Chapter 15: Blasts from the Past

Over the Gulf of Santa Catalina, off the coast of southern California

June 25, 1993

The morning sun was still ascending into the sky to his left when Jake flew his plane out of the Class B airspace that extended twelve miles offshore of Los Angeles and its suburbs. He was flying almost due south at an altitude of 5500 feet. The calm, blue Pacific Ocean stretched out all around him. Rising from those gentle swells, directly ahead, was the rocky island of Santa Catalina, its northern shores some twenty miles distant. Sitting next to Jake, in the copilot’s seat, was a man named Emery Wilkens, who liked to be called “Em”. He was a professional camera operator for NVC Studios and he had a portable Sony video camera in his lap—a camera with a 150-millimeter zoom lens that was capable of reading newsprint from a hundred yards away and probably cost more than the average movie consumer made in a six-month period. Thanks to union regulations that covered things like hazard pay, work before 9:00 AM, special assignments, and weekly overtime, Em was getting paid more for each hour of this mission than KVA Records paid Dexter Price for each hour of blowing his horn. But it was NVC Studios that was footing this particular bill. They were also paying Jake ninety dollars an hour, plus fuel expenses and a stipend for wear and tear on his aircraft. And even with all that, the union rep for the production crews had thrown a major bitch because Jake was not a member of any labor organization.

“You see anything yet?” Jake asked, his voice transmitted through the microphone and going into Em’s ears.

“Just a whole lot of ocean down there,” Em replied with a yawn. He was a bit tired. The lack of restroom facilities aboard the plane had kept him from enjoying his normal two cups of strong and black prior to going to work. True, there were urinals aboard in case of emergency, but there was no way in hell he was going to whip out his Johnson with Celia Valdez sitting just behind him.

“This is the meeting spot, right?” asked Celia, who really had no business related reason to be on this flight, and was therefore not getting paid for it, but who had come along because it sounded like fun, fun enough for her to put aside her fear of flying—that and she really wanted to see an old friend again.

“This is the place we agreed on,” Jake said. “They’re out there somewhere. Look just below us. She said they’d be at five thousand feet and that they would be circling ten miles off the north coast of the island.”

“Ah...,” said Celia as something occurred to her. “Then the reason we’re at five thousand, five hundred feet is so ... you know...”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “So we don’t find them the hard way. It seemed a prudent precaution.”

“Makes sense,” Em said, wishing he could at least smoke in here.

Jake spotted what they were looking for two minutes later. He saw a glint of sunlight and, after staring at the spot, was able to make out the tiny form of a single engine aircraft just below them and about three miles away. Once he was able to focus on it, he saw it had an overhead wing and fixed tricycle landing gear. A Cessna 172. Exactly the type of aircraft they were looking for.

“I got them,” Jake said. “Two o’clock low, moving parallel to us.”

Em and Celia both peered in that direction. Celia was unable to spot it, but Em found it after a few seconds. “I see it,” he said. He made no move, as of yet, to bring his camera to bear.

“Let me get them on the radio,” Jake said. “I gave her a frequency to monitor when we talked on the phone. Hopefully she wrote it down.”

“I’m sure she did,” Celia said.

Jake dialed up the frequency—one that was not used for anything else within four hundred miles—and keyed up. He had the tail number of the Cessna 172 that belonged to Brody Flight School—an aircraft he had loaned the down payment money for so the school could purchase it—written on his kneeboard. “November-Tango six-three-seven,” he said into his microphone, “this is November-Tango four-one-five. We’re at five-five-zero-zero feet and I believe I have a visual on you from about two miles back. Confirm you’re heading roughly one-eight-zero?”

There was a click in his ears and then, suddenly, an intimately familiar voice was speaking to him. “This is six-three-seven here,” Helen Brody told him, her tone calm, cool, professional. It was her flight voice, the one she’d used when she’d been teaching Jake how to fly, the voice she always used when in command of an aircraft. “We are currently on a heading of one-eight-zero at five-zero-zero-zero feet with a speed of one-one-zero knots. I’m thinking that the aircraft you have in sight is probably us as long as you’re in the vicinity of the agreed upon location. How about I give you a wing waggle to verify?”

