Barnstorm Page 4
Cracking the door enough to see Socrates flap his wings and quack, Buzz announced, “Trip, burnin’ daylight.” He avoided saying anything to Socrates as he didn’t need a protracted foul argument this early in the day.
Strange, he didn’t see Trip around the hangar or the cafe. As he passed through the hangar he noticed that the step-ramp was lying across one of the Stearman’s wings. Not a big deal, until the plane wobbled and shifted. Buzz was generally not a believer in ghosts, but the facts pointed to something out of the ordinary. The sound of snoring originating in the cockpit dispelled anything of the occult. As Buzz leaned closer he wondered, what the heck is that?
Buzz cautiously climbed onto the wing and approached the rear cockpit. There he was, Trip, sound asleep without a care in the world. At first, Buzz was shocked, thinking that Trip was naked. Not much of a relief when he noticed that Trip was wearing only his boxer shorts. Boxers with airplane designs. He tapped Trip on the shoulder. In Trip’s dream, it was a beautiful woman shaking his shoulder. He had taken down two German Messerschmitts under that bridge in Northern France. As Trip blinked his eyes and shook his head, this was no love-starved fan standing over him. A pretty good dream had turned into Trip’s worst nightmare.
“And what do you think you are doing?” came the challenge from Buzz. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
Still not quite awake, Trip mumbled, “Uh? Oh. Where am I?”
“In trouble, that’s where you are. Out. Come on. Move your scrawny butt.”
Still a little woozy from his rude awakening, Trip crawled onto the wing ramp, facing away from Buzz. He bumped his airplane boxer shorts butt in Buzz’s face. They awkwardly tumbled off the step in a heap. Trip rolled on top of Buzz, his boxer-clad butt in Buzz’s face.
“Crap. What a way to start the day,” Buzz lamented.
Trip rose, face-to-face with his boss.
“Darn it, Trip. You gotta stop doin’ this. Someday I’m gonna fire yer butt and be done with it. What am I gonna do with you? And another thing. Fix the jump plane back door.” Buzz was firm, but not overly angry.
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
“Within the next hour; before the first jumps this mornin’. That means now.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
☁ ☁ ☁
Buzz plopped onto a lunch counter stool. He and Deb were alone.
“Whoa, heck of a crash landing,” Deb observed.
“Trip’s ‘bout to drive me nuts. Slept in the cockpit of an old Stearman, in his boxers.”
“Hmmm.”
“Nice guy, but is he cut out for this kind of work? Airplanes are complex, dangerous.”
Deb poured a cup of coffee and let Buzz vent. “I know,” she agreed. “But he tries really hard. Let’s stick with him a little longer.”
“Yeah, but he barely knows the difference between a carburetor and a spark plug.” Buzz gave Deb a quick smooch and exited the cafe as Trip entered.
Trip had quickly dressed for the day. T-shirt, Levi’s. In the hallway behind the lunch counter, he aimlessly grabbed the wrong work shirt. He didn’t notice the name Buzz sewn above the pocket. Typical for Trip, he put it on wrong-side-out. In a hurry, he left it unbuttoned.
“Mornin’, Trip,” Deb said.
Trip waved a small note pad. “Made myself a list,” referring to his new note pad. “On my way to fix that sticky door on the jump plane.”
“How ‘bout that. That should get Buzz off yer back. Ya might consider turnin’ that shirt inside-out before ya try to button it.” Distracted, Deb didn’t notice that Trip had grabbed the wrong shirt.
Trip fumbled with the shirt. “Thanks, off to the jump plane.”
☁ ☁ ☁
Trip’s lack of mechanical aptitude was exceeded only by his poor hand-eye coordination. He developed a plan of attack. For at least a full minute, he stared at the rear compartment door handle. Having settled on a strategy, he gave the rear door a futile tug. He then shook the door with both hands–failure. He looked over his shoulder and saw a foursome of skydivers approaching the jump plane. He grabbed a hammer, hit the door handle. He banged his thumb; stuck the thumb into his mouth.
“Come on, stupid door,” he coaxed.
