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"Back in the dark ages when your grandfather and my father were flying, they had to do this just about by themselves," Castillo explained to Randy over the intercom, his voice coming through the David Clark headsets that everyone wore. "Now we just push buttons and computers do all the work."
He showed him the Global Positioning System, then pointed to the screen with its map in motion.
"Here we are, south of Fort Rucker. There's where we're going, Pass Christian, Mississippi. The computer tells me we have one hundred eighty-four miles to go, that we're at five thousand feet, and making about one hundred fifty miles an hour over the ground."
The boy soaked that all in, then asked, "Wasn't it more fun when you did it yourself?"
Without really thinking about it, Castillo disengaged the autopilot, said, "Find out for yourself," then, imitating the tone of a commercial airliner pilot, raised his voice: "Attention in the passenger compartment. The copilot is now flying."
The boy looked at him in disbelief.
"If you're going to drive, it might be a good idea to put your hands on the yoke," Castillo said. He pointed. "That's the yoke."
"The thing to remember, Randy, is to be smooth," General Wilson said, leaning over his grandson's shoulder. "Don't jerk the wheel. A very little goes a long way."
The boy put his hands on the yoke.
"Can you reach the pedals?" Castillo asked.
The boy tried, then nodded.
This probably isn't the smartest thing I've ever done, but what the hell.
General Crenshaw was right last night: The kid will never forget that he went flying with his grandfather to see what Hurricane Katrina did to the Gulf Coast.
And we have plenty of fuel.
"Keep your feet on the pedals," Castillo ordered. "But don't move them till I say. What you're going to do now is make it go up and down. When you've got that down pat, you're going to turn us dead south."
"Yes, sir," the boy said.
"Just ease the yoke forward, Randy," his grandfather said. "And try to keep the wings level."
The hurricane damage-a lot of it-became worse as they came closer to the coast. When they were over Pensacola Beach, Florida, the damage was so bad that Castillo decided they needed a closer look.
"I'll take it now, Randy. I want to get down for a better look, and I don't think you're quite ready to make low-level passes."
"Yes, sir," the boy said, reluctantly taking his hands off the yoke.
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The damage to Pensacola Beach was worse than anyone expected.
General Wilson and Jamie Neidermeyer got their video, then Castillo adjusted the flaps and throttle in preparation for the aircraft to climb.
"I'm going to give it back to you, Randy," Castillo said. "What you're going to do now is climb, slowly, to five thousand feet and steer two seven zero."
"Just ease back on the yoke," Grandpa Wilson said. "You're doing fine."
He is. What the hell, his father and grandfather are pilots.
What was it Don Fernando used to say? "Genes don't teach you how to do anything, but they damn sure determine whether or not you can learn."
How big were we when he taught Fernando and me to fly? About as big as this kid, I guess.
God, Fernando and I had flown all over Texas and Mexico by the time we were old enough to get a student's license.
Over Mobile, Alabama, Castillo ordered the boy to turn south and fly to the Gulf, and when they were over it, to turn right and start a gentle descent to fifteen hundred feet.
