Sojourners of the Sky (11 page)

“Yes sir, I do,” said Asa.

“Good,” said Charles. “Lars, mistakes happen, I know that. Young man, whenever you’re in a cockpit you can’t act like a bull in a china shop. You have to pay attention to what you’re doing. If you slipped, then you should have allowed yourself to get injured rather than place all of our lives in jeopardy simply to prevent yourself from getting a lump on the noggin.”

“Yes sir, I understand. I am very sorry about that,” said Lars.

“I know. Since you fellows are new I will overlook these transgressions, but I strongly encourage you to consider this a learning experience. You men must remember that we operate in a very unforgiving world. One mistake can kill us all. Never trust anyone you fly with completely, and keep one eye open at all times. This is what I want John to learn. But I must say, two major screw-ups on one flight is pushing the limit. I’ll let John think about his mistakes for the rest of our trip. If he does fine from here on out, I will bear the brunt of management’s wrath. However, if he chooses to go his own way and there are any more mishaps, I will be forced to recommend termination. I simply cannot have anyone in the cockpit that I have no trust in whatsoever. I’m telling you this in hopes that you will carry my words inside of you for the duration of your careers,” said Charles.

“Thank you, sir,” said Asa and Lars in unison.

“You fellows probably don’t know this, but I’ve known John Tacker since he was a little boy. I’ll tell you, that young man could have played in any professional sport of his choosing. There wasn’t a soul in town that didn’t love him. I don’t know what happened, but after high school he became someone else. John Tacker had it all, and perhaps that was it. Maybe having the world in the palm of your hand at seventeen is a recipe for disaster,” said Charles. Then, after a long moment of reflection he added, “And I’ll tell you something else: he and my son used to be good friends, but I doubt they’ve spoken in years. I don’t know why, but it’s really too bad. Whatever it was that messed John up, sure did a number on him. I’m hoping this job will help him get back to his old self. I would sure hate to see him get fired. I mean, I’ve not told anyone this, not even my own son knows, and I’d appreciate it if you both would remain mum, but I recommended John for this job. I put my reputation on the line for that young man and I don’t want him to botch it. I couldn’t recommend my own boy because, as you know, Pan Am has strict rules regarding nepotism. But when he was little, John was at my house so often I began to wonder if he was my child, too,” joked Charles.

“Is your son a pilot?” asked Asa.

“He is indeed. He flies for Northwest Orient. I had a buddy of mine put a good word in for him. In fact, he’s on the DC6, too,” said Charles.

Both Lars and Asa observed how their captain beamed and extended his chest slightly when he spoke of his son.

A few moments later, a fond memory popped into his head, prompting Charles to smile. “You know, when John was a junior in high school he pitched a near no-hitter against Mount Pocono High. The two players that did connect with the ball, my son got them out at first base. Then a few months later, John was our starting quarterback. It was the last game of the season, Thanksgiving Day against our arch rival, Valley View. John threw the ball seventy yards and connected with my son who ran it in for the winning touchdown. My word, it was a wonderful, wonderful day,” said Charles, actually choking on the last few words. He quickly turned his head to hide his emotion.

“We are approaching thirty-west on course,” said Ed, interrupting the conversation. “Ground speed is holding and we should be right on time over the sixty-north, thirty-west waypoint.”

“Very good, Ed, thank you,” said Charles.

“I was talking to G.R. before he left for the bathroom, and even though he was sound asleep he could tell the number four prop had run away,” said Lars, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I think that man could build a DC6 even if he was stone drunk,” said Ed.

“He certainly has saved my butt a few times over the years,” observed Charles. “I don’t doubt that he was up there in the bunk fully aware of what was going on, but remained quiet so that you fellows could handle it. That’s the kind of man he is. Lars, it would do you well to emulate him whenever you come to work. Well, perhaps with the exception of the skirt chasing.”

