Skyhook (8 page)

much higher than I expected … with the spray blowing everywhere. The wind … my God, the wind was howling like a monster, and I remember thinking that the satellites would at least pick up our ELT, emergency locator beacon, within ninety minutes. I could hang onto that, you know? I just assumed the ELT

was working, but I didn’t know for sure. I did know that we were okay for a while in the survival suits, but then, we got them on while wet and cold, and I knew we couldn’t hold out indefinitely.

I tied a line between Rachel and myself to make sure we didn’t get separated. I told her our ELT would bring help fast, but the night got deeper, the fog got thicker, and we tried to huddle together and maintain warmth, but we were both shaking so hard and getting numb, and then … then there were a bunch of weird dreams, and I guess now that some of them may have been the helicopter picking us up.”

Arlie stopped talking and looked at the two men, who were sitting transfixed and breathing hard.

George Mikulsky suddenly realized the narrative had ended. His body jerked slightly as he sat up. “Ah … okay. The emergency transmitter. The emergency transmitter beacon was never picked up, Captain.”

“Really?” Arlie responded. “Then how …”

“The tracking unit, Dad,” April said. “It dutifully sent me your position just before you went in. When I woke up, I checked my computer readout and realized you’d never arrived anywhere. The tracking unit saved you.”

“Mr. Rosen,” Walter Harrison began.

Mikulsky turned to the FAA inspector and held up an index finger.

“Captain Rosen,” he corrected, flinching slightly at the murderous look Harrison flashed at him.

“Very well, Captain Rosen,” Harrison continued, “let’s talk about the absence of a flight plan, your weather briefing, and your altitude.”

“Excuse me, but I filed a visual flight plan with Anchorage Flight Service by cell phone before departure.”

Harrison had been leaning forward in the spartan metal chair. He sat up with an expression of extreme skepticism. “Did you, now?”

“Yes.”

“Well, did they acknowledge that it had been filed?”

It was Arlie Rosen’s turn to cock his head in disbelief as he looked at Harrison in silence and cleared his throat. “Mr.

Harrison, when a senior airman tells you he’s filed a flight plan, visual or instrument, it’s usually a pretty good bet he knows the difference between just discussing it and filing it.

You’re not talking to a student pilot here. Yes, I got confirmation verbally. That’s how we do it.”

“I’m well aware of the procedures, since I helped write them,”

Harrison snapped back. “Point is, Captain, there was no flight plan in the computer at Anchorage Flight Service. There’s no record you even called them.”

“I assume you searched for not only our tail number, but under any other possible variations in the number in case the briefer made a mistake entering it? You do realize, don’t you, that they don’t list their calls in the computer by pilot name?”

Harrison ignored the verbal slap. “There was no flight plan in the computer, Captain, which is why no one missed you until your daughter figured something was wrong.”

April had been listening to the exchange with rising alarm.

Mikulsky’s extremely stiff questioning had been bad enough, but Harrison was openly hostile. April rose to her feet and noisily scooted her chair back to interrupt.

“Okay, Mr. Harrison, you know what? My fathers just been brought in from a near-death experience, and if you can’t even question him with respect, I think we’d better end this.”

“That’s okay, honey,” Arlie said as he gestured to April to sit.

“Mr. Harrison is an FAA inspector, and it’s his job to be openly skeptical to the point of perceived hostility. Right, Walter?”

Harrison had been doing a slow burn in silence. He made a small snorting sound and shook his head. “I do not attempt to be purposely skeptical, Ms. Rosen,” he said, glancing suddenly at April, then back at Arlie. “Nor am I hostile. But a fact is a fact, Captain, and the fact is that whatever calls you say you made, they do not show up on the record, and Anchorage had no flight plan on you.”

“Which, if true, would mean a major failure on their part,” Arlie interjected. “Which, by the way, is anything but unprecedented.

Flight service stations lose flight plans every day, and you know it. And that’s aside from the fact that, as you also well know, a VFR flight plan is not required, merely recommended. I always file one if I’m not going on instruments. Always. No exceptions.”

“When you’re flying privately, Captain, and you don’t have an airline dispatcher to do things for you, do you often depart without a weather briefing?”