“Sounds like a plan, six-three-seven,” Jake said. “Go ahead with the maneuver.”

Jake watched the plane before him. It banked first to the left, then the right, then back to the left again, using no rudder. It then leveled off. “I’m going to call that a positive identification six-three-seven,” he said. “We’re currently heading one-eight-four degrees and moving at one-six-zero knots. Maintain your current heading and I’ll come down and form up on your left wing.”

“Sounds good, four-one-five,” Helen said. “Are you using flight following?”

Jake smiled. “I am,” he said. “Someone taught me once that it’s always a good idea to have The Man keep an eye on you while you’re up here.”

“You must have had a good teacher,” she replied, the slightest hint of a smile in her tone. “In this situation, however, you’re going to want to discontinue it or we’ll set off a TCAS alert when we close with each other.”

“Okay,” Jake said. “I’ll let Center know.”

“Be sure and explain why to them,” she said. “They won’t have a problem with what we’re doing, but it’s the sort of thing they like to know about.”

“Will do,” Jake said. “I’m going to pop back over to the Center frequency and then I’ll start my approach.”

“Sound good,” she said. “Be careful, Jake. Formation flying is not as easy as it seems. It doesn’t take much to screw up and have a midair. Maintain at least five-zero feet of horizontal separation from us at all times.”

“Will do, Sensei,” he said, calling her by a name he hadn’t used since he had been her actual student.

This time the smile in her tone was more apparent. “Talk to you in a minute, Jake,” she said.

He flipped over to the frequency for LA Center and told them they could discontinue flight following for now and that he and aircraft NT637 would be doing some formation flying just north of Santa Catalina for the purpose of photography for a film project. The controller calmly repeated back what he said and then told him to have a nice day. He wished her the same and then switched back to Helen’s frequency. “Four-one-five is back on this frequency,” he said. “I’m coming up on you now. We’ll approach and maintain on the left side.”

“Sounds good, four-one-five,” Helen said. “That’ll be our good side for the purposes of this mission.”

The mission they were embarked upon, a mission that had put Jake back into contact with Helen, his ex-girlfriend (although, so far, that contact had only been over the telephone and over the aviation airwaves), was nothing more than a publicity stunt. Greg Oldfellow was currently sitting in the left-hand pilot’s seat of the Cessna 172 they were closing on. Helen Brody was “instructing” him on the flight. Greg did not have any actual interest in learning to fly an aircraft—he considered piloting to be a working-class skill that he had no need to acquire in order to live his life to its fullest—but he was about to take on the role of a rescue helicopter pilot and he wanted some publicity shots of him “training for his role” by learning the basics of flight operations from a certified flight instructor. The film they were going to shoot today—there was another one-hundred and twenty dollar an hour cameraman in Helen’s plane—would be used for pre-release shorts to generate interest in the film. They wanted exterior shots of the aircraft Greg was flying and interior shots of him practicing turns and banks.

“Why?” Jake had asked when Greg first asked him to contact Helen about the project. “Is any of this really practical? I mean, you’re playing a helicopter pilot and Helen—assuming she agrees to this—would just be giving you a little turn behind the controls of a single-engine fixed wing. It’s hardly the same thing.”

“It doesn’t have to be the same thing,” Greg assured him. “Practicality doesn’t enter into the equation. It’s only for publicity.”

“Are you even going to be in a helicopter when you film this flick?”

“Lots of times,” Greg said. “The Coast Guard is cooperating with the making of the film. They’re going to take me up and put me in the pilot’s seat to film a lot of the flight scenes.”

“They’re not going to let you fly it though, are they?” Jake asked, appalled. “Flying a chopper is not like flying an airplane. It’s considerably more complex and difficult. You can sit down behind the controls of a fixed wing and have someone talk you through the mechanics of controlling it. You can’t do that shit with a helicopter. You have to know what you’re doing there.”

“No, I’m not going to be flying it,” Greg said. “The real pilot will be sitting in the copilot’s seat and will be in control of the aircraft. The real copilot will be one of the extras in the cabin. I’ll just put my hands on the controls when they’re filming me and I have been instructed not to move anything or so much as touch any switches, knobs, or dials. Any actual control manipulations I do for dramatics will be filmed on the ground.”