The captain’s words brought laughter to the cockpit. The river of tension that had been flowing through their cramped work area quickly evaporated as the men sat back and relaxed in each other’s company. They were four men far from home, operating in a dangerous environment, sharing the camaraderie that comes when men are forced to trust each other to watch their backs.

The men told a few jokes and laughed in the dimly lit cockpit for another few minutes. Unknown to them all, the ebbing river of tension was about to make a turn and come flooding back. Except this time, its enormity would overflow the banks and threaten to rupture the dam.

Thirteen

J
ack hid in the bushes outside their neighbor’s garage doing his best to remain hidden, while at the same time trying to see what was going on inside. He could see the car’s hood was open and could plainly see John Tacker bent over the side of the engine compartment fiddling with something. Jack was no mechanic, but his ears told him that the car’s muffler was the problem, not something inside the engine. Jack realized that even if he yelled as loud as he could, Mr. Tacker would most likely not be able to hear him over the loud engine noise, so he allowed himself to edge closer.

They’d started the engine on ‘626 earlier that morning for the first time, and he nearly got killed in the melee that followed. Shortly after things calmed down, the trio of workers noticed their next door neighbor looking on, wondering about the unexpected racket. Though his grandfather hadn’t said anything terribly bad about Mr. Tacker, he nonetheless had the feeling that his grandfather and John Tacker didn’t like each other very much.

Prior to fixing up the old airplane, Jack, much like his sister, had a very limited knowledge regarding the workings of an internal combustion engine. His grandfather loaned him a book to read, which he practically absorbed, and gradually he just sort of became the resident expert on engine maintenance and upkeep. The thunderous noise emanating from the garage next door was what led Jack to investigate.

Standing at the rear of the car, still outside of John Tacker’s sight, Jack heard a slight anomaly in his neighbor’s rough running engine. Since he had nothing better to do, the young man decided to offer some help. He walked around the right side of the car and peered into the engine compartment. It took a surprising amount of time before John noticed the uninvited, unwanted and unwelcome visitor standing in his garage. Caught off guard, John stood erect and promptly banged his head into the hood.

“Ouch! Dag-nabbit!” screamed John as he briskly rubbed his head.

Jack looked up, but remained silent.

“Who the heck are you? What do you want?” asked the clearly annoyed John Tacker.

Jack simply smiled. He wasn’t sure what to say. Then, speaking as if the man with a screwdriver standing across from him was of no threat whatsoever, “Mr. Tacker, do you know that your muffler has a hole in it?”

“Get out of my garage. Who invited you in?” snapped John.

“I heard the noise and thought I might be able to help.”

“I don’t need your help. Who are you anyway?”

“My name is Jack Fletcher. My sister and I are staying next door at my grandfather’s for the summer,” stated Jack, with complete innocence in his voice.

“Oh yeah, that’s right. I recognize you now from this morning. If you ever manage to get that old airplane flying again, I hope you don’t crash it into my house,” spat John.

“I hope we don’t crash into your house, too,” said Jack.

“So did your grandfather send you over here to burn down my house or something?” asked John, his words dripping with sarcasm.

“No, he doesn’t even know I’m here.”

“Just go away, kid. Leave me alone,” ordered John.

“OK, but you do know that you need a new muffler, right?”

“Yes, kid, I know that. I’m not stupid.”

“Well, if you know that, then why are you working at this end of the car? The muffler is in the back.”

“Oh, I get it now. Your jackass grandfather sent you over here to drive me crazy so I’d burn my own house down. Is that it?” asked John.

“That’s funny. After we saw you standing on your porch this morning, shaking your head, my grandfather said that you were a jackass,” said Jack. “But I don’t think he meant for me to hear it.”

“Get out of here, kid. I mean it. Go home.”

“Mr. Tacker, my name is Jack, not ‘Kid.’”

“OK, jackass junior. Now, hit the road,” said John.

Jack stood his ground. “You don’t have to be so mean, Mr. Tacker. I’m only trying to help.”

“You can help by leaving.”

“Have you changed the spark plugs?” asked Jack, looking down at the engine and ignoring John Tacker’s harsh words.

