SKYEYES Page 3

  It’s still raining hard. Red flashing lights pulse ahead as the car approaches, slowing as if commanded by their presence. Through the glittering downpour, a booth takes form and from it steps a Mexican border official dressed in full yellow slicker, advancing like some plastic creature. He shines his flashlight into the car, causing the woman on the passenger side to wince and look away. She is blond, 31, her pretty features contorted by heartache. Rain flowing down the windshield is projected onto her face by the flashlight of another guard. The official shines the light into the back seat, and the woman and Tom turn to look back, then at each other, desperation reflected in each other’s eyes.

  Desperation remains in Tom’s eyes as he stares at the altar boys. One of them picks up the figure of the Christ child and carefully puts it into a carton, stopping to look down at it. He motions the sign of the cross, then closes the carton. A wave of pity breaks through him and he turns around to see Tom staring at the carton. Looking further into Tom’s eyes, he sees a man of sorrows.

  The truck roars down a city street bordering Mile Square Park and turns onto a dirt road, rumbling through ruts into the parking lot of a miniature airstrip and grinding to a dusty halt beside a candy-apple Corvette. Matt Clifton, Tom’s lifelong friend and most ardent critic, leans against it and watches as Tom gets down from the cab with Zion on his shoulder. Matt, tall and heavily mustached, ambles toward him, pushing his rodeo-worn Stetson further back.

  “Nice of you to show,” Matt drawls.

  Zion jumps to the hood of the truck as Tom surveys the area. A five-year-old boy watches his father fuel a bright orange radio-controlled biplane, a task the boy could easily have done himself. Tom gazes skyward, shielding his eyes from the morning Sun as a tenth-scale Spitfire, red smoke trailing, performs a power climb straight up to a hammerhead stall. He looks back at Matt’s half scowl. “Sorry. Had to stop for kerosene.”

  From around the back of the truck appears a county sheriff, startling both of them. He walks up slowly, carrying the burden of a long career of doughnuts and coffee, gazing up at nothing in particular. He doesn’t look at them, but directs his address to Tom as if throwing his voice.

  “Morning, son.” The sheriff creaks a half smile, half grimace.

  “Morning, sir,” Tom replies with a glance toward Matt.

  The sheriff looks at Zion. “You boys flyin’ today?”

  Tom still looks at Matt, who raises an eyebrow. “Yes, we are, officer. Is there a problem?”

  The sheriff finally looks both of them over. “Well, I hope not. Just keep it high. Had some fools out here this weekend trying to knock over beer cans. One of ‘em hit the dirt and threw a prop. Nearly put a kid’s eye out.”

  “We don’t go for any of that stuff. I can promise, we’ll keep it plenty high,” Tom says with a hidden grin.

  Matt starts a laugh until the sheriff glances pointedly at him and stops chewing his gum. The sheriff looks back skyward and resumes the chew. “All right, then. You boys have a good one.”

  Matt replies, “And you too, Sheriff.” The sheriff looks them both over again, looks at the cat, then walks around the truck and out of sight. A moment later his cruiser pulls away in a plume of dust.

  “Where are they when you really need ‘em?” Matt sneers.

  “Probably chasin’ you. Let’s get this show on the road. Where’s Sam?”

  Sam’s deep voice jolts both of them. “Nyaaa, what’s up, docs?”

  Sam Brown, three hundred pounds of black attorney, had been observing the interrogation from the other side of the truck. Some of what was once solid offensive lineman has gone south. Matt is easily annoyed. “Jesus, Sam, how the devil can somebody big as you move around so quiet?”

  “That’s what the quarterbacks used to ask.”

  Only Matt could get away with, “Yeah, well, I’m surprised you can even live on land.”

  “Why I oughta…” Sam says, raising a mock fist.

  Under different circumstances Tom would be amused. “OK girls, let’s go,” he says, motioning to the back of the truck. Sam throws a lemon drop at Matt hard enough to be surprised when Matt catches it and puts it in his mouth. Tom pulls a ramp from the back of the truck and all three walk up, disappearing into the bay. They emerge, under considerable strain, carrying the brushed aluminum fuselage of a 747 scale replica, detailed with a blue stripe down the length and a tan tail with a large “H” on it. Painted in script under the cockpit window is “Noah 3”.