That made Jake feel a little better, and, in truth, the project actually sounded kind of fun. Burn a day of band rehearsal to go do some formation flying near Catalina? Hell to the yeah. He was up for that shit. Calling Helen had been a bit on the awkward side, the part of the project that gave Jake the most trepidation. The two of them had parted in an amicable manner—they had, in fact, enjoyed one last glorious weekend together (the occasion of the Nerdlys’ Star Trek themed traditional Jewish wedding) just prior to her telling him they needed to talk—but they had not seen each other or spoken since. Jake had moved his airplane out of the small Ventura county airport where Brody Flight School was based and she had dropped back into anonymity, which was the way her relationship with him had taught her she liked to live life. Will she tell me to take a flying fuck? he had to wonder. Will she even speak to me long enough to say that?

To his surprise, however, she seemed quite delighted to hear from him. She warmly enquired about how he had been doing of late, expressed her opinion that Laura was a very attractive girl who seemed quite nice—at least based on the information she’d picked up from the popular media—and, when Jake told her the reason for the call, she agreed to it immediately, with only a few questions about just how seriously Greg would be taking the lesson.

“Not very seriously at all,” Jake assured her. “He’ll do what you tell him to do and he will be a polite, non-pain-in-the-ass student, but he has no actual interest in learning to fly beyond these publicity shots he wants.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “It’ll just be one of the introductory lessons we sell for two hundred bucks to try to rope people in. I’ll talk him through the mechanics of flying the plane as he’s doing it, have him operate the throttle and the yoke for takeoff while my hands rest on the controls in case he fucks it up, have him do some basic turns and banks when we get on station, and that’ll be that.”

And now, here they were, putting the plan into action. Jake throttled down a bit and then pushed the nose down some, dropping his altitude down to 4900 feet as he came up on the 172’s left side. It was more than a little disconcerting to be so close to another aircraft in flight—all of a pilot’s training and instinct were geared around keeping one’s aircraft away from anything else that flew through the sky—but it was also kind of thrilling. Em was filming now as Jake throttled down even further, dropped his flaps to five degrees, and then pulled up his altitude to bleed off his own airspeed so he could match the Cessna’s velocity. It was not a maneuver he had ever practiced—flying with flaps deployed at any time but during landing or takeoff was generally a big no-no—but he managed to take up position fifty feet off Helen’s left wingtip with only minor adjustments required.

“All right,” Jake told her over the radio link. “I’m more or less in position now.”

“More or less,” Helen agreed. “Now, my understanding is that we want Catalina in the background of your shots and that the sun should be behind the camera to avoid interfering with the light conditions.”

“That is correct,” Jake replied.

“This is the plan then,” she said. “I’m going to mate myself to you. That is not a Nerdly way of saying we’re going to get it on, okay? It means you do the maneuvering that needs to be done and I will match what you do to maintain our separation. Call out your banks just before you make them, giving me the direction you’re banking, what roll angle you’re going to use, and what compass heading you’re going to roll out at. Let me know when you’re starting your bank back to level as well. We will not do any right banks at all because my ability to visualize you during a right bank will be compromised and you will not be able to see me very well either because you’re sitting on the left side. That’s too dangerous.”

“No right banks?” Jake asked. “In order to pass by the eastern portion of the island I’m going to have to maneuver left and then return to one-eight-zero. How am I going to do that without making a right bank?”

“By making three left banks instead,” she said. “Just go out further and treat it like you’re doing a left approach to an airport with a runway one-eight.”

“Oh ... yeah,” Jake said, resisting the urge to slap his forehead. “I suppose that makes sense. If we’re not doing any right banks, do I still need to call out which direction I’m banking? That seems extraneous.”

“Perhaps,” Helen said, “but please do it anyway. Formation flying is dangerous and we do not want to leave any room for misunderstanding each other.”

“Madres de Dios,” Celia said nervously. “Is it too late to back out of this little project?”

“Far too late,” Jake told her with a chuckle. He then keyed back up. “I copy that, Sensei. I will call out my banks giving you direction, angle of bank, compass heading, and I will let you know when I’m returning to level. I will make no right banks at all. Are we ready to do this thing?”

