Off To a Rough Start

(Revised 12/22/2022)

This is the third installment in the multi-story series which begins with A Walk Changed Everything. This segment can stand on its own, but if you want to experience the full universe, that story, then Havana, Baby! should be read first.

As with the other stories in the series, this one is immersed in the realm of commercial aviation. There's a lot of technical stuff, but don't let it worry you. It's only used to add color to the characters and the industry in which they're employed.

There's also "administrative" detail presented which isn't necessarily accurate. If you happen to be type-rated on Boeing 737s or work for an airline, please cut us some slack. We'd appreciate it if you would humor us with some feedback instead of a scathing comment. This is fiction, after all. If it's constructive and helpful, we'll probably modify whatever if it helps the story to flow and be even more realistic.

A special thanks to many assorted aviators who helped land this plane.

All characters engaging in adult activities are over the age of eighteen.

We hope you enjoy: Off To a Rough Start

Tuesday, July 6, 2021 11:40 AM

I knew my day was going to be off to a rough start when my phone squawked at four o'clock. The app which awakened me advised I needed to be at Gate 19 at Love Field by 10:00 AM to pick up a segment. Early rousts are one of the perils of reserve slots for pilots.

I made it there with time to spare, only to learn the flight I was meeting was delayed two hours due to foul weather in Memphis. It was raining in Dallas, too, which didn't help. The gate area was crowded, so I found a seat to camp in farther down the concourse.

I was subbing in and would be the pilot flying the leg from Dallas to Wayne County Airport in Detroit. I was reviewing the rest of the rotation's plans when someone approached me.

"Excuse me, but might I interrupt you for a moment?"

I looked up and saw a woman dressed in the uniform of another airline. The style informed me she was a cabin attendant because pilots don't wear skirts. They'd be impractical for one thing, since, at least on Boeings, there's a control column between the legs.

"Sure."

"Are you deadheading with us? We're about to begin boarding."

"No. I've been pulled from reserve for a flight arriving at Gate Nineteen, but it's behind schedule. I'm hunkering here where it's not so crowded."

"Good⁠—not that you're delayed, but that you won't see me again."

I chuckled. "Why's that a good thing?"

"I'm about to say something I've never said to a stranger, but since we'll not cross paths again, I'll take a risk."

I felt my eyebrows crunch a little in caution.

"You are, beyond any doubt, the most gorgeous man I've ever seen in real life. I hope your day gets better. If you're on one of my flights in the future, let's pretend this never happened."

I laughed nervously. "That's very kind of you. Thank you."

"Bye!" she said with an over-the-shoulder wave as she turned to the jet bridge's door. She was every bit as cute as her words. Not once had I been complimented by a complete stranger, and hers truly improved my day.

That was fun, I thought with a broad smile and returned to the crossword puzzle I was solving on my iPad.

An hour and a half later, my flight, delayed by a total of four hours, entered the cruise-climb phase.

"We've got a hundred seventy pissed-off people back there, not including the cabin crew. Fair warning, I'm not in the best mood myself."

"I understand, Vic, believe me, I do. Nothing like spending half your day at the airport and barely getting two hours' pay. What happened to your assigned first officer?"

"Craziest thing. We were deplaning, and he tripped over his roll-aboard. He stumbled, and his other foot went down through the rubber threshold of the bridge. His momentum kept moving him forward, and the gate agent had to wheel him out. Luckily, there was a first officer already scheduled for the jump-seat, so he got paid for the flight into Dallas."

"He didn't mind the gap?" I said with a mock British accent.

"Negative," the captain said with a laugh. He held up a finger as a cue when ATC came over the radio.

"Climb and maintain flight level three two zero, Spark 444," he acknowledged, then advised the controller of concerns he had about some clouds he was observing ahead of us.

"I'm not seeing anything ominous," I asked when he was done. I added a weather overlay to my multi-function display, the MFD, to see if the radar was indicating any precipitation. Nothing showed.

His tone was cautious. "Trust me. Those cumuli ahead are going to get bigger. Since you met us in Dallas, I'm assuming that's where you're domiciled. You can't tell me similar weather doesn't occur around there."