Time was running out. The skydivers were getting closer. One final jerk on the door and it popped open. He lifted his toolbox into the plane and hoisted himself into the rear storage compartment. It was difficult to maneuver in such a cramped space. Twisting, toes-to-nose, and elbows everywhere, Trip felt like the last guy crammed into a circus clown car. Squirming, he found a can of ‘3-In-One’ oil in his toolbox. He tried to squirt oil on the hinge–nothing. There must be a blockage. He looked in the end of the oilcan and squirted himself in the face. Squinting through the slimy gunk in his eyes, he finally succeeded in squirting some oil on the rusty hinge. The door was fixed. It swung open and closed freely. All told, not a bad start to a new day.
Task completed, Trip was on his hands and knees. Head to the open door, he gathered up his tools and closed the toolbox.
Buzz walked around his plane, completing his standard visual safety inspection. As he rounded the nose of the jump plane he noticed that the rear storage compartment door was open. Well, how about that, he thought, Trip finally fixed something around here. With that, he slammed the door shut.
The good start to Trip’s day took an expected turn for the worse. The slammed door hit Trip in the head. He tumbled onto his side, grabbed his head, then rolled onto his back, dazed.
The four skydivers, harnessed-up and ready to go, chattered and laughed. Jumping out of an airplane was exhilarating and it showed. These guys were stoked. Chutes on backs, they checked each other’s equipment.
A cell phone rang. After a short conversation, one of the skydivers approached the plane, removed his chute, and placed it immediately inside the main cabin door. Tapping another skydiver on the shoulder he announced, “Peter, we better sit this one out. Got a little problem with the Foster account.”
Somewhat concerned, Peter asked, “Nothing serious, I hope?” He removed his parachute and placed it inside the jump plane.
“We’re okay. Mr. Foster wants to accelerate the delivery date on the second shipment.”
“Look on the bright side,” Peter assured. “Faster delivery– quicker cash in our pocket. Hey, Buzz! Go ahead, we’ll catch the next jump.”
Buzz waved acknowledgement as the two tycoons returned to the cafe to conclude their business deal. The two remaining skydivers and Buzz climbed into the jump plane. Buzz stowed the two extra chutes, settled in, and fastened his safety harness. He adjusted the controls and started the engine as he yelled over the hum of the engine, “Y’all ready to go?”
The skydivers flashed thumbs-up. Buzz checked a few more gauges.
Still on his back in the cramped rear storage compartment, Trip shook his head, dizzy. These cobwebs were slow to shake loose. The engine roar was muffled, buffered by the door connecting Trip’s rear prison to the main cabin. Trip lost his balance as the plane started down the runway. He opened the exterior door he just fixed and saw the tarmac pass beneath him. Planes accelerate down runways for one reason only–to take off. Somewhere in this equation Trip’s fear of heights did not compute. He closed the door, terrified. Trip cracked the door to the main cabin and saw two skydivers adjusting their parachutes.
Trip sorted through his limited options. It was too late to wiggle out and jump onto the tarmac. While the plane was barely moving, a tumble onto asphalt at even a slow speed would require more Band-Aids than in his current supply.
He could announce his presence. The skydivers would laugh. Buzz would be exasperated. Trip would probably get fired. At the very least, Buzz would strap him in the passenger seat and he’d get his first flight. In the cockpit! Not a bad option. Except for the getting fired part.
Trip settled on his third option–stay put. Li
e low and ride it out. These ‘dump-the-skydiver’ trips only lasted about ten minutes. Buzz would land. Trip could sneak out as though nothing happened. Worst case scenario, maybe a successful first flight would help assuage his fear of heights. Best case scenario, he doesn’t get found. Yep, it was decided. Trip froze in fear and hunkered down for a ten-minute adventure.
The jump plane accelerated down the runway, bounced once, and the wheels left terra firma. Buzz pushed to full throttle and banked to circle the airfield. It was a routine climb to ten thousand feet, dump the skydivers, and log one hundred dollars per person as revenue. It was just business. Not as much fun flying as the hot-rod crop dusting. Nothing wrong with boring money.
In the cockpit, it was business as usual. Buzz was at the controls. Skydivers checked their gear. The swaying action of the plane caused Trip to fall back into the storage compartment. There was the stark contrast of the peaceful patchwork quilt that Buzz saw and the abject terror in Trip’s eyes.
