"Miami Center, this is Atlantica six-four-zero at eleven thousand," said copilot Jim Ryder into the radio.
"Roger, six-four-zero. Maintain eleven thousand," came the scratchy reply.
In a few moments, they'd be handed off to Miami Approach Control, which would guide them from the ocean to the airport for landing. With a steady easterly sea breeze, they would make a sweeping loop over the Everglades to the west of the city and come back again, landing into the wind. It was routine. Tony would line them up with the radio signals that indicate the descent profile and the runway center line, then ease the big bird to the ground. Copilot Ryder would keep up the chatter with Approach Control, and Larry Dozier, the flight engineer, would scan the myriad gauges, which assured that hundreds of mechanical, electrical, and hydraulic systems were performing as intended. Within minutes, the passengers would be heading to their hotels or homes or cruise ships.
"Atlantica six-four-zero, expect Harvest Three approach for runway nine left," Kingston heard in his earphones. On his right, Ryder opened the approach chart.
"Confirm intercept altitude at fifteen hundred feet and decision height two hundred," Kingston told his copilot.
"Roger that," Ryder said, consulting the chart. "Final approach fix is Oscar."
Kingston looked forward to the landing. Even with all the computerized help, it still took a warm body to bring the plane home. For all its drawbacks, being a commercial pilot still beat a suburban commute and a nine-to-five job.
So why did he miss the adrenaline jolts he remembered from the Gulf War? He could still feel the G forces on takeoff from the
John F. Kennedy
that sunny and windy January day, the heightened heartbeat as he approached the target. One of the "Sunday Punchers," he dropped a missile down the smokestack of the Iraqi cargo ship
Almutanabbi
, docked at a Kuwaiti port. The American public watched the whole thing on CNN, including an interview afterward with Kingston on the deck of the carrier. He was unshaven, his dark hair tousled by the wind. Behind him, a navy seaman was painting a hash mark in the shape of a ship on the nose of his fighter. Kingston smiled and spoke comfortably into the camera, his crooked grin and pugnacious chin seeming to symbolize American fortitude.
When he watched the grainy, black-and-white videotape of the bombing, Kingston was riveted by something he couldn't see from his fighter: two men walking on the products jetty alongside the
Almutanabbi
. They paused and looked up. So strange. They must have heard the jet or the whistling approach of the missile.
One man said something to the other and shrugged. Then they continued walking. Several seconds later, the blast rocked the freighter, and the two men disappeared in a fiery cloud.
Why hadn't they dived for cover? Why hadn't they run?
Now Kingston derived a tranquil satisfaction from flying the fat Robusto filled with tourists. With all the computers and automated gear, he knew he was no longer so much a pilot as an operations director, troubleshooter, and systems manager. But in an emergency, he carried the lives of three hundred people on his strong shoulders. He was good at his job and figured he had finally grown up. He no longer needed the rush of a catapult takeoff from the deck of a carrier. He no longer needed the
Top Gun
macho swagger, the envious looks from men, the adulation from women. He had been a womanizer, a fault common to combat and commercial pilots alike. Now he had a committed relationship with a wonderful, intelligent woman, and if she was also beautiful and twenty years his junior-so what, some things don't change.
"Atlantica six-four-zero, good evening," Miami Approach welcomed. "Turn right heading two-two-zero. Descend and maintain eight thousand."
Ryder acknowledged the message, and Kingston turned the aircraft toward the west. In a few moments, they were over Miami heading toward the Everglades. Both men listened to conversations between Approach Control and other aircraft. At forty-four, Kingston was older than his first officer but in better physical shape. Jim Ryder had grown a paunch from too much hotel room service. Tony Kingston still had a military bearing and rock hard gut.
"Atlantica six-four-zero, you're number thirteen for approach."
"Jeez, we'll be halfway to Naples before they bring us back," Ryder said. He turned around in his seat to face the flight engineer. "Hey, Larry, you want to hit South Beach tonight?"
"Sure. Berlin Bar, maybe Bash, finish up at Amnesia," Larry Doziev said. "How about you, Tony?"
