Off To a Rough Start

"Wow," Irv said. "That was a beautifully aggressive departure."

"Sorry not sorry."

He laughed. "I'm sure you've heard how people describe most airline pilots to be like school bus drivers, but say our company's are more like New York City hacks. You just exemplified the stereotype. Loved it!"

"Like from anywhere in New York, I wanted to get away."

Fifty minutes later, I landed our bird in St. Louis.

"Your takeoff was better than par," Irv observed as I directed the plane to the high-speed turnoff of the runway, "but that landing was a double-eagle. You made that greaser feel more like silk."

"Thanks. I kinda surprised myself. How long is our turnaround?"

He took over because only the person in the left seat can control the plane's steering tiller. "Given we're five ahead, we have forty-five minutes."

Once we'd gated and our passengers deplaned, the crew cleaned up the jet and headed into the terminal to stretch our legs.

I stood next to the agents at the check-in desk at the gate, pushing buttons on the outdated computer instead of doing the same from my electronic flight bag.

Jeez. Why do we still have to print all this crap? I wondered. Many of the major airlines had been approved by the FAA to use digital versions of the manifests, weather data, notices, and other information. Not InterAir, though. We reviewed everything electronically, but still had to initial or sign paper versions.

"Mack ?"

I looked around the area for the person who'd called my name.

"Mack McGarry? Is it really you?" repeated a blonde and similarly uniformed person heading toward me carrying a little bag from one of the convenience stores.

I was instantly happy the tedium had been necessary because the coincidence would've never happened otherwise.

"Hey, Brandi! Long time no see." I smiled easily at the woman.

"Wow. It's been a while. I mean, I know we talked on the phone last month, but … it's so good to see you in person again," she said, gently brushing the side of my shoulder with her hand.

"You, too," I said with an easy grin. I would have given her a gentle hug had we bumped into each other in the pilots' crew-rest area but felt it unwise in the general public.

"What's been keeping you busy?"

"Same as always. I just flew here from Kansas City."

She blinked a few times. "Oh?"

"Yeah. The captain was kind enough to let me trade pilot monitoring for pilot flying so I could be in the other role instead⁠—"

"I get it. I've done the same. The fresh paint on the taxiway still makes it difficult."

"How long will that last?"

"I don't know. I wish I did," she answered wistfully.

"You … you're looking good."

"Thanks," she said with a gracious smile which relieved me considering the social gaffe I'd pulled in Havana. "You do, too. How's your ankle?"

"It bites me when the weather does, you know?"

"So, every time you climb into the flight levels?"

"Shh!" I scolded. "Don't need a medical examiner overhearing."

She laughed.

"I just landed about fifteen minutes ago and have a twenty-minute break. Do you have a while to catch up?" I asked because it was the first time I'd seen her since LaTasha White's memorial service.

"I wish, Mack, but I'm headed to Lexington in fifteen and need to get back on the deck. I only have a couple of minutes to spare."

"Gotcha," I answered. "Oh! I just got an email from Staffing that I'm soon to be eligible to bump to a four-bar."

"That's fantastic. Are you going to do it?"

"Are you kidding me? Of course I am."

"I'm speaking selfishly, but that's too bad," she said.

"Why's that?"

"If we're both captains, we'll never fly together again."

I laughed. "We were only paired twice before. Also, don't discount the possibilities for your future. When you're promoted to instructor or line check captain, you could be in my right seat soon."

She laughed easily. "That may very well be true, and there's always the possibility either of us might be in the other's jump-seat. You're a great guy, Mack. You deserve it."

"Thanks. I hope you and Rob are doing well. I just finished reading Uncaged Rage . It was fantastic. Please tell him how much I enjoyed it."

"We are, and I will," she said with a smile. "I've gotta run. If you're ever overnighting here, give me a shout. I'd love to have more time to chat."

"I'll do that. Adios! " I smiled as she turned and began fast-walking down the concourse.

Classes were scheduled to begin on Monday, but as suggested in the course syllabus, I arrived on the Friday before. Since I'd be away from home, I was allocated an apartment at the temporary housing facility. It was more like a dormitory, really, but groups of four sharing a suite had separate bedrooms. I'd need to check in to get the keys and meet the instructor to fetch my materials ahead of time.

