| Subject: Storm Clouds Part Two |
Author:
Karen
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Date Posted: 16:38:51 11/25/07 Sun
In reply to:
Karen
's message, "Storm Clouds" on 18:16:06 11/24/07 Sat
A/N I haven’t a clue if the stuff about ATC in this chapter is correct. It came out of my head. Hope its at least entertaining. No apologies for another inheritance. I have no control over my brain sometimes. LOL
Storm Clouds
Part Two
Trans-Platinum Air
Flight 1653
Washington D.C. to Norfolk
Mid June, 2004
1725
Harm really didn’t like the look of those clouds. The tops were white and billowy in the low angled rays of the early evening sun, but the huge centers had a dark angry look. If he wasn’t mistaken, he’d just spotted sheet-lightning flash in the brooding heart of the fast moving storm.
This weather pattern was beginning to really annoy him. He’d been on the East coast for over twenty years and he’d never seen a hurricane season like this one. The constant line of storms that had marched up the coastline seemed destined to test his skills. Fortunately, other than aggravation, a bit of flooding, and some power outages, along with broken trees and downed signs, none of the storms had done any catastrophic damage.
They’d had warnings this system would possibly gain tropical strength, but it wasn’t supposed to happen so soon. His last weather check when he departed D.C. had forecast a landfall of sometime around 2300. He had planned to be home in bed with a good book before it hit. The size of this thing already looked like something he’d once flown into with a Tomcat, and wound up parking it on the bottom of the ocean.
“Trans-Platinum Air 1653 this is Norfolk tower,” the radio squawked.
He’d been handed off by D.C. control a short time ago. He’d flown the route three times a day, round-trip, for over four months, and he had every aspect of the trip committed to memory. It was an odd flight. Not quite an hour in the air, he spent nearly half of it climbing and the other half descending. Although he’d already started his decent into ORF, it wasn’t time for his landing instructions.
“Norfolk tower Trans-Platinum 1653 here,” he replied.
“Captain, we have a problem. This storm suddenly took a turn. It’s heading inland rapidly,” the ATC informed him.
“Is it going to hit us before I land this baby?” Harm inquired with more nonchalance than he felt.
“No, but landfall is now predicted to be between 1900 and 2100 hours. That’s three to four hours earlier than originally projected. The winds are really picking up. Weather service isn’t calling it a Cat-1 yet, but we need to get everyone down and back out of here soon. We’d like to send you to Richmond. They have a half hour to forty-five minute holding pattern, but you’ll be farther inland.” The voice didn’t sound very steady about the suggestion.
“No can do, Norfolk, unless you can get me priority parking in Richmond. I’m bingo fuel for that long of a wait.” Harm mentally calculated turning back towards Richmond and spending what would surely be much more than half an hour flying circles in the air. It would require nearly double the fuel he had on board.
“Yeah, I figured that. That is priority, Harm. It’s most of the regional traffic and privates that can’t turn back, the jumbos are going somewhere else,” the voice informed him
“Can’t do it then, and I can’t return to D.C. either,” Harm replied to this information. If they were diverting all the regional jets and private traffic, something was bound to happen to keep him in the air longer.
“D.C. wouldn’t do you any good; both airports have an hour wait to land. DC and Baltimore are taking most of the larger planes. We’re just trying to get everyone out of the air the best we can,” the ATC was thinking out loud. “We could re-route you into Newport News/Williamsburg it’s a little farther from the storm.”
“Whatever you say,” Harm acquiesced. The passengers would be upset, but that was the airline’s problem. A cab across the bay, if they haven’t closed the tunnel due to the weather, would cost damn near what they’d paid him for the flight. Maybe Trujillo and Stevens, his co-pilot and flight attendant, would like to split the fare. The airline would send a shuttle, but it would be passenger priority. He’d probably be better off finding a hotel room for the night.
Five minutes later the radio came to life again.
“Trans-Platinum 1653, Norfolk tower here.”
“1653, ready to copy,” he told them, expecting new landing co-ordinates into Newport New.
“Can’t do it, Harm. PHF just had a nasty mishap. An executive jet hit the runway upside down, and it will take hours to clean up the mess. We might get emergency clearance at one of the area bases in time to get you down, but…,” the guy sounded doubtful. The military wasn’t likely to play with civilians unless it was a dire emergency. The surrounding bases had already cleared all their aircraft just in case the storm gained hurricane strength.
“Six of one,” Harm answered. “None of them are that much farther from the storm and they aren’t likely to welcome me if you can take me. I have a little gas to spare, but I can’t go gallivanting all over the state looking for a parking place. I’m going to have to bring her in.”
