Chapter 7a

August 11, 1988, 2:37 PM

2100 feet above Ventura County, California

The single engine Cessna 172 was in a thirty-degree bank to the right, its engine turning at forty percent power, its nose pointed slightly downward, its flaps partially deployed. Jake Kingsley sat in the left hand seat, his hands on the stick, his feet on the rudder pedals, his eyes flicking back and forth between the compass, the altimeter, and the view outside. Sitting next to him was Helen Brody, one of the two certified flight instructors for Brody Flight School.

Brannigan Airport was a rural general aviation field in southern Ventura County, some fifty miles north of Los Angeles and thirty miles east of Ventura. As the plane continued to bank the airfield's single runway came into view from the right side. It was a 16/34 runway, which meant it was aligned northwest to southeast. Horse and cow pastures stretched off to the east and an automobile junkyard was situated to the west. Jake slowly and smoothly straightened out his bank until the nose was pointed directly at that runway and his compass read 160.

"Beautiful," Helen said, her hands resting comfortably in her lap but prepared to take over the controls in an instant if it became necessary. "No need for adjustments on this one. Now bring us down."

"Bringing us down," Jake said, reducing the throttle and letting the nose slip downward. Their airspeed began to increase as gravity acted upon them. Jake slowly increased the flaps to maximum deployment, slowing them up but also increasing lift and causing the nose to come back up. He pushed down on the stick and throttled down some more until they were descending exactly on a glide path that would put them down on the first third of the runway. Their airspeed was sixty-nine knots, just two knots above the 172's stall speed with flaps deployed. Jake continued to make minor adjustments with the stick and rudders, adjusting their course to compensate for the twelve-knot south wind that was blowing. As they passed over the perimeter fence Jake throttled down to almost idle. The plane dropped a little faster. Just before it reached the ground he pulled up slightly on the stick. The nose came up and the plane went into a controlled stall. The fixed tricycle landing gear thumped softly down on the pavement with a slight screech. Jake retracted the flaps, neutralized the controls, and pulled the throttle all the way back.

"Very nice," Helen said, reaching out and giving him a friendly pat on the back. "Now let's do it again. We have time for two more."

"Yes, Sensei," Jake said with mock formality as he pushed the throttle forward once again. The engine screamed with horsepower and the plane rapidly accelerated. When it reached 85 knots he pulled back on the stick. They rose back into the air with three hundred feet of runway left to spare. Thus, his twelfth touch and go of the day was complete. Now he would take it back around for lucky thirteen.

The It's In The Book tour had come to an end June 15 with two sold out shows in Heritage. Since then the entire band had been on a much-deserved hiatus from most of their normal obligations. The only real task was for Matt and Jake to compose some new music for the next album. Since Book was now approaching five times platinum and five of the eleven songs on it were still receiving continuous airplay all over the North American and European continents, National was in no particular hurry to begin work on the next album.

"Just be in the rehearsal warehouse by mid-September," Crow had told them at the beginning of their vacation. "We've pushed your submission deadline all the way forward to November 15."

Since this was quite a departure from National's previous post-tour demands — they usually wanted the band in the rehearsal warehouse immediately and in the recording studio shortly after, regardless of when they actually planned to release the next album — the band was understandably suspicious at first. Jake, Matt, and Pauline had wondered if National's kindness was nothing but another plot to revert to the old contract, which failure to submit by the deadline could have done. Crow had squashed this suspicion before it could even be fully formed when he presented them with an addendum to their contract specifically stating what the new submission date was.

"Why are they doing it?" Pauline asked Jake. "I can't think of a reason."

Jake had simply shrugged. "Maybe they're starting to realize that we compose better when we're not pushed so hard. Who knows? I'm not going to question it too much. I'm just going to enjoy it."

And so he had been. So had they all.

Coop had taken up dirt bike riding, purchasing two high-end Yamahas, a truck, and a trailer to haul the bikes with. He spent most of his days out in the wilderness or the desert somewhere, riding up and down hills and sand dunes. He had dislocated his shoulder once and his left kneecap twice and bumped and bruised himself numerous times pursuing his new hobby but he seemed to be having fun.