April was on her feet again. “Okay, that’s it. The interview s over.”

Arlie turned to April and shook his head slightly. “Honey …”

April froze, reading her father’s resolve, then nodded reluctantly but remained standing.

“Now, Walter,” Arlie began again, “before you get your knickers in a knot over this flawed assumption, I would assume you’re aware

that cell phone companies keep records, too. Have you bothered to check to see whether there’s a record of a call to flight service, which there will be?”

“No.”

“Well, perhaps you’ll want to be judicious enough to stand down on your tone and your very hostile attitude until you do. Fact is, I got my weather briefing, filed my visual flight plan in great detail, and followed all the FAR’s and normal procedures.”

“And you lost your aircraft because you lost a propeller while dragging the waves at less than a hundred feet.”

Arlie Rosen took a deep breath. April could see his jaw muscles twitching as he tried to maintain control of his temper, which was approaching his personal red line.

“Walter—”

“Excuse me,” Harrison interrupted with a snort, “I’m doing you the courtesy of using your formal airline title. Kindly do me the courtesy of calling me Mr. Harrison. You don’t know me, and I resent first name usage.”

George Mikulsky shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wondering how to regain control, but Harrison was ignoring him.

“Why don’t I just call you Inspector Harrison, then?” Arlie asked, as sarcastically as he could manage. “Or would you prefer ‘Your Excellency’?”

“Mister will do fine. Here’s what I want you to answer. You say you kept dropping lower to stay in visual conditions. You were operating under part ninety-one of the Federal Air Regulations, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. So how far above you were those clouds, Captain? I assume you know the regulations for visual flight.”

“The clouds were more than the required five hundred feet above me,” Arlie shot back, his voice hardening. “And, yes, I know the regs, as I’m sure you do, Inspector Harrison. Under FAR part ninety one point one fifty-five, the rules for visual operation are that the requirement for cloud clearance when flying in visual conditions at or

below twelve hundred feet is a minimum of five hundred feet below, one thousand feet above, and two thousand feet lateral clearance, with a nighttime visibility requirement a minimum of three statute miles, all under the new Class G airspace. I miss anything?”

“No … other than how it was that you could have been so close to the water in deteriorating conditions and still think you were in compliance with the FARs when it was dark and you admit you couldn’t see anything.”

” What? I certainly did not admit—or say—that I couldn’t see anything, until I entered that fog bank at the last second. That was unanticipated. I had full legal visibility until then.”

“Well, Captain,” Harrison continued, “you say you think you lost a propeller blade, but isn’t it possible the clouds were just pressing you down and you kept descending and didn’t realize how low you were until you dug a wing into the water?”

“Hell, no!” Arlie Rosen snapped upright in the bed, wincing at the pain in his head as he fixed the FAA inspector with his eyes and leveled a slightly shaking finger at him. “Get this straight, Harrison. I was doing precisely what I said I was doing, where, when, why, and how I said I was doing it! Who the hell do you think you are to come in here and throw some cockamamy accusation at me without the slightest foundation to back it up?”

Harrison chuckled and began closing the small steno pad he’d been holding. There were no notes on the page.

“Good offense is always the best defense, eh, Rosen? Don’t worry.

I’ll get the facts if you were scud-hopping, as I believe you were.”

“Scwrf-hopping?”

“I’ve seen it a thousand times. Overly cocky airline pilot in a private plane pushing the visual limits. You were in a seaplane, after all, and the FAA’s nowhere around, and you want to get to your destination, and you don’t give a damn how low the clouds overhead are as long as you can stay airborne and see the water below.”

“That is absolutely not true! Not to mention the fact that if you’re so damned experienced, you know that pilots who do that do it be

cause they aren’t instrument-rated and have no alternatives. I had an alternative!”

“Yeah, well, I understand you have to cook up a good cover story for your insurance company, but it won’t wash with the FAA.”

“What?” Arlie said, his face reflecting shock.

April moved toward the bed and into the line of fire between her father and the FAA inspector, her palm out to the man in a stop gesture. “That’s enough out of you, sir! Get the hell out of this hospital room.”

“Miss Rosen, I wasn’t talking to you,” Harrison replied, his eyes on Arlie.