"It does, but it still surprises me that Center says they're already prepared for deviation requests."

"It makes life easier for us up here. Now, of the one hundred seventy-six total souls aboard, you're apparently not one of the peeved ones. Why's that?"

I grinned. "Something happened in the airport which reset my mood."

"Oh?"

"A random flight attendant from another company came over to me at the gate I was camping out at⁠—"

"A gal? Was she a cutie?"

"Not important. She was simply … kind."

"Well, if it improved your attitude, maybe you can do the same for our passengers back there."

That's a great idea, I thought to myself. I'd heard similar advice from another captain.

Another hour of idle chatter transpired before I was asked for the descent checklist.

"With your permission, I would like to do the PA."

Vic laughed. "By all means."

I lifted the interphone and spoke.

"Hello everyone, this is First Officer Mack McGarry. I'd normally say, 'Welcome aboard,' but we're almost to our destination and I'm sure, by now, you're feeling far from welcome. We're on our initial approach into Detroit. Captain Vic, myself, and the four awesome flight attendants mingling about, who probably never want to fly with either of us again, are as frustrated as you with the delay."

I spent perhaps thirty more seconds offering apologies with as much levity as I could muster. I then advised that we were expecting to be at the gate in twenty minutes before I replaced the interphone in its cradle. A few seconds later, I heard it ring in my headset. The captain lifted it that time.

"Hear what?" he asked whoever was on the other end.

"No, but I'll tell him," he said, then hung up.

"Tell me what?" I asked.

"Were you a comic in a past life? That was the purser telling me your announcement drew laughs back there."

"Nope, never. I guess the mood I'm in helped."

"Okay, gotta ask, because you're in a better fettle than should be possible. What did the … kind FA say?"

I repeated the exchange verbatim.

"Pfft . You've got to be kidding me," he said with a scoff. "Not once has that ever happened to me. You're going to have to give me more."

"Nearing ten thousand. Airspeed indicating two hundred forty-five. We can continue the conversation when we're at the gate."

"Acknowledged," responded the captain. We'd reached the point in the descent where idle chatter was to be avoided. It was time to talk only about the approach and landing.

Our arrival at Wayne County was completely uneventful. Thankfully.

I was to deadhead back to Dallas, and crew scheduling had arranged a flight for me on a different airline with which we had a cooperative agreement. I approached the gate about fifteen minutes before the published boarding time.

When one works in a particular service industry long enough, one can instinctively read the room. What I sensed as I neared was an elevated level of tension. It was a bit warmer than warm. I checked my electronic boarding pass, as well as the LCD displays at the gate. Both showed an on-time departure, so I doubted people were tense due to a delay. Something else was at issue, and I quickly learned what it was.

"I paid for that ticket! What right do you have to tell me I can't get on board?"

Oh, boy.

"Sir, the flight is oversold. You didn't check in on time. Your seat has already been reassigned," the agent spoke calmly.

"That's bullshit. Where's the four hundred dollar voucher you gave the other three people?"

"I'm going to ask you to mind your language, sir⁠—"

"I'll mind my fucking language when you do your fucking job!"

I felt helpless because there was nothing I could do. If I were an employee of her company, I would've placed myself between him and the lady he was haranguing but intervening in the business of another airline was verboten by my company's policy. If I weren't in uniform, I might've been able to do something like tell the man to mind his manners. Though he probably had ten inches on me, they were all at his waist, whereas I had that advantage in height.

"Sir!" the woman's voice broke. "Vouchers were offered to passengers who checked in on time. You didn't. Your seat is no longer available, now please! Step aside so I can continue boarding the rest of the passengers."

There wasn't a second person on duty at the gate. Then, it hit me. Though I couldn't get up in her company's business, I could still help. The desk bore the logo of another airline, but all the gates had the same landline telephones.

"Pardon the intrusion, ma'am," I spoke softly as I stepped behind the counter alongside her.

I picked up the telephone's receiver and pressed the button marked "Airport Police."

I turned my back to the agent and upset non-passenger as I calmly and quietly spoke to the man who answered. "Assistance required at gate fourteen. There's an unruly customer harassing the agent."