  Sweat drips off Sam’s face, evidence of the effort required to assemble the Noah 3, and Matt sucks a finger, the victim of bolting on a wing. The aircraft is thirteen feet long, ten feet wide, standing six feet at the tail. Sam pours the last drop of kerosene into the fueling point on the right wing as Tom slides a black box into the opened cockpit. Matt stands beside him, eyeing the gathering crowd of gawking enthusiasts. Tom wipes his hands with a red rag. “All right, ‘Before Start’.”

  Matt takes a folded checklist from his back pocket and squints to read it.

  “Want to try the glasses for once?” asks Sam.

  Matt looks up at him, still squinting. “That would mean I’d have to get a better look at you, now, wouldn’t it?” He returns to the checklist and after a few experimentations with arm distance, clears his throat.

  “Battery power.”

  Tom responds as he looks in the cockpit. “On.”

  “Avionics.”

  “On, checked.”

  “Navigation.”

  “Programmed, set auto.”

  “Start sequence and pressure.”

  “Selected and…” He looks at Matt. “How about turning the valve, Chief?”

  Matt reaches down to an air bottle attached to the tail cone by a hose and turns the valve. A hiss of air moves the crowd a step back. “Sorry.”

  Tom looks back into the cockpit. “Pressure’s up.” He turns to Sam. “You ready?”

  Sam power-walks away. “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

  Tom looks around, wiping the sweat from his brow. “OK. Start check. Read it all.”

  Matt walks backward. “Parking brake, beacon, fuel pumps and start valves.”

  When Tom reaches in the cockpit, red beacons on the top and bottom flash in unison with white wingtip strobes, and the whine of miniature fuel pumps starts the crowd murmuring. “Set, on, on and,” flipping the last switch, “open.”

  Tom hurries away as the high-pitched scream of small turbines brings everyone’s hands to their ears. From the truck cab, he takes a metal briefcase and opens it on the hood. Matt stares at it like a dog staring at a clock while Tom enters commands on a keyboard, whispering, “N two, lightoff. N one.” He turns to Matt. “Looks good. Pull the chocks and the bottle.”

  Matt has to shout. “Man, you’re crazy! You pull the damn chocks!” Tom stares him down. “Hell, fire. I swear.” Matt crouches down unnecessarily and, in that position, waddles his way to the front of the aircraft. He gets down on one knee and with a nervous finger, hooks the rope holding the two chocks together, jerks them from the nose wheel, then runs hunched over to the tail and disconnects the air bottle.

  Tom moves a joystick and advances small thrust levers as the Noah 3 moves forward and turns toward the end of the runway, the crowd standing aghast. When it finally stops in position, Tom shouts at Sam. “Go for it!” Sam slumps into the Vette and punches buttons on his cellphone, sweat running down his face.

  The radar room at SoCal Approach is like any other facility of its kind: a low-lit bunker, silent but for the disconnected voices of men at glowing screens. An air traffic controller sits at his terminal, staring intently and speaking to no one in the room. The phone near him buzzes and he answers, looks around, speaks under his breath, then hangs up.

  Sam sticks his arm out of the Vette with a thumbs-up. Tom applies takeoff power, the resulting engine scream reaching such
a pitch that the observers crouch down, one falling backward. Because of its size, the Noah 3 looks deceptively slow rolling down the runway. A dust storm blasts behind as it accelerates and rotates, climbing sharply into the air. One of the gawking spectators runs over to Tom, a look of awe and terror on his face. “Good God! Are those really jet engines?”

  “Just the inboards. Four would rip the wings off,” Tom replies.

  “No way!” is the response as the gawk turns skyward.

  Tom turns back to Matt and Sam. “We’re outta here.” He slams the briefcase shut and he and Matt climb into the truck as Sam fishtails off in the Vette. The truck strains a leaning, lumbering U-turn, rattling off in an explosion of dirt. The gawker looks back up, scanning to find the aircraft as it makes a high, sweeping turn overhead and climbs off into the peaceful light-blue morning sky. When it disappears, a soft mist of quiet settles back. He looks over at a friend, who looks back. “Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

  “No landing.”

  “Not here, anyway.”