Matt had acquired a house in Cabo San Lucas. He didn't actually own it since Mexican law forbid foreigners from actually purchasing land in their country but he had a ninety-nine year lease on two acres of beachfront property with a thirty-five hundred square foot house sitting upon it. This property and the building upon it, which would someday be worth over two million American dollars, he had picked up for just over two hundred thousand. He had been there ever since the close of escrow, partying and fishing his ass off.

Nerdly was spending all of his spare time at the National Records recording studio, learning all there was to know about mixing, overdubbing, and generally blending music so it would sound good when put on a master recording. He was now a fixture in there, helping with the production of nearly every album being produced in any genre — everything from Polka to hard-core ghetto rap. The studio technicians had at first considered him a nuisance they had to put up with to keep the bosses happy but they had long since learned to respect his opinions and suggestions and he was now so good at mixing that he was often sought after by one team or another when a snag or problem developed.

Charlie had gone back home to Birmingham where he'd used his newly acquired wealth to open a vegetarian restaurant in the downtown portion of the city. Though there were many who said that attempting such a venture in the industrial deep south was a losing proposition, Charlie's newfound fame as the bassist for Intemperance was, so far, keeping the seats full and the bottom line printed in black ink.

Darren was still in the hospital suffering from the aftereffects of his bout with botulism. He had regained the ability to walk but his muscles were still so weak he could only stand for ten to fifteen minutes at a time, could only lift ten pounds or so. He was undergoing physical therapy but it didn't seem like it was helping that much. The doctors were starting to fear that he would never fully recover his strength and live a normal life. Darren didn't really seem to care about this. Whenever one of the other band members visited him he was always in a happy mood. This was mostly due to the sedatives, tranquilizers, and anti-anxiety medications he was perpetually stoned on. It was clear that he would not be able to participate in the development or recording of the next Intemperance album.

Jake had enjoyed some minor participation in all of the others' endeavors. He had gone dirt bike riding with Coop several times (getting a second degree burn on his right leg when he'd crashed and had the tail-pipe push into his calf). He had flown down to Cabo twice to spend a few days with Matt and get his fill of deep-sea fishing for the year (as well as to reinforce his desire to own a seagoing vessel of some sort). He had flown to Birmingham to attend the grand opening celebration of Charlie's restaurant (and the food there was pretty damn good, he had to admit, despite not having any meat in it — Charlie had hired the best vegetarian chefs he could find). He made a point of visiting Darren at least once a week (although he usually came away feeling depressed at the state Darren was in). But he had chosen to use his vacation time to pursue a hobby he had always wanted to learn: how to fly.

Finding someone to teach him and getting certified as a student pilot had not been as easy as he'd thought it would be. He had assumed that when one had money falling out of one's asshole, as he did, that you could just pick up the phone and get things rolling. That had not been the case. Four of the most popular flight schools in the Los Angeles region had turned him down when he'd applied just on the basis that he was Jake Kingsley.

"What's gonna happen," one school administrator asked him, "when you go off and get yourself all doped up and mid-air into a 747 and kill four hundred people? That will be on our conscience and, more importantly, the liability lawyers will come looking for us because we taught you."

"I'm afraid we only accept people who are responsible," said another administrator. "Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Kingsley."

The other two schools had not even bothered to explain themselves. They'd just said no. Finally he found Brody Flight School at Brannigan Airport. It was a small school, owned by John Brody, a crusty, no nonsense pilot who had flown an A-1 Sandy for four years in Viet Nam and who had more than fourteen thousand hours at the stick in more than sixteen different aircraft. His twenty-four year old daughter, Helen, was the only other instructor he employed. He owned three aging but lovingly maintained Cessna 172s and rented a hanger at the airport from which to teach from. He had expressed the same concerns as the other schools but, unlike them, he had taken the time to listen to Jake's rebuttal to his concern.

