Flying Too Close to the Sun

from Kennedy Airport to Geneva, Switzerland. “Nothing too serious,” he had calmly stated in his Germanic accent while over the North Atlantic asking to divert to Boston. It was clear things were grave when he requested landing at the closer Halifax, Nova Scotia airport instead. A few moments later the tiny blip disappeared from the radar screen, killing 229 people, including a number of children. The investigation uncovered a serious on-board fire had ignited the big jet’s insulation, which in turn severed the flight controls causing it to nosedive into the frigid Atlantic. Ruppel had difficulty sleeping, contemplating how those people had died. Things got so bad he considered quitting, but ultimately concluded he needed the money. But at this moment his GS-13 salary didn’t seem worth it. “C’mon. You can make it,” he beseechingly whispered.

CHAPTER FOUR
Shuttle Air 1540 broke out of the overcast at three hundred feet perfectly aligned with runway 22 Left. With the high intensity sequenced strobe lights assisting Christina’s depth perception the big tri-jet touched down at the fifteen hundred-foot marker and came to a smooth halt with approximately three-thousand feet of runway remaining. Knowing how close they had come to disaster, the silence in the cockpit hung in the air like the thick fog outside. Emergency trucks with ear-shattering sirens blaring and blinding lights flashing broke the hush as they came to a screeching halt planeside. As the crew and passengers anxiously peered out, police with guns drawn, along with mechanics in fire-fighting garb and extinguishers in hand rushed out. With radios tuned to the ground control frequency of 121.9, someone, either a mechanic or policeman inquired, “Does everything appear normal in the cockpit?”
Christina responded, “Affirmative.” A mechanic stated he was going to visually inspect all of the engines and the landing gear. She could see the security personnel remained at the ready, fingers on the triggers of their M-16’s. A few long moments later the mechanic announced there were no visible signs of terrorism damage, fire, fluid leaks or other problems and the jet could taxi to the terminal under its own power. “Woody, let the passengers know everything is under control and we’ll be at the gate in a few moments,” a visibly relieved Christina directed.
After taxiing at a snail’s pace, as the big jet came to a halt and the forward door was opened, Erik could feel his heart fluttering, like a bird banging against the side of a cage trying to escape.
To break the stress, a now-smiling Christina stated, “What I’ve heard is undeniably true. The life of an airline pilot is ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine percent total boredom and one-thousandth percent sheer terror.” They all managed a weak smile, even Woody who dabbed his sweaty face with a handkerchief. As the cockpit door swung open a loud round of applause and cheers greeted them. Christina stood in the doorway, anticipating everyone would quickly deplane. But the same bumbling agent stood in the aisle making the other passengers wait until a frightened looking young man in 3-D deplaned; the seat the paperwork stated was occupied by the sky marshal. Who is this guy? What could he be up to?
The entire episode had taken perhaps twenty minutes and as he finger-combed his disheveled hair Erik asked, “Think anyone from the media’s here?”
“It’s pretty late. I doubt it,” Christina replied. But upon entering the terminal it was bedlam. Apparently they had been notified and after learning the identity of the captain throngs of reporters sped to the airport and the crew stepped into the center ring of what seemed to be a circus.
“Christina! Captain Shepard! Over here,” reporters shouted as they jostled for her attention, while others became entangled in the myriad of wires covering the shiny marble floor like spaghetti on the bottom of a large bowl. Christina basked in the limelight. As flashbulbs popped, her blue eyes challenged the cameras. Putting her arm around him and pulling Erik close she declared with a smile, “I want you to know my entire crew, and this handsome young man in particular, helped save us from possible disaster.”
Erik smiled meekly into the lights and cameras, but felt great.
As things quieted down and the media folks departed, another 727 was rolled out and they flew an uneventful flight to LaGuardia, but with fewer passengers. Christina said nothing to Woody about his performance, but while riding in the rickety employee parking lot bus a subdued Montgomery informed her, “Maintenance believes a main engine rotor seized because of a faulty oil pump. By shutting it down as quickly, it prevented a disastrous engine failure when the thing shatters into a million pieces.”
“How do you know that?” she asked.
“I called and spoke with one of the mechanics who gave the engine a quick once-over. As a former Air Force maintenance officer I’m friendly with a bunch of our maintenance people. I sometimes hang around after work just to see what they’re up to or to BS a bit with them.”
“Thanks for the info.”
Woody seized the opportunity. “I’m really sorry for what happened,” adding, “my father’s very sick and only recently got out of the hospital. It’s been very draining and I’ve been drinking too much.”
“Don’t worry. It’s over and everything turned out all right.”
As a somber Woody exited the bus he walked with his head low and back rounded, as though the hand holding his flight bag went all the way to the ground and some unseen weight bowed him over, making every step an effort. Although his apology was accepted, Christina considered giving an accounting of his performance to the LaGuardia chief pilot, Captain Michael O’Brien. She had received a message upon arrival, requesting her to call him first thing in the morning. A hard-ass member of management, he would probably want to know about Woody’s reaction as the outcome would have been different if he’d been in command. Should she tell him?
Erik and Christina disembarked at the next stop and ambled slowly toward their