Trying to settle into his ‘stay-put’ status for the next ten minutes, Trip folded his hands in prayer. “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to-“
The plane hit a minor air pocket, bounced. “--hey, up there. I’m talking here,” came the not totally reverent admonition. The plane hit another air pocket. This bounce was more severe. “Only kidding.” Proof that God must indeed have a sense of humor.
Buzz shouted over his shoulder, “Ten thousand feet, drop zone one minute.”
The two skydivers, thumbs-up, moved to the open doorway. Buzz returned his own thumbs-up. Both hands grasped the handles above the open door; the first skydiver heard and felt the rushing air as he surveyed the farmland below. He jumped. Barely a count of four and both skydivers were letting gravity do its thing.
Buzz banked the plane and saw free-fall skydivers plummeting, floating toward the earth. Chutes burst open. As the fabric and cords popped from their backpacks, a sudden jerk signaled the end of the rushing wind. Legs swayed like a rhythmic metronome in the warm morning breeze.
As Buzz watched the colorful parachutes hit their targets at the outer fringes of the airstrip, he pulled the radio mic toward him and announced to Deb, “Eagle laid its eggs.”
“Roger that,” Deb transmitted. “Lunch’s on the grill.”
“Fifteen minutes. Gonna take a quick detour over the Thompson farm. Check out crop-dustin’ job.”
Buzz secured the radio mic and banked the jump plane toward the Thompson farm. Now at a lower altitude, he settled in for a leisurely task. That didn’t last long. Confirming his bearings out his left side window, the jump plane right window shattered into a spider-webbed pattern. Buzz snapped his head forward in time to see a second goose give up the ghost in his engine intake. Feathers exploded. The clogged intake became the least of his worries. The compromised propeller vibrated violently. Buzz adjusted some controls and tapped a gauge as though that would change the critical message it communicated. Concerned, he hit the troublesome gauge with a little more authority. He had heard about bird strikes, but never been through any training drills that would help now.
As the plane bounced, Trip fell over on his side.
Checking gauges, Buzz made more adjustments. He flipped toggle switches, turned knobs. The plane bounced. The engine coughed. As though his plane were an old friend, Buzz tried to tease a response, “Come on baby, be nice to papa.”
The engine vomited a puff of smoke. Buzz patted the instrument panel, imploring a little better cooperation, “Okay, sweetheart, be nice to papa.”
Trip snapped his head around, faced forward. He sniffed. Cracking the main cabin door he saw a wisp of smoke. Out of options now, he pulled the door to the main cabin closed. Trip was not sure which was worse. Wings tipping left, then right or the pitch-yaw that hit his head on the ceiling of his cave of doom.
Losing his patience, Buzz was beyond love taps on the uncooperative instrument panel before him. He yelled, “Come on, be nice to papa.”
Trip was ready to admit defeat and crawled on his hands and knees into the main cabin. Buzz, being otherwise occupied, did not see Trip roll toward the opening from which the skydivers had jumped. Trip first banged legs, then hip, and lastly shoulder against the side of the plane. His head hung outside the opening. Rolling farmland, engine smoke, and wind rushed past his head concocting a cocktail of fear. As he was about to fall through the opening, the plane jerked sharply right. Trip was hurtled away from the opening. He scurried back into the temporary safety of the rear storage compartment and yanked the door closed.
Buzz pulled the radio mic toward him. With focused resolve he announced his predicament to Deb, “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Bird strike! Deb, goin’ down. Mayday!”
While Buzz, and to a lesser extent Trip, had been gradually adjusting to the potential tragedy, this ‘Mayday’ turd plopped into the cafe punchbowl without warning. Deb stood at Buzz’s business counter with the CB radio mic in her hand. The sound of radio static confused its way through the cafe. The Liar Flyers had gathered and faces communicated immediate concern. Buzz was a highly qualified Air Force pilot. When he shouted Mayday, that’s not a casual How ya doin’, Bubba?
“Engine fire. Goin’ down!” Buzz coughed.
“Buzz! Buzz!” shouted Deb.
The cafe radio receiver now emitted sounds of a sputtering engine and spark crackles. Buzz’s voice broke through with, “Location. Southeast. . . old stone. . .” His steady voice was replaced by static and the radio cut in-and-out. “Fire!”
