Chapter 7

Bill Simon’s turn:

Tuesday morning, more drudgery, but the weekend was GOOD. Russ Brown and his wife showed up, bringing four racks of REALLY good pork ribs, and we enjoyed the food and fellowship with them. Funny how that works: Even if it ain’t the same industry, contractors who WORK are fun to talk with. You get to comparing various jobs, and quickly realize you have comparable problems and solutions, often made up on the spot.

Anyway, about 9:30, and my phone buzzed. Caller ID said “Russ Brown”, so I answered, “Mornin’ Russ, and how are things in North Armpit today?” I know he’s got a job going, way up in north Louisiana.

He said, “Mornin’ to YOU, Bill, and things are just lovely. I have a busted hydraulic pump on one of my dozers, and no replacement parts. Got anything in your pocket that would work?”

“Well, some truck keys and a pocket knife. Would that be helpful?” I asked.

He chuckled and said, “About the same as me. Bill, we called around for repair parts for this thing, but nobody here’s got one in stock. It took all of yesterday just to bring this gear up on low-boys, and I didn’t fly for two reasons: First, we’re short-handed, and second, they don’t have an airport here.”

Continuing, he said, “I have a rebuilt pump and hoses in my shop back there. I don’t know whether we can make this work, but it occurs to me that either you or Haley could bring the stuff to us. We can have a pump and hoses and a box of other stuff at your shop in an hour, and there’s a private field, grass I think, about 30 minutes north of here.”

He told me the name of the field. I looked it up.

“It’s not on the sectional, Russ...” (Auth. Note: ‘Sectional’ is an aerial navigation chart (map) used for VFR (visual flight – looking where you’re going, as opposed to IFR – flight by instruments. Not necessary to see the ground) navigation.

“I know. But it’s there. Old chicken farm strip. I know the guy.”

“Russ, we’ll figure out something. Get the parts over here, get permission on the airfield, and get us some good GPS coordinates. I’m pretty busy, but I’ll call Haley.”

He said, “Thanks, Bill. If this works, you’re saving us at least a day of down-time, and that amounts to BIG bucks. We’ll have to figure out a way to repay you.”

I said, “Nonsense, Russ. It’s what people do. Now, let me call Haley.”

We clicked off, and I called Haley. She answered, “Morning again, sir. What’s up?”

“Haley, if anyone hears you calling me “sir”, I’m gonna be in trouble. Now, let me ask: Do you remember how to fly a 185? And would you be interested in flying a mission for Russ Brown?”

“Hey, if we get more ribs out of it, I’m ALL over it! Can I bring Deena?”

“OK, both of you get back here as quick as you can, and the parts should be here when you arrive.”

She clicked off, and I texted Russ: “Haley and Deena are headed your way.”

He texted back with: “Airfield permission approved.” He added GPS coordinates. I looked it up on Google Earth -- it shows up, and looks pretty good. About 162 miles, nautical. They won’t even need a refuel to round-trip it.

About forty minutes later they arrived, wearing the “unofficial uniform” -- khaki shorts and 3Sigma navy blue polos. DAMMIT -- they look delicious! Some people like big tits and mini-skirts. I like healthy, SMART girls in navy polos. So sue me, I guess.

Haley’s turn:

Getting a little thrill, here. REAL work, doing something I like! Deena and I rolled up at the office, got out and strolled inside. Bill was grinning, and said, “Russ needs some parts, so get out to the hangar, move your bird out, and supervise loading.”

I went out with Deena, pulled the bird out, and a guy in a pickup rolled up. Said his name was “Harley Jensen”, and looked at the two of us with, um, “interest”, you might say. I guess that’s okay. I mean, we spend a lot of time on a college campus, so if getting scoped out would give us the vapors, we’d never get anything done.

“Ladies,” he said, “I wrapped these in cardboard, so they won’t mess up the carpet, like Mister Russ said.” He then loaded the two boxes, with coiled hoses on top. Said the total weight was about 150 lbs., and then departed, with “interested” eyes. With Deena in the cabin we got a cargo net over the load.

Back to the office, where Bill had the target field on his computer. He said, “Haley, here it is. Dunno about field conditions, but it looks OK to me. It’s about 162 miles, nautical.”

I punched it up on my iPad, as did Deena. We both grinned, and Deena said, “Put us in, coach -- we’re ready!”

He said, “OK, go get ‘em, and if something doesn’t look right, don’t land there! Maybe you can call Russ when you’re about 10 minutes out.”

One more step, pretty easy. We ran a quick calculation to make sure we didn’t do something wrong with our center of gravity. It checked out.

The two of us kissed Bill. Mine was a bit hotter than Deena gets to display in a public setting, but she does this thing with her eyes. Bill knows what it means. So do I.

Weather’s supposed to hold up for the day. We’re under high, thin overcast, good visibility, no rain forecast for our trip as long as we’re home before dark.