“I was born ready,” Helen told him.

Jake smiled and looked at his two passengers. “You two ready?”

“Let’s get it on,” Em replied, still filming the Cessna.

“I’m never ready,” Celia said, “but let’s do it anyway.”

“Right,” Jake said with a smile. He keyed up again. “Banking three-zero degrees left to nine-zero. Starting now.”

He rolled the aircraft left while simultaneously pushing down on the left rudder pedal with his foot. The horizon tilted before them, the ocean rolling up on the left side, the bright blue sky on the right. Jake’s eyes tracked over his instruments, watching the compass heading spin to the left, watching his angle of attack indicator shudder as the nose tried to drop down, watching his bank indicator to make sure he did not overshoot. He pulled back a little on the stick, compensating for the decrease in lift caused by the banking wings. The compass spun through 140 then 130 then 120. At 100 he keyed the mic again.

“Coming out of the bank now,” he said. “Will settle on nine-zero.”

“I copy you’re coming out of bank,” Helen’s voice spoke. “Will settle on nine-zero.”

He brought the plane back to straight and level flight, pushing back down on the stick a bit now that the lift had returned to normal, making minor adjustments to his trim wheels to lock them onto a due east heading and a steady altitude of five thousand feet. He looked to his right and saw the Cessna was still on station, flying placidly along fifty feet away.

“Nice one, Jake,” Helen said. “It’s almost like you know what you’re doing over there.”

He chuckled again. “Almost,” he told her.

They flew on this heading until they were several miles east of Catalina’s coastline. Jake then banked them to a heading of zero degrees—due north. After a brief position check, they banked left again, this time to two hundred seventy degrees—due west. They flew in this direction until they were approaching the angle of Catalina’s coast once again and then he banked left yet again, bringing them back to their original heading of one eight zero, or due south. Through it all, Helen banked simultaneously with him, maintaining that fifty feet of separation and holding the altitude.

“All right,” Jake said. “Looks like we’re on course for this thing.”

“I concur,” Helen agreed.

“We’ll be crossing over the approach path for AVX, but at five thousand feet we’ll be well above the glideslope.”

“I concur with that as well,” Helen said.

“What’s AVX?” asked Celia.

“The airport at Catalina,” Jake said. “We’ll be intersecting their approach path, but we’re well above the altitude at which anyone landing or taking off will be flying.”

“Oh ... I see,” she said, clearly not liking the idea of crossing an airport’s approach path.

“Do you think that one pass will be sufficient?” Helen asked.

“What do you think, Em?” Jake asked. “One pass good?”

“It should be good, as long as I catch some of the island in the shots as we go by,” he said, still peering through his viewfinder, the lens pushed up against the side window.

“One pass oughta do it,” Jake told Helen. “We’ll continue on one-eight-zero until we’re about a mile south of the island and then we can separate.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said.

“We won’t be doing any more formation turns?” Em asked.

“We shouldn’t be,” Jake said.

“Can we adjust our positioning a bit then?” he enquired. “Pull a little bit more in front? That’ll let me catch some good shots of Greg without the wing strut getting in the shot.”

“I think we can do that,” Jake said.

He got back on the radio and told Helen his intention. She had no problem with it so he throttled up some, letting their position creep forward another fifty feet or so.

“Perfect, right there,” Em said.

“Right,” Jake said, throttling back down to a hundred and ten knots. His plane really did not like to fly this slow, but it was for a good cause.

“Can you really see Greg though that thing?” Celia asked.

“As clear as if he was sitting in front of me,” Em replied. “I can see the expression on his face. He seems like he’s having a good time.”

“Amazing,” Celia said.

“Maybe you could have him give me a few thumbs-up gestures?” Em asked.

“Why the hell not?” Jake said, keying up again.

It took them about twenty minutes to fly past the island’s east coast and back out over the open ocean. Ahead of them and slightly to the right, they could now see the island of San Clemente rising up. Several cargo ships and an oil tanker could be seen on the surface, either heading toward the Port of Long Beach or away from it.

“Okay now,” Jake said to Helen. “Em tells us he has sufficient footage for the project. Are we ready to separate?”