"Yes," Jake had told him, "I drink a lot of booze. I smoke a lot of pot. I've been known to snort some coke on occasion. I'm a liberal, left wing, semi-communistic, womanizing, longhaired musician who likes to have a good time. But I'm also a very serious and committed person. I have never used any intoxicating substance before stepping onto the stage to play my music and I will never use any intoxicating substance before I get behind the controls of an aircraft. I take matters that involve my own life very seriously, Mr. Brody."

Brody had looked at him, his piercing blue eyes seeming to stare directly into Jake's soul. Finally, he nodded. "Okay," he said. "You seem sincere enough so I'll take you. But the first time you do anything that leads me to believe you will be an unsafe pilot, your ass is out of here. Is that understood?"

It was understood. The next step had been getting an FAA physical to certify that he was medically fit enough to fly an airplane. Again, the first three doctors he went to refused to certify him, not because of any physical malady — he was in top physical shape thanks to all the aerobic exercise that was involved in being a musician and his eyesight was tested at 20-15 — but because of his reputation in the media. All three of the doctors focused on a portion of the medical questionnaire that asked the applicant if they had certain medical or psychiatric conditions. One of the questions was "Have you been addicted to either drugs or alcohol in the last two years?"

Jake had answered 'no', as any reasonable person would do even though he was in the habit of drinking just about every day and smoking pot at least twice a week. Since he did not consider this to be addicted, per se, and since he did not intend to ever imbibe before flying he felt he was being truthful. The doctors, however, did not see things the same way.

"I'm rejecting you for lying on the medical form," the first had said.

"Lying?" Jake had asked, fighting to keep his temper in check.

"You said you're not addicted to drugs or alcohol."

"I'm not," he'd said.

The doctor had chuckled, shaking his head. "Didn't you snort cocaine out of a girl's buttocks on one occasion?"

"No," Jake said.

"That's not what the papers say," the doctor replied. "And weren't you caught in a hotel room in New York with a couple of pounds of cocaine in your possession?"

"That case was dismissed," Jake said. "I have never been convicted of any offense in any court of law. I've never even had a speeding ticket."

"Nevertheless, there have been numerous reports of your drunken and drug addicted antics. I cannot, in good faith, certify you as fit to fly."

His exams with the next two doctors had gone pretty much the same. Finally he had brought Pauline along with him for the fourth exam. As soon as the doctor started questioning Jake's honesty on the drug or alcohol section Pauline had stepped in.

"Do you have any proof that Jake is addicted to drugs or alcohol, Doctor?" she'd asked.

"It's been in all the papers," the doctor said.

"There are reports of UFOs and Bigfoot in the papers as well," Pauline said. "Just because it's written down doesn't mean it's true."

"I have a reasonable suspicion that Jake is not fit to fly," the doctor said. "It is therefore my duty to..."

"Your duty," Pauline interrupted, using her courtroom voice, "is to examine Jake fairly and competently and come to a simple conclusion based on your training and the factual findings you uncover. He is in good physical condition, his eyesight and blood pressure are within parameters, and you have nothing other than third and fourth hand hearsay to conclude that intoxicating substances are a problem with him. If you reject him because of what you've read in newspapers or seen on the news I will haul your butt before the medical review board and tear you into little pieces before them. When I'm done with you you'll be lucky to get a job squeezing the testicles of death row inmates at San Quentin."

The doctor crumbled, and quickly. "What the hell do I care if he's out flying a plane drunk?" he mumbled as he signed Jake's forms and gave him his certification.

And so, with everything nice and legal, the lessons began. Jake had paid a lot of money for them to be crammed into as many hours of the week as he could be there. John Brody had expressed trepidation at this at first.

"Usually we only have our students come in twice a week or so," he said. "That lets you spread things out and absorb the information gradually."

"I don't have that kind of time, Mr. Brody," Jake told him. "I want to be soloing before we start work on our next album or I won't have any time at all to finish what I started. I like to finish what I start, you know what I mean?"

