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“Is it controlled?”
“No. But the landing strip is plenty long enough for this aircraft if you, uh, set down at the very end of it, and the crosswinds aren’t too strong.” Reading his pilot’s dubious expression, he snapped his fingers. “Better idea.”
“I wait for Atlanta to reopen.”
“You take the 182.”
The pilot sputtered a laugh. “That bucket? I don’t think so.”
Dash glowered. “That bird was flying long before your daddy was born.”
Which was the wrong thing to boast because the pilot chuckled again. “My point exactly.”
“Okay, so it’s not as young and spiffy as the Beechcraft, and it’s seen some wear and tear, but it’s reliable, and it’s here, and you’re going. I’ll gas her up while you file your flight plan. Name of the place is—”
“Hold on, Dash. I signed on for the Beechcraft, flying into a controlled airport, not chancing it in uncontrolled airspace over mountainous terrain, in pea soup, and landing on a short strip where there’s likely to be strong crosswinds. And hoping that somebody will be there to turn on the runway lights?” He shook his head. “Forget it.”
“I’ll pay you triple.”
“Not worth it. I’d have to be crazy. Up to you to head off the client and make him understand that nobody can deliver tonight whatever is in that box. He’ll get it when the weather improves. I’ll continue to monitor it and get on my way as soon as I can.”
“You pass on this, you’re history with my outfit.”
“Not so. You need pilots too bad.” He picked up the boxed lunch and took it with him as he crossed the lobby and headed down the hallway.
Dash swore under his breath. He’d issued an empty threat, and the smug son of a bitch knew it. He needed pilots rated for several categories, classes, and types of aircraft who could climb into a cockpit and fly at a moment’s notice.
This one was an asshole, but he was a bachelor and therefore more available than the men with families. He was eager to chalk up hours that he could eventually peddle to a commercial passenger carrier.
And, truth be told, to fly into that backwoods airfield under these more-than-iffy conditions, he would have to be altogether crazy. He wasn’t. He was a levelheaded pilot who didn’t take unnecessary risks.
Dash needed the other kind.
He looked across the lobby toward the sofa, shifted his cigar again, hiked his pants up beneath his substantial overlap, and took a deep breath. “Uh, Rye?”
The man lying on the sofa didn’t respond.
“Rye,” Dash said more loudly, “you awake?” The sprawled form remained motionless, but Dash continued. “I’ve got a situation here. Rotten kickoff to the holiday season, and you know that’s when I make half my year’s income. This guy’s turned pussy on me, and—”
Dash stopped talking when Rye Mallett lifted the old magazine off his face. He rolled up and swung his feet to the floor. “Yeah, I heard.” He stood, tossed down the magazine, and reached for his bomber jacket and flight bag. “Where am I flying?”
10:21 p.m.
Rye had opted not to take the Beechcraft for the reasons cited by the other pilot, whose name he didn’t know and couldn’t care less about. Dash had put the Cessna 182 through its preflight check while Rye accessed a computer in one of the waiting areas. He’d gone onto a website that provided aerial photos of airports.
He’d studied the bird’s-eye view picture of the Howardville County Airfield, made note of the lay of the land and how the FBO fit into the landscape, then printed out the photo to take with him.
He called flight service and filed his flight plan using instrument flight rules. He would be relying on instruments from takeoff to landing. Nothing unusual about that, but the fog was.
Wanting to get the skinny, and not from someone in a TV studio with capped teeth and cemented hair, he’d logged on to several flight-related blogs to see what the chatter was. As expected, nearly all the messages posted today had been about the fog and the hell it was creating. The pilots who’d flown in it were warning others about vast areas of zero visibility.
Typing in his user name on one of the sites, Rye had posted a question about Howardville. He’d received a flurry of replies, the first of which was, “If ur thinking of flying into there tonight, what color flowers do you want on your casket?”
Another: “Beware the power lines. If u make it as far as the landing strip alive, brace yourself. That bitch is a washboard.”
Similar posts had followed, words of caution spiced with graveyard humor and the irreverent quipping that was universal among aviators who didn’t wear uniforms. The upshot of the online conversation was that one would be wise not to fly into Rye’s destination tonight.
But Rye often received such warnings, and he flew anyway.
