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“I came here on that.” Badde pointed to the nearest business jet parked on the pad with eight others, a couple at least twice its size. “It’s a what?”
“A Hawker.”
“And this one coming in?”
“Tango Romeo is a four-month-old Citation Ten, the latest version. It’s a midsized jet, a little bigger than the Hawker.”
“And faster?”
“Yes, sir. A little. At flight level four-nine-zero it cruises around four-sixty, four-seventy knots.” He paused, then added, “That’s an altitude of forty-nine thousand feet, and speed just over six hundred miles an hour. With the headwind light tonight, it made the trip from Key West in right at two hours. And that included a stop, a brief one, in New Orleans.”
Badde nodded as he wondered, What did they do in New Orleans? Their casino downtown is at least a half hour from the airport.
“Had to stop for gas?” he said.
“They weren’t on the ground long enough for that. Besides, the Citation’s range is around thirty-five hundred miles. Depending on winds, that’s New York City to Los Angeles and halfway back again.”
“You’re just full of interesting flying facts,” Badde said. “How do you keep up with it all?”
“It’s my job, of course. But aviation is addictive.”
“Yeah. So I’m seeing! This Citation, how many can it hold?”
“In addition to the two crew, up to twelve passengers, depending on the cabin configuration.”
“What’s one worth?”
“New, around twenty million—”
“No kidding?”
“—but there are plenty of nice older ones to be had for eight, ten. We have a couple for sale in that range in the hangar, as well as others.”
Badde nodded, impressed. There had been plenty of general aviation airplanes at the fixed-base operator at Northeast Philadelphia Airport when the Hawker arrived that afternoon to pick up Badde. Most of the ones he’d seen, though, had propellers, not jet engines, and were much smaller than the Hawker.
There had to be some.
Maybe, like the Russian’s here, they’re gone somewhere.
The giant doors on the hangar began sliding open. The interior was brightly lit, and Badde could see even more aircraft inside. Enormous red, white, and blue flags—one of the United States of America with its fifty stars and one of the State of Texas with its Lone Star paying homage to when it was its own sovereign nation—hung in the middle from the steel beam rafters. A tractor tug drove out and connected to the Citation’s nose gear.
Looks like what they say about everything being bigger in Texas is true!
And this place is cleaner than the one today in Philly. That glossy floor looks clean enough to eat off of.
“Well, Mr. Badde,” the manager said, “welcome again to Texas. And please let me know if there’s anything else that we can do for you and the City of Philadelphia. Particularly if you’re in the market for a f
ine aircraft.”
“Now, that would be a very nice thing to get!” Badde said. “And none of that TSA security nonsense. Just hop onboard and go. I can get used to this kind of lifestyle.”
The manager smiled, then left.
H. Rapp Badde, Jr., watched with almost childlike fascination as the impressive Citation rolled up to near the limestone-faced hangar and was wanded to a stop on the well-lit pad. He heard the whine of the engines winding down.
Idling nearby was a highly polished black Cadillac Escalade ESV with darkened windows and shiny chromed wheels. The big SUV’s Texas license plate read Y-ROSE-5. It began moving slowly, then stopped alongside the aircraft as the jet’s stair door opened and rotated downward. The driver’s door swung open and a clean-cut brown-skinned young man in a two-piece black suit and collarless white dress shirt stepped out. He opened the door behind the driver’s.
Jan would like this kind of living large, too, Badde thought.