“Can’t you take a hint, kid? I don’t need your help, and I don’t want your help. Go back to stupidville where you came from,” said John.

“I’m from New York, and my name is Jack.”

“Oh, New York. Well now, that explains everything.”

“So, did you change the plugs?” asked Jack, repeating his question.

“Yes, I did. Are you happy now?”

“How about the plug wires, did you change them? They might be pretty corroded. We had to replace all of the plug wires on the Cessna the other day.”

Realizing Jack was not going to simply go away, the unwaveringly unhappy John Tacker replied, “Yes, I replaced the wires, too. Do you have any other ideas, Einstein?”

“My name is Jack.”

“OK, OK, you are definitely a New Yorker, Jack,” said John. “What do you know about engines anyway? You’re just a kid; you don’t drive.”

“I read a book.”

“Oh, well, a book--that helps,” said John, adding a little more sarcasm.

“Judging by the knock I’m hearing, I think the timing is set a little too far forward. Try backing it off a little,” suggested Jack.

“That’s all well and good, but I don’t know how to do that.”

“Do you have a timing light?”

“Kid, er, Jack, what in the world is a timing light?”

“Let me borrow your screwdriver,” said Jack, holding out his hand.

John reluctantly handed Jack his screwdriver and watched as the little person practically leaped into the engine compartment and began messing with the distributor. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing? I don’t want you screwing up my car…uh, or getting hurt.”

Jack didn’t respond. Instead, he focused all of his attention on the engine noise. He turned the distributor one way, but it caused the engine to buck and sputter. John was about to tell Jack to go home, but when the kid turned the distributor in the other direction it caused the rough sounding engine to smooth right out. A few seconds later, Jack climbed out from under the hood and handed John back his screwdriver. “I suggest you get that muffler fixed, Mr. Tacker, you might get a ticket.”

John Tacker didn’t know what to say. Oddly, he felt a little vulnerable. He couldn’t just simply let some kid into his life. Doing so would only bring more pain. John had long ago discovered that everyone should be kept at arm’s length because you were less likely to get hurt that way. But still, John had to admit to himself that he kind of liked the little runt. It wasn’t his fault that his grandfather was a jackass. He decided he’d give an inch, telling himself that the kid had a different last name so he might be somewhat trustworthy.

“Thank you for your help, Jack. I’ll get the muffler fixed this week. Just don’t report me to the police before that, OK?” suggested John with a faint smile.

Having no idea the size of the dent he made in John Tacker’s mental stone wall, Jack simply smiled and said, “No problem, Mr. Tacker. Let me know if you need any more help.”

“I will, Jack. I will.”

Jack turned and walked from the garage. When he reached the edge of John’s yard, he started running. He ran as fast as he could so he’d have enough speed to jump over the barbed wire fence surrounding his grandfather’s cow pasture. He cleared it by a foot. Once on the other side, he smiled and continued running, hoping to make it over the fence on the other side just as cleanly.

John watched as Jack jumped the fence. Though he tried, he could not remember a time when he was as innocent and full of energy. He didn’t realize it, but the damage was done. The little runt from New York somehow managed to do what no one else could: he’d broken through.

Fourteen

A
s G.R. made his way down the aisle, he noticed John and Liesel in the aft part of the cabin. The two seemed to be involved in some sort of minor commotion. He planned to see what it was all about the moment he finished talking with Lars’s neighbor.

The senior engineer slowed his gait while scanning the cabin, and quickly made note of an empty seat in row ten. The sole man sitting at the window did not in any way fit the description he’d been given, so he assumed his prey had stepped into one of the lavs. As he stood near the vacant seat contemplating how to handle the situation, an older woman squeezed past him on her way to the bathroom. A few seconds later, G.R. snapped to attention when he heard the woman cry out with an ear piercing screech. He then watched in total disbelief as she hit the floor right at John Tacker’s feet. When the shock wore off, G.R. bolted to the scene.

