re professionals. Friendly. As accommodating as we can be, but we’re the pilots. A little bit apart.”

“Chauffeurs,” I said.

“Yeah. That, too.”

Introductions all around. Lawyers. According to Dan, minions of the Antichrist. Well, except for Judge Charlie and Kaylee’s dad and Kara’s dad, maybe.

“Wait just a second,” the oldest one said. “SHE’s the co-pilot? How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Eighteen. And fully licensed. Single and multi-engine. Commercial. And instrument.” I didn’t add ‘and a PhD in REAL science’. And I’ve addressed professors, senior managers and engineers and scientists in some of the nation’s greatest institutions of knowledge, so a handful of Alabama lawyers is NOT going to awe Cynthia Smith-Richards MSEE, PhD.

“Shall we get aboard, gentlemen?” Geno says. “I need to give you a safety briefing and get the engines started.”

I was glad for the chaste pantsuit. I caught a couple of not too well hidden attempts to stare down my neckline. Come on, guys ... I’m sure that there are plenty of bimbos who will not only have a view more to your liking, but will happily display it for you. But I didn’t say that.

Geno had the door secured and both engines at ground idle when I secured myself in the right seat.

“Checklist,” he said, “it’s a big ‘un. Let’s get started.”

He made the first radio call to ground control, then switched to flight services on the number two radio and activated his pre-filed flight plan.

“Now it’s all about numbers.” We taxied to the active runway, switched to the tower frequency, got a clearance to take off.

I do like the feel those two turbofans give when you push the throttles forward. Lift off halfway down the runway.

“No hurry,” Geno said. “Establish a climb, then raise the wheels. Get ‘em, co-pilot.”

I smirked as I reached over and flicked the landing gear switch up, watching the indicators. “Three up,” I said.

“Now, we’re restricted to 200 knots until we get out of Class B airspace, then 250 until we get past ten thousand feet. What do think we should do?”

“Climb like an angel,” I said.

“Good answer. These guys’ve flown with me before. They know the drill. You don’t have to fly this plane full-time. You pay attention, set the autopilot, and pay attention some more. So let’s do that.”

The only time I’ve seen those numbers on a rate of climb instrument have been in one of those ‘build up airspeed and ZOOM’ maneuvers that are fun in a Pitts or an Extra. This silly thing just DOES it. We pass ten thousand feet. Highest I’ve EVER been.

But next, sorta like the 402, it’s just flying. Except that everything is moving faster, nearly twice the speed of the 402. And Geno says, “Cindy, I don’t know if you’re ever going to be flying jets, but pay attention to the air speed indicator a little. There’s a Mach ring on it, and you don’t want to get into that territory. This bird will nearly do it in a dive, but it isn’t built for that. If you’re getting close, throttle back, or your day will get really ugly, for a tiny little while. Capice?”

I nodded, and thought, “Mach ring?” I never flew in anything where it mattered. And now that I think of it, this is my first jet, EVER!

Flight Level 250. Twenty-five thousand feet. Five miles. And our ground speed is over four hundred knots – 470 miles an hour. We get thirty minutes of this before we start the descent into Miami Executive Airport.

By now I’m watching closely, reading off the descent checklist, handling the changes to the autopilot under Geno’s close eye.

“IFR approach,” Geno says. “But keep your eyes open. Never know when somebody else ain’t paying attention.”

“Gotcha.” We do one quick holding pattern then intercept the glide slope for the active runway. This thing’s more stable than my Cessna 402. Geno lets me fly her down. It feels like we’re on rails.

“Now, here’s where we keep the nose up, almost zero out the rate of descent, and we wait for the wheels to touch.”

And we’re down. I let out a little happy squeal.

“First time I’ve ever heard that sound from the cockpit, Geno,” one of our passengers remarked.

“First time she’s landed this thing by herself,” Geno returned.

A short taxi to the FBO, then we disembarked our passengers. They went to a waiting limo. We secured the plane, attended to the refueling.

Walking inside, I had my backpack slung over one shoulder. I’m watching Geno.

“You really enjoy this, don’t you?” I ask him.

“Cindy, this is my world. If I didn’t love the flying, I’d probably retire,” he said. “The Doc keeps fussing about my cholesterol and triglycerides, and I’m getting tired of it. And at 57, I’m entirely too old to go back into the Air Force. They wouldn’t even let me fly a desk.”