I arrived at the desk in the lobby and was directed to the office of Pamela Rix, five doors down a corridor lined with large photographs of various members of our fleet throughout time in their varied liveries.

Though her door was open, I checked the nameplate on the wall adjacent to it before I knocked on the jamb.

"Just one second," a woman answered, elongating the syllables. She was facing her computer's screen, her back to me. A moment or two passed as she finished typing before she rotated in her seat to face me.

"Hello, ma'am. I was told to come check in with you. I'm on your schedule. The name's Franklin McGarry."

"Ah … yep! You're number seven of fourteen. Lucky seven!" she said after scanning a printed roster sitting on the round table between me and her.

She gestured for me to sit. I deposited my backpack in an adjacent chair.

"I'm Pam Rix, your group's instructor."

"Then maybe you can answer a question. I'd originally planned on being here for two weeks, but it changed to four all of a sudden. The schedule I was sent didn't explain the change."

"The additional time is for differences training."

"Differences training? I already did that when the company started bringing the dash 800s to the fleet."

"Yes, I see that, but you'll be adding the MAX 8 along with your extra stripe. MAX 9, too."

"Oh?" I said with some likely surprise in my voice. "I wasn't aware."

She sighed and shook her head a little. "Someone in scheduling needs to get their act together. Is advancing to the MAX a concern? If so, it's better I know now. I can dismiss you for the next two weeks and not waste your time or ours."

The 737 MAX had earned a bad reputation when two deadly incidents were traced to faulty logic relying on data from only one angle of attack sensor instead of both. Boeing's failure to highlight certain changes unique to the MAX, and the lack of specific training for airlines and pilots about how the MCAS system worked, was an almost dooming bureaucratic decision.

When they returned to service in March, I'd flown in several MAX 8s a number of times, and jump-seated in even more. I was confident in the airframe.

"No, I'm okay with it. I didn't know we were flying the 9 yet."

"We aren't, but there's seventeen of them going into service in two weeks. They should be earning revenue by the time you're⁠—if you're promoted."

"Sweet," I grinned. "Hopefully, I can fly one while it's still … fresh."

"Yep, keep that positive attitude," she said with an easygoing smile.

She reclined in her seat and stared at me for a moment or two.

"Might we discuss the elephant in the room?" she asked.

"What elephant?"

"You. You're the elephant," she said matter-of-factly. "Flight 771. The number was retired three days after it happened."

"I'm aware. What are you concerned about?"

"To put it bluntly, I don't want it, or you, becoming a distraction. I know Brandi Grant, the captain of the flight that night. I count her as a friend. As soon as the people in my classroom learn who you are, I'm sure you're going to be in for a litany of questions. Just so you understand my point of view, if it were me, I'd resent every minute of it."

She propped her elbows on her chair's armrests and steepled her fingers.

She continued. "My father is a retired Navy pilot. He and my mother winter in San Diego. When they're there, he volunteers as a docent on the USS Midway Museum, the carrier his squadron of F/A-18s was attached to for two years in the early nineties.

"Visitors often ask if he ever had to eject. He had. In 1991. He was leading a four-ship when SAMs were launched at them. Two of the four made it safely back to the deck. The others didn't. My dad was in the water for seven hours before he was picked up. The fourth pilot didn't survive.

"A while back, he told me it doesn't matter which pilot anyone asks because there's only two possible answers. No , the boring one, and yes if something happened they never want to relive. He considers the question insensitive, if not outright rude. His go-to response is, 'That's not something pilots like to talk about.'"

Even though I knew nothing about military aviation, what Pamela said of her father's answer resonated deeply.

She added, "I'm not asking you the question, Franklin. I'm asking what it feels like when people ask you to tell them about that night in March."

"I might steal your father's answer the next time someone does."

"I'm absolutely certain he'll have no problem if you do. So, what can I do to make sure you don't have to deal with that kind of mess?"

I considered her question carefully. "Well … you can start by using my common name, which is Mack. The media only ever used my given name. Maybe I'll get lucky, and the other prospects won't figure it out. And … to be honest, if you are, as you say, a friend of Brandi, I'm a little perplexed you didn't know that already."