  They both look back up. “How’s that possible?” he says as he sticks his hands in his pockets.

  “You think we should call anybody about it?”

  “What for? Did you recognize that guy, anyway? He seemed familiar, like on TV or something.”

  “Yeah.”

  The general aviation ramp at Orange County Airport is unusually slow. Row after row of lonely aircraft sit anchored by tie-downs, sadly tethered to the Earth. Standing in ready, however, in front of the Executive Air Terminal, is the Noah 4, a Citation One business jet painted the same scheme as its now airborne counterpart. Eddie, Tom’s pilot, sits on the steps of the open cabin door reading a magazine, a mild sea breeze flapping the pages. He sees Tom, Matt, and Sam walking toward him, Tom carrying the suitcase and Matt holding the box Tom picked up from Cardona, while Zion follows a few feet behind until Tom stops and scratches his palm, sending him to a nearby bush. Tom continues toward the Citation and after a few moments, Zion reappears, running full speed. As they approach, Eddie pulls the chocks from the right landing gear and, after the four enter, follows, pulling the door behind.

  Tom straps himself into the Captain’s seat and throws switches while Eddie pulls out the laminated checklist and fans himself with it. Tom sees him out of the corner of his eye, pretending not to notice. When he’s done, he grabs the checklist, puts it vertically between his hands, and closes his eyes. “Before Start check complete. Satisfied?”

  Eddie grabs the checklist back. “Yeah, right. You know, the pages of this thing are stuck together.”

  Tom respects the friendly challenge. “I tell you what. If we’re about to crash, you read me the ‘Before Kissing Your Butt Goodbye’ checklist.”

  “You know it’s guys like you that—”

  “Overpay guys like you to be a twerp. How about a taxi clearance?”

  Eddie calls ground control as the second engine spools up. Sam sticks his big head between them with a glass in his hand. “Want a Diet Coke?”

  They both reach for it, but Eddie defers. “Taxi Two-Six Right, hold short of the Left,” Eddie says. Sam hands him the other drink he’d already made for him and ruffles his hair, knocking his headset off. “Shoot, man. For a token Negro lawyer, you think you’re pretty hot,” Eddie says, replacing the headset.

  Sam squints. “Oh, really? What’s the difference between a step ‘n’ fetchit token-white pimple-faced copilot like you, and a duck?”

  “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “A duck can fly.” Eddie looks out the window as Tom high-fives Sam.

  The SoCal controller stares at the screen, then picks up his target. “Thar she blows,” he says to himself, then transmits, “National 7235, turn thirty degrees left for traffic at one o’clock, one mile, climbing through twenty-two point five.”

  This transmission freezes the Captain and First Officer of the National Airlines Boeing 757, catching the Captain in mid-bite of a ham and cheese croissant.

  A 757 cockpit is a comfortable place, spacious and colored in light browns as were most of the later generation jets, the choice of color a departure from the gray interiors of traditional airliners. Someone in human ergonomics decided it would be more soothing, conducive to a balanced work environment. None of this tempers the sudden anxiety of an abrupt turn to avoid unexpected traffic at close range. A wide-eyed flight attendant sits in the jumpseat, stopped in the course of an identical croissant.

  The First Officer disconnects the autopilot and rudely banks the airplane to the left, exclaiming to his Captain as he looks for the traffic, “Good grief! One mile? What’s going on here?”

  The Captain triggers the control wheel transmit switch, declaring with a mouthful to the controller, “We don’t see the traffic. Isn’t that a little close?”

  The TCAS annunciator flashes on the instrument panel, followed by the loud and unnerving announcement, Traffic! Traffic! “What was that?” the flight attendant asks, wide-eyed.

  The copilot answers while craning his scan outside. “Airliners are required to have a TCAS system. It’s ‘Tombstone Technology’, the business of safety after disaster, in this case after two mid-airs here in Southern California.” He points to computer-generated symbols on an electronic display in front of him. “It shows all the aircraft around us and gives commands to avoid a conflict.”

  Descend! Descend now! the black box demands. This time everyone’s wide-eyed.

  Noah 3 climbs serenely skyward at a steep angle. In the distance, National 7235 banks away in a descent.