“John, what’s going on here?” asked G.R.

“I’m not really sure, G.R. When I opened the bathroom door, this guy tumbled out. Liesel and I were trying to revive him when this woman in the aisle just up and fainted,” replied John. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure the man is dead.”

“He looks dead,” said G.R., as he bent over and positioned himself to roll the woman onto her back. He then gently slapped the unconscious passenger’s cheek, saying, “Miss, miss are you all right?”

“What do you think killed him?” asked John.

“Probably a heart attack,” said G.R.

“What makes you say that?” asked John in a guarded tone.

Once assured their elderly passenger was going to be OK, G.R. looked over at Sonny’s body and was instantly struck with doubt. He could see definite signs of strangulation on the man’s neck. He knew right away that it wasn’t a heart attack that killed him. He also knew that whoever it was that did kill him was still on the airplane. He looked around, wondering who was responsible.

“You don’t think he died of a heart attack because of the prop do you? That would sort of mean it’s my fault,” said John.

With sober eyes, G.R. looked at the first officer and said, “I doubt that very much. But if I were you, John, I would never again utter those words. There is no point in putting that thought into anyone’s head, and especially not into Charles’s head.”

“Yes, you may be right,” said John.

“I am right.”

John glanced at the fallen passenger. “How is she doing? Do you think she’ll be OK?”

“Yeah, I think so. She’s slowly coming around,” said G.R., having decided to keep his suspicions about the man’s passing to himself for a while.

“That’s a relief,” said John.

“Somebody’s going to have to go up front and tell Charles,” suggested G.R.

“That would be me. But first, help me drag this man out of the aisle; then see if you can get a blanket to cover him up. Liesel, would you please make sure that this woman gets taken care of?”

“Will do, Mr. Tacker,” replied Liesel.

The two men dragged Sonny’s body as far back in the cabin as possible. Then John slowly made his way to the cockpit, not sure of how Charles would react. It was a safe bet that it wouldn’t be good.

*

“Captain, would you mind if I went back for a short bathroom break?” asked Asa.

“By all means, Asa. I’ve got the airplane, go ahead,” said Charles.

While Asa made his way back, Charles heard someone calling their airplane’s christened name over the number two radio. It was a relay from the company.

“Is this Captain Pratt, over?” asked the radio operator from New York.

“Affirmative, this is Pratt, go ahead,” answered Charles, wondering why the operator did not use their flight number. He was well-aware that the company only did this when passing along covert messages and instructions.

“Captain, please confirm First Officer Asa Day is not in the cockpit, over,” said the operator.

“That is affirmative. Mr. Day is not here, over,” responded Charles with a furrowed brow, his curiosity clearly piqued.

“We have just received word from Pan Am operations that Mr. Day’s father has been killed in an automobile accident. He will be relieved when you land in London. He may then catch the first flight back to New York, over.”

A sick feeling permeated Charles’s body. Both Lars and Ed looked up and instantly felt sorrow. Everyone in the cockpit knew how close Asa and his dad were. Their relationship was everything to Asa. They all knew he would be devastated.

It took Charles a good long minute before he could speak. “New York, I do not want you to repeat that information over this frequency again. In addition, any aircraft on the frequency please refrain from repeating what you have just heard. We will deal with Mr. Day’s loss ourselves, over,” said Charles. He then turned his head, looked at the other two crew members and stated, “I will handle this.”

Both Ed and Lars nodded, but said nothing.

While the three crew members sat in silence, thinking about their own families, John entered the cockpit.

“Captain, I have some terrible news,” said John.

Charles spun around. “How in the world did you find out?”

“I was there, but I wasn’t aware that you’d already been informed.”

“What? You were where?” asked Charles.

“By the aft lav,” answered John.

The confused captain shook his head and said, “John, please start from the beginning.”

“I was about to enter one of the aft lavs,” said John, “and when I opened the door, a man with his pants and under-drawers down around his ankles fell to the floor. G.R. came over to see for himself and it appears as though the man is dead.”