“Okay, uh, we’ll have three MD80’s stacked up behind you, but by the time you get here you’ll be the last RJ we have in the air. The planes need to be down, refueled, and back out of here as soon as possible,” the voice prompted nervously. Harm was an unfamiliar element to this particular ATC after Trans-Platinum’s recent shakeup, and he wasn’t interested in having a mishap on his watch. He didn’t like the options, but there weren’t any others. The 80’s were heavier, and to his mind had more experienced pilots; the ATC considered them less of a risk. The smaller plane had less fuel onboard for a holding pattern, but if the pilot didn’t have enough experience, it could easily flip if the wind hit it wrong.
Ultimately, the final decision was up to the Captain, and without knowing Harm’s background, the guy’s stomach contents boiled in anticipation of this landing. He held his breath and prayed this new pilot was some kind of magician with wings. He gave Harm wind speed and direction, and lined him up with the main north-south runway. He considered landing Harm on the smaller runway in case he didn’t make it, but if he lacked experience, the shorter, narrower airstrip would increase his chances of having an accident. “We’ll keep you posted on any sign of downdrafts. You have a strong crosswind, but it’s hitting both runways at almost a perfect 45 degree angle,” the ATC informed Harm. “I’m bringing you in on the big runway. We’ll be standing by.” His tone subtly indicated that emergency vehicles would be ready.
“I’m not going to break the airplane,” Harm informed him through a clenched jaw. This guy’s attitude was beginning to annoy him. “I have forty-eight paying customers, and two crew members on board. You just hold the deck steady. I’ll hit the three wire.”
Norfolk International Airport same time
“Navy pilots. Gotta love ‘em.” the first man commented. He stood near a huge picture window that overlooked the runway.
His expensive suit was already rumpled, and he doubted this storm would give him any rest for a while. As Airport Director, it was his responsibility to monitor all air traffic then remain on the job until the last plane had landed, been refueled, and taken off again. If there was a mishap, he might be lucky enough in the following days to get a nap or two on the nice leather couch against the side wall of his office.
The second man nodded sagely towards the unseen aircraft. “Can he do it?” As an attorney, he was mentally calculating the scope of the lawsuit if this line of planes didn’t land safely.
“Yes, he can,” the director nodded. “He started flying from here for Trans-Platinum almost five months ago, but this hurricane season has already been full of nasty surprises. He’s proved his mettle more than once. I don’t know more about his background than the fact he’s former Navy, but he’s a genius with an airplane. This is the guy you’re waiting to see, right?”
“Mmmmhhmmmm,” the attorney murmured. “A favor for a very old friend.” The white-haired man returned his gaze to the window. This would certainly be a landing to watch. With his hands behind his back, he crossed his fingers.
Forty-five minutes later
Terminal B Gate 18
Norfolk International Airport
“Nice landing, Captain.” The dapper white-haired man intercepted Harm as he stepped past the boarding gate.
“Were you on board?” Sometimes passenger thanked the crew as they got off the plane, but they didn’t wait around for them.
“No, I watched from upstairs,” he indicated the upper level of the building.
“How’d you get in here?” Harm asked automatically. His mind was still buzzing from the rush of the landing and his thought processes were suffering. “You can’t get past TSA without a boarding pass.”
“Yes, I can, and I did. I have connections.” His smile held strong self-confidence, but no cockiness.
Harm regarded him with his raised-eyebrow look of doubt that usually annoyed people.
Without losing the smile, the neatly dressed older man reached into his pocket and pulled out a card.
Wilton Emerson, Esq.
757-555-1529
It read in elegant script.
Harm looked at the card. “Is someone suing me?” he inquired cautiously.
“No, and if they were I’d probably help represent you if it had to do with flying. I’m chief counsel for the Airport Authority.”
“Oooohhh, I see,” Harm responded. Well, that explained why the man had access to the boarding area. Handing the card back, he continued politely, “Then what can I do for you, Mr. Emerson?”
“Oh no,” the elegant man refused. “You keep that. You will need it. Is there somewhere we can talk? Perhaps the restaurant if you’re hungry,” he offered.
“Sounds good,” Harm agreed. His mind was clearing, but his body was a little shaky. “I didn’t feel very hungry earlier, but that landing dumped a bit of adrenalin,” he admitted.
Pulling off a landing like that made him feel bulletproof for a few short minutes, but experience had taught him that the feeling was transitory. He would never again take his skill for granted. His co-pilot, Mariposa Trujillo, and the flight attendant, Merrick Stevens, had both performed remarkably. Stevens had somehow kept the passengers nearly unaware of the danger from the storm, and Mari had risen to a performance he wouldn’t have expected when he first started flying with her. She’d told him last week that she’d learned a lot from him. If that was so, it certainly had paid off today.
“Would you prefer a drink?” Emerson offered.
“Uhn uh,” Harm replied absently, as he turned down the corridor towards the concessions, “still have to drive home.”
With Harm unconsciously matching stride with the slightly shorter man, they walked towards the restaurant.
“You still haven’t told me what you want, Mr. Emerson,” Harm persisted.