"On the way," was the immediate reply.

I hung up after the click.

"Help a wayward pilot find his plane?" I spoke to the frazzled lady with a subtle wink.

"Oh … of course, sir," she said, immediately catching onto my diversion.

"Hey! Fly-boy ! Wait your turn!" the asshole yelled.

"I'll only be a minute, then I'm sure you'll be on your way to where you need to be," I said, raising a palm in deference.

The lady typed random junk in the search bar of a browser which gave her the appearance of being occupied and focused on the task. She then asked me questions about my flight number and requested to see my credentials.

"You're at the correct gate, Mr. McGarry. You're assigned the cockpit jump-seat."

"I'm more familiar with 737s. This flight is operating an A320, right? I've heard Airbus's jumpers are better. Is that true?" I asked, stalling because the police hadn't arrived. Besides, I already knew the answer. I'd sat in their jump-seats numerous times. The European competitor to Boeing has a superior flightdeck in many respects.

"C'mon!" the man barked.

I caught a whiff of booze in the air.

"I don't know," she said. "I've never tried one on."

Her smile was weak, but very … appreciative.

"Sir, step out of the line," commanded a really big guy. Like really big-big. He probably could've folded the other man up like a linen napkin.

The two officers neither asked the agent any questions nor waited for the person to comply. They each took hold of an arm, pulled him away, and deposited him into the back of an electric kart with one sitting beside him as the other drove them all somewhere.

"Thank you, Mr. McGarry. I'm sorry you had to get involved, but it was very kind of you."

Her words triggered my reply.

"He's obviously inebriated, and you were doing a hell of a good job. If he was sober enough to have paid attention to your eyes, I don't think he'd have behaved that way because yours have to be the most startlingly beautiful color I've ever seen."

I might have gasped or visibly shuddered when I realized what had slipped out. I hadn't lied because they were the most incredible color imaginable. Despite the cold fluorescent lighting, they were an amazing cobalt-blue hue, but I knew from first-hand experience how many women don't appreciate random strangers offering compliments on their appearance.

"Sorry," I meekly apologized.

"You board last."

"Understood," I replied with a nod. She left the desk and walked back to the door of the jet bridge to resume boarding.

God. I can't believe I did that.

About fifteen minutes elapsed as the queue of passengers dwindled. The agent approached me where I waited and handed me something.

"A little thank you," she said.

She gave me not one or two, but a booklet of fifty bar-coded premium drink coupons. They were incentives her airline offered passengers who were particularly helpful or who'd been mildly inconvenienced somehow.

I chuckled easily. "I'm sorry, I can't accept these. It's against policy to drink⁠—"

"Because you're in uniform. I understand. If you ever fly with us for personal travel or are deadheading in regular clothes, then the pleasure is all mine. Or yours. Or whoever's. My name is Tamera, by the way."

"Thank you, Tamera. I'm Mack. These may come in handy someday," I said, tucking her gift into my coat's inner pocket. "Maybe I can be a hero who treats the whole plane to free drinks."

"It's fun when people do that. And … um … startlingly beautiful?"

"Well … yeah. Earlier today, someone gave me a compliment right out of the blue. It changed the entire tone of my day, and perhaps that encouraged me to do the same for someone else. Pay it forward, you know? If Bausch and Lomb ever make contacts the color of your eyes, they'll be a hit. I'm just saying."

"Despite that jerk, you've made my day, too. Now get your fine self in your seat. I'm just saying."

"See ya later, Tamera," I said as I headed toward the jet bridge.

"I sure hope so. Call me Tammy, and I do mean call me," she said with an entertaining lilt in her tone.

I was tired when I arrived home. I tossed the bonus booze vouchers on the countertop. I hadn't noticed until then that Tamera … rather, Tammy, had written a phone number on the back. I passed out in bed, eschewing a late dinner in favor of sleep.

After more than fifteen months since the "accident," my nightmares had become less frequent, so it was my growling stomach that awakened me. Tuesday would stand in as the beginning of my weekend, as I wasn't scheduled to fly a line again until Thursday, and I had a lot to do.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing when I read the email.