"No thanks. I've got to finish my report for the union."
"That's what happens when you get married," Ryder said.
Kingston laughed. "I'm not married.
You're
married."
"Yeah, but you're acting married ever since you and the mystery woman got together. When you gonna show her off?"
"Maybe
she's
married," Dozier said.
Not yet. But I'm going to change that.
He had never before committed to one woman, always thinking the next one was the fantasy creature who would fulfill all his needs. Now, with the passage of time and more women-flight attendants, models, executives with one-night layovers-in his past than he could remember, he finally had someone whose needs he wanted to fill, a woman he loved more than he loved himself.
Lisa. Lisa Fremont.
The girl from down the hill in Bodega Bay who had traveled so far. He'd known her practically all her life, but he had been blind to the hell she had endured at home. Maybe if he hadn't been stationed so far away, he could have done something. For starters, he would have thrashed Harry Fremont.
Lisa. How have you done it?
Abused child to teen runaway to underage stripper, then with the guidance of an older man-not him, damn it-a new path, summa cum laude at Berkeley and now law school at Stanford. He was awed by her inner strength, her accomplishments, and he loved her dearly.
I've found a soul mate, not a cell mate, and I'll be faithful to her until the day I die.
"C'mon, Tony," Dozier said. "Just one drink."
Kingston scanned the airspeed and altimeter readings. "Sorry guys. Like I said, I've got work to do. Maintenance laid off another dozen workers last week. We've got twenty percent fewer mechanics and thirty percent more planes than we did-"
"I know, I know, but you're pissing against the wind."
Behind them, facing the starboard bulkhead, flight engineer Dozier swiveled his chair toward the front of the aircraft. "Hey, Tony, you might as well give up. Max Wanaker's gonna cut costs till bodies pile up, and then he'll make changes."
"Tombstone technology," Ryder said. "It's an old story."
"Or they'll say the equipment was fine," Dozier added, "so the accident must have been-"
"Pilot error!" Ryder shouted in mock glee.
"It's one thing to drop the olive from the salad," Kingston said, referring to a famous cost-cutting move of another airline several years earlier. "But laying off maintenance people, rushing inspections, and making us fly planes that ought to be in the shop or-"
"Scrapped!" Dozier interrupted, tapping his control panel. "This baby's older than some of the girls Tony screws."
"
Used
to screw," Kingston protested. There was so much he couldn't tell them. Lisa's relationship with Max Wanaker, president of Atlantica Airlines was one thing.
What could she have ever seen in him? But then, she was still a kid.
"Tony was a helluva lot more fun when he chased women instead of FAA inspectors," Ryder said, getting in one last shot.
Kingston was thumbing through the flight manual, preparing to call out the landing checklist. "You guys want to land this plane or bust my balls?"
"We just want the old Tony back," Ryder said.
Cowboys. All pilots begin as thrill-seeking cowboys. Late nights, high speeds, and fast women. I'm damned happy to have matured.
"You know what I want?" Tony asked, then answered his own question. "Joe Drayton. He knows his people have been pencil-whipping inspections they never perform. He's gonna sign my report."
Ryder laughed. "No way. Drayton's three years from a vested pension. If he goes public, he'll be refueling DC-3's in Addis Ababa."
"You're wrong," Kingston said. "He's already slipped me the paperwork."
Now Dozier was chuckling. "Hey, Tony, you're the one creating most of the paperwork. Every time an engine coughs, you do an occurrence write-up. Every time we're hit by a microburst, you write a memo on inadequate training for windshear conditions."
"I'm just doing my job," Kingston said. "Three days ago at O'Hare, I spot an oil leak on my walk-around. Some rent-a-temp mechanic comes over and wipes it with a rag. I refuse to fly the ship and I get written up. A couple months ago, they forget to replace the j, O-rings after doing a master chip inspection on an L-1011. The plane t barely gets back to Atlanta after the captain sees the oil pressure gauge light up. Plus they're covering up their mistakes. Did you read the bulletin on the 757 Tom Ganter flew out of Miami last week, the one where the instruments went haywire?"