“Call me Wil, I think we’re going to see a bit of each other. Does Willoughby Spit ring any bells with you, Captain?”
“Call me Harm.” He narrowed his eyes in thought, then shook his head. “Only the time I spent living in an old boarding house on the beach while I was stationed at Oceana.”
“Why did you commute that far from the base?” the man inquired, more curious than demanding.
“It started with Mace, my RIO,” Harms face darkened with the memory. “He had a small room there. The place wasn’t much, but it was on the beach and it was cheap. We could work on our tans and pick up girls,” Harm shrugged more in the sense of making an expected flyboy comment than that it held any truth.
“And?” Wil Emerson urged as they took a table in the corner.
Harm took out a menu glanced at it and shoved it back behind the condiments. He ordered an iced tea and a Club on wheat with extra tomatoes. Emerson ordered a cup of coffee.
“And a real nice old man owned the place. Paul…um…Singleton, that’s it, Paul Singleton was his name. It was falling apart around him so we spent most of our spare time helping him make repairs. I learned a lot about handyman work those two years.” Harm smiled disarmingly, “What’s this all about?”
“Mr. Singleton left you the boarding house in his will.”
“He died?” It oddly upset Harm to find out the man he hadn’t thought about in years had died.
“Last week,” the white head inclined. “It took me a few days to track you down.”
“Why me? I mean Mace…” his voice trailed off.
“Yes, Mr. Mace helped as well. Mr. Singleton was aware of the accident that claimed his life. He was also aware you were cleared in the ensuing investigation. At the time, Paul had a son, a Marine Captain, who would have inherited. Unfortunately, he was lost in a much later conflict. Apparently, in his lifetime the three of you were the only people to have made a lasting impression on him. You, unfortunately, are the only one left.”
“So now I own a broken down boarding house. I mean I’m flattered the guy liked me, but what am I going to do with it. I have a career. I don’t intend to give up flying to run a home for wayward jet jocks,” Harm smiled nervously.
Wilton Emerson chuckled in appreciation. “Well, you couldn’t if you wanted to. As a matter of fact, the building has been condemned. Paul continued to live there in a small apartment out back until his death, but the city was trying to dislodge him when he died.”
“What happened? I mean, what was wrong with him? If it’s okay to ask,” Harm ventured awkwardly. The man hadn’t crossed his mind for years, but for some reason it mattered.
“Emphysema,” was the reply. “The doctors told him he might live longer if he quit smoking and moved someplace drier, like Arizona, but he wouldn’t do it.”
“Why not?” Harm’s curiosity was piqued. “He could have sold the place and used the money to move.”
An elegant shrug was his answer. “He told me he didn’t want to leave the one place that had all his memories, just to die in some strange place.”
“I wish I’d known. Maybe I could have helped him somehow.” Harm hid the emotions playing over his face, by taking a sip from his glass of water.
“You did help him…when it counted for him. He never forgot that,” was the kind answer.
Embarrassed by the sentiment, Harm tried a lighter comment. “How’d he afford a big time lawyer like you? That place didn’t make him that kind of living.”
“No it didn’t. The house has been closed for years, but even I had to start somewhere. Paul was one of my first clients. Look, Captain…”
“Harm,” the pilot corrected.
“Harm. I know this is somewhat of a surprise…”
“To put it lightly.”
Another kind smile. “As I’ve said, the building isn’t worth much. However, the land has substantially increased in value the last few years.”
“The yuppies have discovered the area?” Harm ventured.
Emerson nodded with a knowing smile. “Beachfront property on the Chesapeake, as they say, they aren’t making any more of it. Right now the neighborhood stands at about forty five percent new development.”
“Meaning McMansions?”
“’Fraid so, but at least it increases the value of your land. Razing the building will be expensive, but a developer would pay...”
“I’m not sure,” Harm mused. He might run it by Frank and his real estate venture group. “Let me think about it.”
“I’m not trying to pressure you,” Wil Emerson’s smile was comfortable. “I don’t need the business. Stop by my office when you have some time. I need you to sign a few papers, and I’ll give you the keys. As a favor to Paul, if you need to find a buyer let me know,” he offered. Sliding from the booth, he picked up the check.
“You don’t have to do that,” Harm protested.
“No, I don’t, but you made my afternoon very interesting. Keep in touch.” He threw a small salute and walked away.
Harm watched thoughtfully as the man handed the cashier the bill and money for payment. Just as Emerson walked away, he turned and smiled, then he was gone.
Now that was damned interesting, Harm thought to himself. And what the devil was he going to do with an old building that wasn’t good for anything but a bonfire. He’d call Emerson in the morning and check on the insurance.
In a neighborhood, like Willoughby Spit, where million dollar homes shared a street with barred and shuttered convenience stores, and professional landscaping vied for attention with gang graffiti, someone was likely to set fire to the place just because it was there. As Emerson alluded, it was a neighborhood in the painful throes of transition.
End of part two
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