Dark? We need to get our lights done on our home field. No lights. Strictly a daytime operation. Next time Mister Russ has a trencher loose in the area...

Idea. Trade this rescue mission for the trenchwork.

Take off to the south, loop around, punch ‘navigate’ on the iPad, and it lays out a course to our destination. I ignore that course. There are a couple of restricted airspace areas associated with Fort Polk so we swing our course east of Alexandria. It’s not a big deal. It’s big angles and only adds a little to our total flight path.

Initially we’re cruising at fifty-five hundred feet, since we’re cruising just a bit east of due north. Once we clear the restricted areas, we’ll swing a bit west and climb to sixty-five hundred.

And it’s just flying – straight and level, not bumpy at all under the overcast, so we do what we often do – talk. There’s school, of course. And there’s love. Both of us in love with the same guy as well as each other. It’s a cozy little knot, three lobes, just like the pendants on our identical necklaces.

“Cindy’s plane has autopilot,” Deena observed.

“Yeah, but Cindy’s plane burns sixty gallons an hour. We’re doing less than a third of that. And a hundred K instead of six million.”

“There is that,” Deena smirked. “But just sayin’...”

“This one does pretty good for being older than Bill,” I posed. “Quite nice.”

She is. Trimmed up, the old girl holds her altitude, the engine grumbles in a steady roar, and the miles pass down below us.

We started our descent, called Mister Russ on a cellphone, started looking for the airstrip. According to Google Maps, it’s just a strip of grass alongside a farm path, a few chicken sheds nearby as landmarks.

There it is. Facilities? None whatsoever. A quick look at weather on the iPad has us landing to the southeast, and as we’re doing a pattern, I see Mister Russ’s pickup truck driving up the dirt road. The strip we’re now on final for is just grass. I’ve been landing on grass since I started flying, so it’s a yawner.

By the time we’re down, wheeling around to taxi back to the other end where Mister Russ is parked, there’s a second pickup coming up the road.

Deena crawls over the seats and unhooks the starboard side of the cargo net. I dismount and...

“Hey, Haley!” booms Mister Russ’s voice. “You got Deena with you?”

“Here I am,” came Deena’s voice as she stepped down.

“Come meet Mister Baker. This is his strip.”

Mister Clint Baker’s about Mister Russ’s age, fiftyish. We shake hands as Mister Russ introduces us.

“Told you you weren’t gonna believe my flight crew,” he told Mister Baker.

“You got that right. Uh, Miss Haley, how old are you?”

“Seventeen,” I said. “And it’s ‘mizz’. Married.”

“Forgot to tell you that part,” Mister Russ told him. “Deena’s a year younger. Haley, tell ‘im what you flew for your private test.”

I smiled. “Restored Stearman with a 275 Jake,” I said.

“That explains the taildragger skills. I used to keep an old Cessna 170 here. Now it stays over at the parish airport.”

“Nice strip, though,” I stated.

“Look, I hate to cut things short, folks, but I need those parts.”

“Okay.”

He and Mister Baker cleaned out our cargo. I left Mister Baker a business card for our airfield. “If you ever make a trip down there, stop in for a visit.”

“And that’s our website. We have a page about our airfield. We’re doin’ fly-ins. If you call we’ll make sure we have enough to feed you,” Deena added.

It’s time to get back into the air. Home awaits. Abbreviated preflight. Walk around to see if we lost pieces, drain the fuel strainer, check the engine oil, the we’re buckled in, engine’s running, Deena waves at Mister Baker who’s watching us depart.

Engine run-up, right there on the end of the runway, line up, throttle forward, roll, tail’s up, keep it down, wheels off the runway, and we’re off, climbing, a hundred, hundred and fifty feet and the WHOMP!!! And the engine’s vibrating and SHIT!!! Something BAD wrong.

Engine’s still producing power, but man, the vibration.

I glance at Deena. She’s already pale, compared to me, but right now she’s almost spectrally white.

“Hang on,” I hiss. If I can get us back around...

Retard the throttle. Vibration’s RPM-sensitive. Lower power, but I know that at this power setting, she’ll fly all day. All we need is five minutes. Gingerly turning, I line up with the runway again, and we’re down and I shut the engine down as soon as we’re stopped. Mister Baker’s pickup truck’s running up behind us as we get out.

“You hit a buzzard, Mizz Haley!”

“SOMETHING happened,” I said.

“Yeah. Ten pounds of buzzard. I saw the feathers fly.”

By this time I was looking at the propeller. About six inches from the tip of one blade, there’s a divot and a little twist. Deena and I and Mister Baker are all looking at it.

“Ouch,” he said. “Vibration?”

“Oh, yessir,” Deena said. “Scared the toot out of me.”

“I kinda got shook, too,” I said.

“You handled it like a pro,” he said. “I heard you cut power. Very good.”

His next words are kind of obvious. “What are you gonna do?”