  Back in the National cockpit, the controller’s voice finally dispels the tension. “Traffic no longer a factor. Cleared direct Dagget,” this followed by the TCAS report, Clear of Conflict.

  The First Officer reengages the autopilot and enters the direct command into the flight management computer as his Captain responds to the controller, “Roger. Don’t know how we could have missed that one.” The two pilots look at each other, then back in that direction. The Captain takes off his glasses and furiously cleans them with his tie.

  The Citation pulls into position on Orange County’s runway 26 Right and stops. Through the cockpit window, down the runway, the shimmer of rising air sets in motion an otherwise still landscape. Tom stares as Zion jumps onto his lap, causing Eddie to shake his head. Over the radio the tower controller’s voice declares, “Citation One-One-Hotel, cleared for takeoff. At the shoreline turn right, heading three-three-zero.”

  Tom stands in front of a dilapidated house, isolated on a Mexican beach, paint peeling off crude cement block. He watches an ambulance drive away in the distance, a rising vortex of dust twisting in the shimmering heat.

  Eddie looks at Tom. “Ground control to Major Tom. Anybody home?”

  Tom, jarred back, barely answers. “What?”

  “Cleared for takeoff? Right at the shoreline?”

  Tom abruptly advances the thrust levers, the rude acceleration spilling Eddie’s drink. He looks down at his Coke-soaked tie. “Jeesus!”

  Matt’s voice exclaims from the cabin, “Whoa, Nellie.”

  Noah 4 rotates and lurches into the air.

  Inside L.A. Center in Palmdale, California, the atmosphere is that of eternal night, dim lighting offset by the cool glow of radar screen after radar screen. Controllers gaze fixedly into their depths, appearing to talk to themselves though each word they speak radiates through hundreds of miles of airspace, striking a myriad of huge, roaring jetliners reduced to blips and creeping digital encryptions. Except for one not-so-huge jetliner hiding behind its otherwise normal blip.

  Steve works the airspace below 24,000 feet. The controller next to him, Sherry, taps him on the shoulder. “Steve, when you’ve got a second, take a look at this.”

  Steve stares at his screen. “Go ahead.”

  Sherry looks at him and h
is lack of interest. “I’ve got a target here at three-four-zero, unidentified. The thing’s squawking 1111, doing two hundred thirty-five knots.”

  Steve unsuccessfully tries to be funny. “Three-four-zero? He must think he’s on the Pacific composite,” he says, glancing over at her screen, not long enough to focus on anything there.

  “Oh really? No kidding, you dink. I’m calling a super,” she snaps, as irritated as she is unamused.

  “Maybe it’s just a bad encoder. He’s probably down at thirty-four hundred.”

  Sherry picks up her phone. “We’ll let Harold figure it out.”

  Noah 3 cruises at 34,000 feet, gleaming in the sun, a pair of tiny contrails crystallizing behind.

  Harold stands over Sherry, frowning. He looks over at Steve, frowning deeper. “What’s the matter, Steve? Didn’t this thing come through your airspace?”

  Steve, beads of sweat forming along his receding hairline, feels Harold’s shadow on his back. “Yeah, well, I saw it, but I thought it was just a bad encoder.”

  Harold looks at Sherry, absorbing her raised eyebrow into his already bloating anger. “Horsefeathers, Steve! You know better than that!”

  The controller on the other side of Steve interrupts, an obvious eavesdropper to the engagement. “Here’s one comin’ into your sector, Sherry. VFR target at seventeen-five, doing three hundred twenty knots toward Utah. Not talkin’ to anybody. Sound familiar?”

  Harold’s wheels are turning and beginning to smoke. Steve glances at him, then glares at Sherry, at this point feeling like a piece of curling cheese in a betrayal sandwich. Harold barks, “That’s that Holmes guy.” He turns to Sherry. “You got anybody near this other... target?”

  “It’s about to go under TranStar 100. Christ, I hope the altitude’s right. Even so, it’ll be a conflict if we don’t turn him.”

  Harold is relishing this closing maneuver on Steve, some unresolved conflict. “See if they can get an eyeball on it.”

  Sherry focuses back on her screen. “TranStar 100, we have an unidentified target crossing at your twelve o’clock, two miles, indicating flight level three-four-zero. See if you can get a visual on it.”