From: Stephan Brevard
Subject: Expedited track to captain transition
Sent: Wed 7/7/2021 6:14 PM (UTC -5)

Mr. McGarry:

As you are undoubtedly aware, the significant increase in travel demand has strained every airline in managing employee logistics. As InterAir continues to accelerate hiring, your seniority will soon make you eligible to be promoted to captain.

It is my pleasure to inform you that further communications from the S&R division will follow regarding an accelerated transition. The program is expected to better allow us to fill positions soon becoming vacant due to a surge in mandatory retirements in the coming months.

If you are interested in exploring further, please visit the first of the links below. If you believe you're a good fit to join the transition program, you may register by completing the forms available at the second link.

We look forward to hearing from you.

Kindest regards,
Stephan Brevard
Director, Staffing and Resources

I read it two more times. Captain? After barely seven years? That's a $40K pay bump. Count me in.

I clicked the links, but when I noted the amount of detail required to complete the forms, I knew they'd have to wait. I finished my morning routine, grabbed the suitcase I'd packed days earlier, and headed to the airport for the start of a four-day.

The sequence was par for the course, most of it consisting of lines I'd successfully bid for, and one that I tried to never fly again. Our fourth and final day had us flying from Dallas to Kansas City, St. Louis, Chicago, Kansas City again, then back to Dallas.

Plus … well, Kansas City . I'd developed an almost visceral aversion to its airport given what happened the year before when I'd been yanked to fly a few legs because the assigned first officer managed to get himself arrested for soliciting an undercover detective during a prostitution sting.

The deliberate act of an enraged, jealous man took the lives of twelve innocents and injured dozens more when he crashed his plane into the wing of my 737 and caught it, as well as the ERJ-145 he was targeting on fire. One of the individuals lost was one of our cabin attendants who sacrificed her life trying to prevent people from exiting out the imperiled side of the plane.

In addition to the emotional trauma we endured, the entire crew of that flight was grounded for more than three months.

As I began my morning, I realized it'd been almost a year to the day since I'd resumed work. When the team met up to get the sequence started, I pulled the captain aside.

"Irv, can I ask for a favor?"

"I suppose, but my answer depends on what it is."

"You're slotted as pilot flying for the first leg, which means you'll have three cycles and I'll have two."

"Yeah, go on," he prompted, eyeing me warily.

"I'd prefer to be acting as pilot flying for the Kansas City departures. Today will be only the fifth time I've been there in more than a year … sixth, too."

"That seems oddly specific. Any particular reas⁠—"

He stopped, flipped open the cover of his electronic flight bag, paged through to the schedules, then looked back up at me with his brows furrowed.

"Oh, jeez, Mack. I never put two-and-two together. Scheduling has your common name on the lead sheets. The news only ever gave the name Franklin. You were the FO on Flight 771?"

"As pilot monitoring."

He nodded. "Okay. That's fine with me. To keep our cycles in balance, I'll be pilot flying for this leg, Chicago, and St. Louis, and I'll trade for both the KC departures. It's a bit unorthodox, but it'll work."

"Thank you."

We resumed walking down the jet bridge, caught up with our cabin crew, then began our tasks.

Acting as pilot flying out of Kansas City meant different responsibilities and seemed to break the repeats of that horrible evening. It didn't change everything, though, nor make memories disappear.

As we were taxiing north to runway nineteen right, the yellow center and edge lines on the concrete surface changed hue. They were fresher, having been restriped. Seeing the shift made my pulse quicken.

"So, is this where 'it' happened?" Captain Irving Stipe asked with an air quote.

I nodded, pointing two dozen yards ahead of the plane's nose. "We were right there."

He went quiet until the tower controller told us to line up and wait. He moved our plane onto the active runway.

"Your aircraft," he said, removing his hand from the tiller.

"My aircraft."

When he acknowledged the clearance to take off, I pushed the thrust levers forward, waited for Irv's expected callouts, and flew our plane carrying one hundred fifty-four souls into the air at thirty-five hundred feet per minute.

Seven minutes later, we'd ascended through ten thousand feet where we could remove our shoulder straps and chit-chat.