Brody reluctantly agreed, probably figuring his rich rock star student would quickly lose interest or flunk out. To his surprise, Jake had proved to be an adept student in all aspects of the training. He had passed the ground school portion of the lessons with flying colors and had demonstrated an almost eerie ability to grasp the fundamentals of flying during the practical flight lessons themselves.

Day after day he would go through the extensive and repetitious pre-flight list for one of the Cessnas and they would take to the air above Southern California. Brody had started him with the basics, teaching him how to turn, how to navigate, how to ascend and descend, how to climb while turning, how to descend while turning. From there they'd worked on stalls and other emergency procedures, teaching him how to recover the aircraft when something went wrong. And then came take-offs and landings, at first just at their home field but gradually working their way up to navigating to other fields and utilizing the air traffic procedures in place there.

The elder Brody had been his primary instructor at first but as he'd watched Jake apply himself and had become a little more confident in his student's motivation and abilities he had started letting Helen take him up instead, gradually working it to the point where Helen was the primary instructor. As Jake practiced his touch and go procedures now, on this hot August day, he had logged just over sixty hours at the stick, more than enough under the law to solo for the first time, although neither Helen nor her father, who had final say in when he soloed, had yet authorized him to do this.

"Okay," Helen said now as he banked around into the landing pattern of Brannigan Airport and began to deploy his flaps to slow down. "Another good approach. I think you're starting to get the hang of this, Jake."

"It's just like learning a new tune," Jake said, concentrating on his controls and his instruments. "Keep doing it over and over again and it becomes second nature."

"Maybe," Helen said with a smile as he pointed the nose down and began to descend again. "But if you screw up one of your tunes you don't die, do you?"

Jake nodded respectfully. "Point taken," he said.

His relationship with Helen Brody made Jake a little uncomfortable at times. It wasn't because she was in a position of authority over him. It was because she was attracted to him. This had not been the case initially. The first time they'd met she had looked at him like he was a piece of bug excretement on her windshield. She had only taken over the role of flight instructor for him at her father's steadfast insistence. During those first few flights the cockpit had been as cold as ice and the conversation had been businesslike and nothing else. He had sensed the feelings of fear and disgust at him radiating off of her as surely as if she'd sprayed them on like perfume.

Gradually, however, her mood had lightened as they got to know each other better. The chill started to thaw when Jake had figured out the basis for her feelings toward him. She had snapped at him one day when he'd gone just a few feet over the altitude she'd told him to level off at — a common mistake among beginning pilots. Her reaction to it had been much more than he deserved.

"Hey, chill out a little," he'd said as he brought the plane back down to where it belonged. "I'm a student, remember?"

"And what if I don't chill out?" she'd asked. "Are you going to hit me?"

He looked over at her, seeing that her eyes were dilated with nervous adrenaline, that her face was flushed with the fight or flight response of fear. "Hit you?" he asked. "Is that why you're so skittish around me? You're afraid I'm going to hit you?"

"Keep your eyes forward," she'd barked. "You look at your instruments and your view, not at me."

He took a glance at both and then turned back to her. She was still withering under his gaze. "I'm not the person you read about in the papers," he told her. "I know you don't believe me, but I've never hit a woman in my life, nor have I ever raped one, nor have I ever thrown one off a boat."

She didn't respond to this. She simply told him once again to keep his eyes forward.

But after that her attitude seemed to change. Slowly, day-by-day, conversation began to occur between them that was separate from the flight instruction she was giving. It was just the mundane kind of conversation at first. They talked of the weather, of the state of the economy, of the upcoming elections and whether Dukakis stood an ice cube's chance in hell of beating George Bush. From there, the talk gradually grew more intimate. They spent many hours together flying from airfield to airfield, around in circles, or practicing various aspects of flight, and it wasn't long before Helen got to know the real Jake Kingsley, before she discovered his dry and witty sense of humor, his intelligence on political and sociological topics, and, most significant, his almost forlorn sense of emotional loneliness despite the wealth and fame he had at his fingertips.