Deb clutched the radio mic. The radio went dead. The silence in the cafe was deafening. Only the hum of the Sky Gypsy Café neon sign could be heard. Deb cried through the silence, “Buzz! No! No!” She released the button on the side of the mic and waited nervously for a reply that did not come. Silence. She squeezed the mic button harder. Her military-trained fighter pilot had survived all that Iraq and Afghanistan had thrown at him. Surely, a single-prop jump plane wouldn’t spell doom for her Buzz. “Buzz! Oh my God.”
Deb released the button one last time for receive mode. There was nothing to receive. Only silence. The radio was dead. Was her Buzz dead? There were only blank stares in the cafe as no one wanted to make eye contact. The three wrinkled pilots had the experience. They could only reach one conclusion. Deb caressed the radio mic to her cheek.
The Liar Flyers bowed their heads.
Chapter Four
The deathwatch cafe silence was in stark contrast to the frantic scene of cockpit smoke and loud surge of a desperate engine not responding to Buzz’s pleas. Sparks flew from behind the altimeter. Multi-tasking as he shouted into the radio mic that had ceased transmitting, Buzz flipped toggle switches. He looked out the window and checked his location.
Buzz broadcast, “Old stone quarry, southeast,” into a nothingness that would never be received. The radio crackled and popped into one final gasp. Buzz instinctively replaced the mic to its holder on the instrument panel. Buzz knew that his plane was going down in spite of his efforts. There comes a time when the fighter pilot ejects and watches forty million dollars in taxpayer money go up in flames. Now was one of those times. Absent the rocket-powered ejection seat of his F-15 Strike Eagle, it was time to abandon ship. He confirmed only farmland below. No schools. No hospitals. The plane wouldn’t crash into an orphanage. He unstrapped his safety harness and left the cockpit. He grabbed the parachute standard for a skydiver pilot, fastened the clasps, shook the harness and took one last look at the smoke sifting from behind his instrument panel.
Buzz did not see Trip crack his door connecting the rear compartment and the main cabin. He maneuvered to the opening and surveyed the swirling farmland below. Buzz jumped from the plane.
Seeing Buzz bail out of the plane sent chills down Trip’s spine. His knees were wobbling so much that he could only crawl through the main cabin. He rocked-and-rolled to the cockpit and crawled into the pilot’s seat. He eyed the controls and cough
ed as the engine continued to belch smoke. He rushed back to the opening just in time to see Buzz’s chute deploy.
Stumbling back toward the cockpit, true to his nickname, Trip tripped over what appeared to be a backpack. Frustrated by his clumsiness, he kicked it aside. Almost instantly he realized what he had done. It was the spare parachute left by one of the skydivers safely on the ground negotiating a business deal. The chute slid and hit the wall to the right of the door opening. He dove after his lifeline. At the moment his fingertips were ready to grasp the parachute shoulder harness, the plane lurched to the side. He accidently hit the chute with his forearm. Out it went. He stood, hands choking the handles above the opening, and watched the spec of a parachute pack disappear into the clouds. He was afraid of heights for a reason. He shuddered in fear as he visualized himself crashing through the clouds toward the ground.
Back to the cockpit, Trip stared at the instrument panel. He grabbed the radio mic and pulled it toward him. Trip shouted, “Help! Mayday!” The cord broke loose from the instrument panel, taunting Trip as it dangled hopelessly. Trippy’s gonna fall. Trippy’s gonna fall. He could hear the school-yard taunts. He had to shake his head to eradicate the image of the perfect squares of his childhood jungle-gym hell.
Trip failed in his only attempt to plug the cord back into the dash. Sparks flew. He shook his hand and dropped the mic to the floor, it bounced away. He fumbled randomly at the controls.
The plane bounced erratically. Trip returned to the main cabin. True to form, he tripped and fell again. His fall was broken by the last parachute. Trip might have been about to fall out of an airplane, but he didn’t just fall off a turnip truck. He immediately knew that he clutched his last lifeline in his hands. His previous daydreams and hands-on practice with parachutes now paid off. He was able to quickly don the chute and tighten the straps. He wobbled to the opening, and yes, bumped his head.
Trip was out of options. He tried to jump three times–no good. He saw farms, barns, trees spinning below. “On the count of three; one, two,” he commanded.