“You watch your tone with my daughter, buster,” Arlie said. “And, like she said, get the hell out of here.”

George Mikulsky had stood up in obvious confusion, his eyes wide as he tried to figure out how to disengage himself as quickly as possible from the extreme discomfort of the mess his FAA companion had made of the interview. But Harrison moved to the end of Arlie’s bed, physically blocking Mikulsky, his finger leveled at Arlie Rosen.

“Hey, chew on this, Captain Rosen. I don’t give a damn how big an aircraft you fly or how many hours you’ve logged sitting in an overstuffed armchair eating first-class meals and pretending it’s real pilot time, nor do I care about your obscenely inflated paycheck. But here’s a news flash, hotshot. You still have to comply with the rules, or we take your license away. And you want to know what I think?”

Arlie shook his head. “Not bloody likely, asshole!”

“Dad …” April cautioned, but it was obviously too late.

“Yeah, good, let’s start with the name calling,” Harrison sneered. “Very mature response for a thirty-thousand-hour cappie making five times what he’s worth.”

“Five times … Okay, you rancid, pontificating little windbag.

This is a jealousy thing with you, isn’t it? What the hell happened, United turn you down for a pilot job twenty years ago, so you joined the FAA?”

There was a momentary waver in Harrison’s expression, but he stifled it quickly. “I looked up your records, Rosen. You’re an alcoholic. You were drinking, weren’t you?”

“WHAT?!” Arlie yelped.

“I understand you were in United’s alcoholic program a few years back.”

“That was ten years ago, and I honorably completed that program!”

Harrison walked toward the door, turning back as he opened it.

“Oh, I’m sure you filled all the squares, Rosen. But we all know there are dropouts. It’s painfully obvious you were flying that Albatross last night drunk as a skunk and scud-hopping to boot.“When I find the proof that you were drinking and flying—and I will—we’ll get your reckless tail permanently grounded.” Harrison moved through the door, his back turned.

“Come back here you little son of a bitch!” Arlie bellowed at Harrison as he tried to swing out of bed and found his legs trapped by the tightly tucked sheets. “I’m gonna have your ass fired, Harrison!” he yelled through the door at Harrison’s back as George Mikulsky retreated after him.

“Dad! Calm down!”

“Goddammit! Goddammit!” He was shaking with fury, his face beet red.

“That’s not helping!”

“I can’t believe that little shit! THAT WAS OUTRAGEOUS!”

“Dad! Your language is outrageous!”

“Where’s the damned phone? Get me that phone, April. I’m gonna call the entire congressional delegation and have that bastard cashiered!”

“Dad! Take a deep breath and think this through.”

“What? Why?”

“You told me yourself, never antagonize an FAA inspector.”

“Me antagonize? You were right here!”

“Dad, please!”

The door was opening again and the noise riveted Arlie’s atten tion as he tensed for another round, but a wheelchair entered instead with Rachel Rosen aboard.

“Mom!” April said as she ran to hug her. Rachel returned the hug, her eyes on the murderous look in her husband’s eyes.

“What’s going on here?”

“It’s…” April began, but Arlie blurted out the basics of the acidic exchange with the FAA.

“Good grief, Arlie, they control your license!” Rachel said.

“Dammit, you think I don’t know that?” he replied through gritted teeth.

Rachel left the wheelchair and walked somewhat unsteadily to her husband’s side, gathering him to her breast until he hugged her back and stopped snarling.

April watched the seamless move with admiration. Her mother always knew precisely what to do to calm him down, while issuing orders with a flick of her eyes, which she did now in April’s direction. April understood instantly. Rachel wanted a sedative for her husband and a strategy session in the corridor as soon as possible. Damage control was obviously going to be necessary, and April silently raised her cell phone and mouthe “Grade,”

eliciting an affirmative nod from her mother.

indsey White struggled to hide the fact that her stomach was churning and concentrated instead on the neatly arranged bric-abrac adorning Joe Davis’s impeccable desk. She hated confrontations, and it had been difficult to maintain the facade of rock-solid conviction as he ranted, begged, bullied, and finally whined against the news that tonight’s acceptance test flight had to be canceled.