"I don't ask her to talk about that night, either."

She pulled the tent card with my name printed on it from the envelope containing my course materials and threw it away.

"I'll make you a new one before Monday."

She rolled her chair to the table and sat next to me. She took inventory of things she removed from the envelope. There were spiral-bound books with glossy covers, and a few folded poster-sized sheets which, when unfolded, displayed all the panels highlighting the changes in the MAX 8 and 9. Known as "paper tigers," such things had been used as dirt-cheap training aids since the dawn of military then professional aviation.

The discussion lasted about a half hour. By the end of it, I was wondering if I was going to be able to effectively learn much in Ms. Rix's group and began thinking I was already off to a rough start.

"Mack," Pamela said as people were gathering their things at the end of the third day of class. "Can you stick around for a few minutes?"

I nodded and approached the front of the classroom where the presenter's lectern stood.

She didn't speak. She watched the last people dawdle. I suspected it wasn't good news, and she didn't want anyone else overhearing it before they meandered out.

Finally, when we were by ourselves, she asked her first question.

"Is everything okay? You seem … I don't know, unfocused?"

"I don't think I am."

"When we were group-drilling the MCAS emergency checklist, you were the only one of the thirteen others who wasn't answering questions."

"Oh. I didn't notice."

"Within how many seconds must you disable the automatic trim before it requires too much force to manually re-trim in the event of an MCAS-induced stabilizer runaway?"

"Nine."

"And if not done within nine seconds, approximately how much force must be exerted on the column to maintain pitch?"

I froze.

"Mack, how many pounds?"

"I don't know." I sighed.

"See? The answer should have fallen right out of your mouth. I was reviewing your past training records. Every single one of your previous instructors and examiners wrote comments praising how you're as sharp as a tack and were one of the go-to guys when other students struggled. One instructor described you as having had an interesting talent for taking something as complex as aerodynamic physics and describing it as simply as the rules of tic-tac-toe.

"Another said he thought you personally contributed to a higher promotion ratio in his class because of your ability to re-process information and describe it in other ways. Other … languages.

"So, I'll ask again. What's going on? You're now the one struggling. We practice all of this in the simulators to demonstrate how critical reaction times are, but I can't put you in one until you've mastered this stuff on paper."

When she placed her hand to the side of my shoulder, I could see the expression of legitimate concern. She seemed to be a phenomenal instructor, but I was struggling. I'd disappointed her, and it routed me. The fact was, I knew the reason, and I knew I would need to address it quickly.

"I'll think about it."

"How many pounds?"

I didn't know if she'd just keep asking, so I answered, "One hundred twenty."

"Nope. Do better. Please?"

I didn't reply before I departed. I wanted to. I really did, but I knew there was only one sure-fire way to do better.

I went to the training center early Thursday morning, about an hour before class was to start because I needed to talk to someone specific.

After double-checking the name on the organization chart for the training department, I went to speak with Pamela Rix's supervisor, Rudy Delaney, who was InterAir's senior instructor.

As luck would have it, he'd just sat down at his desk with a cup of coffee when I asked if I could have a chat.

"Sure," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"Is the MAX differences class reschedulable?"

"It is. Why do you ask?"

"I have something going on which is making it difficult to focus."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Hopefully nothing serious. Keep in mind, though, you won't be paid for any overlap. You'll have to exchange the days you've already been here for personal leave. The next block doesn't begin until the first week of October, so it'd also slow down your eligibility. Things are moving fast, which is why we're doing four of these at a time. There are almost sixty candidates here right now."

"Pardon? There's other sessions paralleling mine?" I asked because that tidbit of information was news and a potential new solution.

"Three. It's making for some nasty schedules for simulator time."

"Are the others doing the same material?"

He nodded. "It's critical they be synchronized. If an instructor gets sick or something, we can temporarily combine classes and not lose time."

"Um … would it be a problem moving me to a different classroom?"

The man reclined his chair and peered at me quizzically.

"So, this … something . I assume it's related to your particular class?"

"It sort of has to do with the instructor. If it's all the same to you, I prefer keeping the specifics to myself."