“We are ready to separate,” Helen confirmed. “The best way to do that is by altitude first. You pull up at least five hundred feet before making any turns. I’ll stay at present altitude and maintain one-eight-zero until I see you turn away. Once I know you’re back up to speed, I’ll simply maneuver away like normal.”

“Sounds good, Sensei,” Jake said. “Before we do this, is anyone over there up for a little breakfast?”

There was a pause of maybe twenty seconds and then Helen responded. “We do have some hungry people over here. What are you suggesting?”

“The DC-3 Grill?” Jake said, referring to the restaurant at Santa Catalina’s airport. Back when they had been dating, he and Helen had made that a fairly regular destination for breakfast or lunch dates. Jake had not been there a single time since the breakup.

“That’s kind of expensive, isn’t it?” Helen asked. “We’ll each have to pay a thirty-dollar landing fee, and the food isn’t cheap either.”

“It’s my treat,” Jake said. “Landing fees and all. NVC is paying me a couple of hundred bucks for this gig. It’s found money, as my mom would say. I might as well spend it on something fun.”

“All right then,” Helen said. “I guess we’re in. Have you landed at AVX lately?”

“I haven’t been there since the last time you and I were there,” he said.

“Me either,” she said, perhaps a hint of melancholy in her voice. “I hear that the runway surface is still pretty crappy though.”

“It always was,” Jake said. “Like landing on a dirt road.”

“Still, visibility is good and the winds are light. The last time we were there was in your Cessna. You’ve never landed your twin engine there?”

“I never have,” Jake confirmed.

“Should be fun then,” she said. “Why don’t you go in first since you have the speed?”

“Will do,” he said. “I’m pulling up now. See you on the ground.”

“Looking forward to it,” she said. “And be careful. AVX is bit tricky, remember?”

“I remember,” he said, pulling back on his yoke and watching his altimeter start to spin up. Once he had a good solid rate of climb, he throttled up and then retracted his flaps, putting on some speed. When he reached 5500 feet he banked left again, turning them back to the east so he could get into Catalina’s landing pattern.

“Uh ... what does she mean that it’s a bit tricky?” asked Celia nervously.

“It’s no big deal,” Jake assured her. “It’s just that it’s a single runway that sits sixteen hundred feet up on a plateau.”

“Sixteen hundred feet?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s fun to land there. It’s even more fun to take off. The land just drops around you and disappears and you’re out over the ocean nearly two thousand feet up. It’s a rush.”

“As long as something doesn’t go wrong,” put in Em, who had stowed his camera once again and was sitting calmly, enjoying the ride.

“Yeah,” Jake agreed. “As long as something doesn’t go wrong.”

“Why in the hell did they build the airport up on a hill?” Celia asked.

“I don’t know,” Jake said. “They didn’t consult me before they started construction. It really is impractical when you come down to it. Maybe they just thought it would be kind of cool.”

“Kind of cool?”

Jake shrugged. “It is kind of cool,” he said. “The runway does suck though. It’s asphalt and very bumpy. It’s also not completely level.”

“Madres de Dios,” Celia said, making the sign of the cross. “How do I get myself into these things?”

Jake brought them in without incident, touching down neatly on the center line of the runway and then rolling out to the second taxiway. He followed the yellow line to the general aviation area and pulled into a parking slot. After shutting down the engines and turning off all the avionics and the lights, he opened the doors and the three of them stepped out into the pleasantly cool late morning ocean air.

“I need to go drain the dragon,” Em said. “Where can I do that?”

“The airport office is right over there,” Jake told him, pointing to a two-story building.

Em headed off, still carrying his camera with him. It was expensive enough that he did not trust it out of his sight.

Jake and Celia tied down the aircraft and then headed over to the office as well. Celia made her own march to the restroom while Jake paid the landing fees for two aircraft. By the time he was done with this, Em and Celia had both come out of the facilities and were standing behind him. He led them back outside just in time to see Helen’s plane on final approach. It touched down neatly and then taxied over as well, coming to a stop in the parking slot next to Jake’s.