“Dead! Someone has passed away on one of my flights? Are you certain? How did it happen?” asked Charles.

“Well, sir, both G.R. and I are reasonably sure he’s dead. I have no idea how this may have happened. G.R. thinks that it may have been a heart attack, but it could have been anything. I mean, he may have been ill when he came aboard. There is simply no way to know.”

Charles rubbed his palms over his face, realizing that his night had just become vastly more complicated. He held his hands over his eyes for a while, thinking about how best to handle the situation. “John,” he said finally, “sit in the right seat and back me up. You have the airplane. I’m going to call New York back.”

“Yes, sir,” responded John, silently speculating about what Charles meant by “calling New York back.”
Did Charles call New York already to talk about me
?
Is he going to tell me that I’m fired now or will he keep me in suspense
? He shook his head while adjusting his seat, unsure of how the night would end.

“New York Radio, New York Radio, this is Clipper Seven Seas enroute from New York to London calling on HF, six seven five eight, over,” said Charles into his microphone.

Through the static, sounding as if the party he was trying to contact was at the other end of a very long tube, Charles could just barely make out the voice of the New York operator.

“Clipper Seven Seas, this is New York, go ahead.”

“New York, we have a deceased passenger on board, cause of death unknown. It’s believed to be a heart attack. Request direction from the company regarding the continuation of the flight, over,” said Charles. Then turning back to face his navigator, he said, “Ed, go back there and gather all the information you can about this person, because sure as rain they’ll want to know.”

Ed was halfway to the cockpit door by the time Charles finished issuing the order.

While waiting for a reply from the company, Charles looked at John and said, “I hope this wasn’t your fault.”

John said nothing. He didn’t expect Charles to pin the blame on him quite so quickly. He turned his head to look out over the vast moonlit ocean, wondering what he would do. Getting fired from Pan Am seemed unconscionable. A few moments later, he felt his stomach start to churn. The old familiar feelings of self-pity and depression were back. John frowned because he knew that he was about to take another trip through hell. As desperation approached, he tried to think about something else. One of his favorite memories was the Thanksgiving Day game against Valley View.

Coach Nubani was forced to pull Paul Esslinger out of the game at halftime due to an injured knee. Paul was the best tight-end we had and I was afraid the game was over. I remember watching Coach look around, clearly anguishing over which second stringer he could use as a substitute. I wanted Mark Temprine, but I knew the Irish kid’s shenanigans at our last game against Tunkhannock meant he was finished for the season. The taciturn coach finally pointed at my pal, Bill Pratt. I saw a definite sign of surrender in the coach’s eyes before turning away in disgust. True, Bill was my best buddy, but come on, this was Valley View! I was so mad at Nubani. I figured we were doomed.

It’s funny. I remember watching that over-eager Bill Pratt jump from the bench and into the huddle, ready to do whatever I asked.

I threw the football to Bill three times, and doggone if he didn’t catch them all. But it was my third throw that won the game. I’m really glad Bill didn’t drop it. Clearly it was my superior abilities that helped make Bill, an otherwise lifer at being a second stringer, an instant celebrity. He owes me for that…at the very least for that. Well, I suppose that’s just the kind of guy I am. I can’t help it if I’m naturally kind and generous. Even to a bubble-headed ingrate who turned around a couple of years later and stole my girl away when I wasn’t looking. Even still, when Bill and I were buds and Lynn was on my arm, boy, those sure were the good old days. I really wish I could go back, but that’s not going to happen. Nope, unfortunately it’s not. It’s more like: here we go again.

While the pleasant memory played out, John managed a slight smile. Then, when the recollection passed, the small fire in his belly raged on. It never dawned on him to think about what he’d been given over the years. It seemed he could only focus on what had been taken away. John simply could not see that his anger about no longer being number one blinded him. His stubbornness left him practically incapable of seeing the good in anything.

The lonely John Tacker looked at the stars and thought of Liesel, the only dream he had left.