"Yeah. It had a wasps' nest in the static sensors," Dozier said.
"Bull! That's the cover story. Ganter took a look at the static ports after he got her back down. They were covered with duct tape for Christ's sake! The maintenance crew had polished the plane and forgot to strip off the protective tape. I'm telling you guys it's only a matter of time before we kill a shipload of people."
It was a recurring nightmare, a plane falling from the sky, the panicked cries from the passenger cabin, the thunderous explosion and raging firestorm that would silence every scream. He was not afraid for himself. Tony Kingston had confidence he could handle any crisis, as long as the ship didn't fail him.
"Lighten up, Tony," Dozier said. "Atlantica's never had a fatality. Not one."
Jim Ryder took off his headset and turned toward the captain. "Larry's right. You're crying wolf so often no one pays attention. No one cares."
"I care!" Kingston thundered.
# # #
Rita Zaslavskaya stood awkwardly to let the man to her right get out of his window seat and open the overhead compartment. He grabbed a weathered brown leather jacket and slipped it on, then crunched her right foot under his wing tips as he slid back into his seat. Rita had a fair complexion, dark, curly hair, and a strong face that was more handsome than beautiful. She was a large-boned woman in her midthirties who stood six feet one and played volleyball with other Russian immigrants on Sundays at a Jewish Community Center in Brooklyn. She'd asked for an aisle seat in an exit row because her bum knee did not take kindly to cramped quarters. One of these days, she'd have it scoped. It was on her list of to-do's, along with getting contact lenses, having her hair straightened, and finding a husband. The last on the list was inexorably linked to the first two, she thought and would be considerably easier if she would refrain from spiking the ball off the heads of every eligible bachelor in Bensonhurst, including a handsome but frail cantor from Minsk who had flirted with her ten minutes before she deviated his septum with a particularly vicious kill.
Maybe it was for the best. He was such a shmendrick.
"Excuse me," her seatmate said, lifting his foot from hers. He'd been in and out of the overhead ever since they had left LaGuardia. When he wasn't popping up and down, he was staring out the window in grim silence.
"No problem," Rita replied, glancing at the old leather jacket, which the man had zipped all the way up to his Adam's apple. "Isn't that a little warm for Miami?"
"I'll take it off as soon as we're inside." He was a small, paunchy man in his thirties with wispy pale hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a wedding band, she noticed out of force of habit.
"Nice-looking jacket," she allowed. "Good material."
"It's an authentic re-creation of the Army Air Force A-2 jacket from the Second World War, right down to the seal brown horsehide, the wool cuffs, and brass zippers," he said, pointing to the sleeve patch with its winged logo boasting of the 9th Bomb Group. "Steve McQueen wore one in
The Great Escape.
"
Rita didn't know Steve McQueen from Butterfly McQueen, but her sense of logic was offended. "So why put it on now if you're just going to take it off when you get inside the terminal?"
"The A-2 isn't just for warmth. It'll protect you in case of a crash or enemy attack."
That made her smile. "I live in Brooklyn. Maybe I should get one."
"I'm talking about fire. The danger is greatest on takeoff and landing, which is why I always bring this along, too." He bent over and reached into his carry-on bag, drawing out what looked like a SCUBA mask. "My personal smoke hood. It'll filter out the toxins."
He pulled the mask down over his face, tested his breathing, then slid it onto his forehead, as if he were about to explore some exotic tropical reef. "Some people might regard my safety consciousness as …"
Meshugeh, she thought. Crazy.
"Excessive," he said, placing a pillow between his bulging belly and the seat belt, then cinching the buckle hard. "Do you know the correct bracing position in the event of a crash landing?"
Before she could answer, the man bowed forward, as if in prayer.
# # #
Tony Kingston guided the aircraft on the downwind leg, occasionally looking out the windshield at the pitch black Everglades, a prehistoric creeping river of sawgrass, alligators, and marshy hammocks. The three men in the cockpit reviewed the landing checklist and waited for instructions to turn left and begin looping back to the airport.