The engine sputtered to a stop and then the lights went out. The doors opened and Greg Oldfellow, wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses, tan slacks, and a dress shirt covered by a leather bomber jacket, stepped out first. He was smiling the smile of someone who had just had a pretty good time.

Helen stepped out from the right-hand seat. She looked no different, really, than the last time Jake had seen her. She was not a large woman, but she was not petite either. She was solidly built like a farm girl. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders and was carelessly styled with nothing more than a brush. Her face was rounded and cute to behold, with brown eyes and a bulbous nose. She wore a pair of jeans that outlined her legs and her backside quite nicely and a beige Brody Flight School polo shirt that bulged alluringly from her large breasts. Jake’s heart skipped a few beats as he saw her—this woman he had once loved, this woman who had broken his heart.

She is still beautiful, he thought as he took in her hair, her eyes, her smile.

While Rick, the cameraman assigned to Helen’s plane, squirmed his way out of the back seat of the aircraft, Helen rushed over to Jake, her smile widening as she got closer. She held out her arms to him and a moment later, they embraced warmly. Jake felt the press of those big breasts into his chest, felt the softness of her body, the strength of her arms around him, smelled the familiar musk of her exertional sweat, and a powerful bolt of lust and wanting surged through him like electricity. He remembered feeling that body naked against his, his manhood plowing into her wet and dripping womanhood. Helen had always been very juicy when aroused, sometimes leaving wet spots a foot or more in diameter when they coupled, usually squirting out a big blast of her vaginal secretions when she came. She was a genuine squirter, something that Jake had not believed really existed until the first time she had demonstrated the ability for him in an Omaha hotel room one night.

The embrace broke just as Jake’s penis began to get fully interested in the goings on. He had not been laid since the night before Laura had left, after all, and had not even had time to pleasure himself much during her absence.

“It’s so good to see you again, Jake,” Helen told him as they looked at each other. Her face seemed a little more flushed than it had been just a few moments ago.

“It’s good to see you too, Helen,” he said, giving her hand a little squeeze before they broke physical contact completely. “I appreciate you helping us out with this thing.”

“No problem at all,” she said. “This was a lot of fun, truth be told. And the money they’re paying me for all this ... it’s me who should be thanking you for getting me involved.”

“Greg wouldn’t fly with anyone else,” Jake said. “He said, ‘if I’m going to climb into some tiny little plane, I want someone I know and trust at the controls’.”

“I’m flattered by his confidence in me,” she said. “He did all right for an amateur. We got lots of good shots of him at the controls.”

Helen was about to say something else but was interrupted by Celia, who was now rushing over to her with a squeal of delight, her arms held out wide. Helen matched the squeal and held out her own arms. The two women came together and embraced warmly, with genuine affection. Jake felt another little surge of lust blasting into him as he watched their breasts smash together, as he watched Celia give her a big kiss on the cheek.

While the two women talked and hugged each other repeatedly, Greg came wandering up and stood next to Jake. He looked at the two of them appreciatively, nodding his head, probably thinking similar things to what Jake was thinking, though he kept them unsaid.

“How was it?” Jake asked him.

“I rather enjoyed the experience,” he said. “I hardly think I’m ready to land an airliner after the captain is stricken with a heart attack or something, but I do have a much better understanding of the mechanics of flying an aircraft. I think it will help my methodology on my upcoming film.”

“Then it was worthwhile, right?”

“It was,” he agreed. “It’s hotter than hell in this bomber jacket though. I think I’ll leave it in the plane.”

“Why are you wearing that thing anyway?” Jake asked. “I told you that it gets stuffy inside a 172. You must be sweating like a pig.”

“It’s an image necessity,” he said. “If I’m going to be filmed flying a plane, I have to look the part.”

“I see,” Jake said, resisting the urge to shake his head.

Greg stowed the jacket in Helen’s plane and then they all headed across the tarmac to the DC-3 Bar and Grille, which sat just behind the airport operations building, very near the cliff’s edge that overlooked the ocean. The two camera operators tagged along with them, still carrying their respective cameras in hand but not filming anything with them. The restaurant was only about half full and they were given a table for six right away. Jake and Helen ordered coffee to drink. Everyone else ordered a bloody Mary since the DC-3 was famous for them.