"I don't think there are any vacancies in the others. I'll check, but I doubt it. If not, someone else would have to swap classes with you."

"When can I know?"

"Wait here. I'll go ask the other instructors before we start for the day."

I twiddled my thumbs for fifteen minutes until he returned.

"You're in luck. Joe Corning has a slot. One of his students bailed out after Tuesday. Decided the time wasn't right for him. Follow me and I'll make introductions."

I stepped into my previous classroom to pick up my name tent. Ms. Rix watched me wordlessly and knitted her eyebrows. Pointing toward me, she asked Rudy what was going on.

"He asked to be moved," he answered with a shrug. "It's almost eight o'clock, so if you want to discuss it, it'll have to wait until later."

I quickly settled into the vacant spot in the back of Joe's classroom.

"Newbie," the instructor said as I placed my stuff on the table in front of my new seat. "Ah. Mack. Welcome. Drilling a latecomer is a tradition, so everyone else keep quiet. Mr. McGarry, tell us how to recognize an MCAS-induced runaway situation and the steps to address it."

"The system will start trimming the plane nose down. Instinct is to pull up which only makes it worse."

I described the remainder of the procedure, using the paper tigers on the wall to demonstrate how, altitude permitting, to regain control of the hobbled theoretical airplane. I'd studied my butt off the prior night.

"Awesome. See, folks? That's not so difficult, is it?" he asked as I returned to my seat to mild, courteous applause. "Now. Moving on."

The following weeks saw my confidence restored. I was back in the zone.

All I hoped for at that point was to not yawn. InterAir had eight full-motion 737 simulators in the cavernous facility, but only four of them had been reconfigured to simulate the MAX series we needed. The rest topped out as dash 800s on which every candidate was already qualified. The rest of the company's pilots needed access to the MAXes, as well, to do recurrent training, proficiency checks, or whatnot. It meant our groups were allocated one hundred sixty-five total hours over five days but were required to use the slots between seven in the evening through five o'clock the following morning. Yes, simulator facilities across all major airlines operate twenty-four-seven to ensure their multi-million-dollar machines aren't sitting idle. The preferences of times were based on employee seniority. Since we were in transition training, we were considered almost the lowest of the low and got hind tit as a result.

My assigned time slot of eleven o'clock on Monday, Tuesday, and Friday, wouldn't interfere too severely with my circadian rhythm, so I hoped I'd perform better than if I'd have been assigned a 2:00 AM slot instead.

"Alright, Mack. Ready to fly?" Joe asked as I buckled into the left seat of the simulator.

I'd spent at least two hours every day in the common room of my housing's suite, reading page after page of the Quick Reference Handbook drilling procedure after procedure. They were familiar, of course, but their executions were ingrained to opposing hands. It was hilariously disorienting.

"It's been a few weeks since you've flown, so we're going to start slow, okay?"

I chuckled. "Yes, please."

"We're lined up and waiting at O'Hare. We have a bit of a quartering crosswind. Zero four five and fifteen knots, gusts to twenty-five. All checklists have been executed and confirmed."

"Gotcha."

"Spark 1, runway three six right, fly runway heading. Cleared for takeoff."

"Runway heading, cleared for takeoff," Joe acknowledged the person sitting a few feet behind us who was both operating the simulator and acting as air traffic control.

Joe's left hand moved below my right on the thrust levers, exactly where it was supposed to be.

"Thrust forty," I said after pushing the throttles forward.

"Stabilized," Joe advised a few seconds later.

"Takeoff thrust," I said as I released the brakes and pushed the Takeoff/Go-Around, or TOGA button.

"Takeoff thrust," he acknowledged.

"Eighty knots," he said, followed shortly by "one hundred."

"Check," I replied.

"V1," he said a few moments later. We both removed our hands from the levers.

The simulator grumbled and vibrated.

"Rotate … whoa . Mack, N1 is spooling down on number two."

Oh, crap. Engine out? I went through the memory items of the emergency checklist as I cautiously brought the plane off the runway and into a gentle climb. I pressed the left rudder pedal about two inches to counteract the asymmetric thrust caused by an apparent engine failure on the right side. The shuddering increased.