Off To a Rough Start

She laughed so abruptly she snorted a little.

"I didn't mean⁠—I'll get out of your box⁠—Oh god ." I felt myself blushing. "I'm shutting my piehole. Bye."

"You're very cute, Mack," she said with a nod and a lovely smile. "Until then."

I was mildly startled when I opened the exit to someone else reaching for the handle on the other side. I held up its case and said, "Almost forgot my headset," instantly realizing Pamela had given me a plausible reason for being in the sim and hoping my blush had faded.

Four hours later, I was at the airport along with the other passengers boarding InterAir 758 to Dallas Love Field. Except for international long-haul flights I'd taken as a vacationer, I'd never needed to sleep on a plane. That morning, I wanted to. Sure, I was tired, but also hoped I might dream of a certain someone.

I fell asleep during the purser's safety briefing and was conked out for the entire flight until the rapidly decelerating plane shook me awake on landing. Like most good dreams, it ended far too quickly.

I felt my palms sweating. I was seated at the head of a conference room table large enough to accommodate twelve, though it only held myself and six others.

Opposite me sat Merle Finch, the chief pilot of InterAir. Next to him were the chief flight instructor, a senior flight instructor, the senior maintenance engineer, the senior operations manager, and, finally, Stephan Brevard, the director of Pilot Staffing.

Outside of executives, they were six of the most powerful employees at InterAir, at least as the flight crews were concerned, and they were about to grill me for two hours. It was the "use it or lose it" moment in any pilot's advancing career.

Each of them peppered me with questions on policies, procedures, operations, and other elements of business a captain was expected to understand. I hoped I was doing well and assumed I was when my answers earned me nods.

The senior maintenance guy drilled me with questions on interpreting the minimum equipment list, the document compiled by Boeing and amended by InterAir, which defined when a flight could leave if certain things were out of order. An airline can add restrictions but may never remove one.

A seat back that won't lock?
Move or remove the passenger and go, defined by Boeing as is.

One lavatory offline?
Go.

Two?
No-go. According to the manufacturer, there's no need for more than one of the three lavs to be functional, but InterAir's MEL was more conservative. It was a delicate and carefully crafted balance, but safety was never to be a compromise.

The chief pilot had been silent up to that point. He asked only one question.

"What mistake did Captain Brandi Grant make last March on Flight 771?"

My hindbrain activated its defenses, but my forebrain somehow stifled them. In the instant, I wanted to come out of my chair and choke the man who'd asked such a question, not caring about my future advancement or lack of employment altogether.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the way you phrased that is insensitive."

"I don't care."

We stared at each other for probably fifteen seconds.

"Captain Grant didn't do anything wrong," I said, breaking the silence.

"Yes, she did. She almost killed herself and you along with her."

"What? No! " I barked. "Other than opening the cockpit door⁠—"

"There it is," he said. "It wasn't in the QRH you had at hand, but due to the statements both of you gave to the NTSB, the FAA is requiring Boeing to revise the flightdeck escape procedure. Her 'wrong' made a right. Lives might be saved because of her actions and both of your testimonies."

His air-quoted word irritated me.

"You're an⁠—"

And then … I got it. He wasn't accusing her. He was praising her.

"Asshole?" the man suggested an apt ending for my aborted utterance. "I know, and it's sometimes a sorry part of my job. Mr. McGarry, you have my full backing for promotion to captain. What say my peers?"

I listened and watched as the other five people responded in kind.

"According to your schedule, your next sequence begins Friday, correct?" asked Chad Stewart, the check airman on the review board.

"Yes, sir. It's the beginning of a three-day. I go from here to St. Louis, then Chicago, and overnight in Miami⁠—"

"Yeah. I see that. I love a good Cuban sandwich. As luck would have it, Rudy Delaney, my department's manager, swapped me onto your sequence, so I'll be meeting you in St. Louis and take the right seat. Your captain will get to chill in first class to end the day, and I seriously doubt he or she will complain. You'll be evaluated as pilot monitoring, then pilot flying, both from the left seat. If all goes well, you'll be able to stop by the shop when you get back to get your new epaulets and uniform jacket. Cool?"

"Very," I said with a smile.

"There's a downside, though. You'll be registered in the system as captain, but it won't go into effect until your next bid is processed."

"Understood," I said. It meant if I passed the final hurdle of the check flights, it'd be no sooner than six weeks before I could don the four bars and take the left seat as a full-fledged InterAir captain.

Other than the sort of jerk-wad question from the chief pilot, the review wasn't nearly as bad as I'd feared. No sooner had I deposited my flight case in the car, I received a text.

12:17 PM
Just finished a few minutes ago. They've scheduled my check flights. They're this Friday.

12:18 PM
👏🎉 Yay! Congrats!!

12:18 PM
My check airman is Chad Stewart. He's meeting me in St. Louis. I wish I was going to be there more than an hour. I wish I could spend time with you.

12:18 PM
Chad is a great guy. He's very fair. One suggestion. When you're doing checklists, don't just look. Touch every control or switch even if it doesn't need adjustment. He likes that.

12:19 PM
Any changes to your itinerary WRT Dallas?

12:19 PM
No. I'm looking forward to a next first kiss because it's been so long since the last one. 😚

12:19 PM
🤣It's strange, isn't it?

12:20 PM
What is?

12:19 PM
How much I already miss you.

"I wonder what's taking them so long?" Chad pondered from the right seat.

We were doors-closed, cross-checked, tug attached, ground marshal waiting, tapping his foot impatiently out the window. We'd been ready to push back for almost ten minutes but hadn't received the all-clear from the cabin.

I picked up the interphone and chimed the purser's station. It took a minute before the call was answered.

"Something wrong back there?" I asked.

"Yeah. You could say that. There's a passenger with a child sitting in an exit row. She refuses to move."

"How old is the child?"

"Maybe eleven or twelve."

My nerves immediately bristled.

"Is the parent not listening to the captain?" I asked.

"He changed out of his uniform. He says he can't get involved since he's in regular clothes."

"That's true. He can't," I responded.

I relayed the information to Chad. He shook his head slowly with a rueful laugh. "You're acting captain right now, so go deal with it. See if you can count the number of TikTokers with their phones up."

"Just my luck," I replied, then into the interphone, "I'll be right out. Come to the door and keep an eye on Captain Stewart."

Amanda took my place on the flightdeck as I walked to row 15.

I was only gone for five minutes.

"Okee dokee. Let's get this show on the road," I said after strapping back into my seat.

I gave the hand signal through the window to the marshal that I'd released the parking brake and we were ready to be pushed back.

"What'd you do?"

"I told the woman she was personally delaying the departure of a hundred sixty other passengers, and that our slot was about to expire which might delay us more than an hour. I told her if she and her daughter didn't swap with the two people behind her who volunteered their seats, that's what would happen, and I'd use the hour to personally escort them both off the plane and have her arrested for interference with a flight crew."

"Wow. A bit harsh, no?"

"No. The poor kid was already in tears before I got there, begging her mom to let her move. Amanda and her crew weren't getting anywhere, so I played the trump card only you and I hold. We don't have time for that kind of crap. And to answer your earlier question, I counted maybe fifteen."

"Slow day," he said with a chuckle. "Let's get going to Cha-cah-gah ."

We departed twenty minutes late, but we made it to our gate at Midway only ten behind schedule.

"We barely have thirty minutes for the turnaround," he reminded me as we switched roles. "I need to tend to some business, so I'm going to use the bog in the terminal."

I laughed hard at his shift to an English accent. "Holy hell, Chad! TMI!"

I spent the time reviewing the next leg of the sequence and the final flight of the day. The weather in Miami was typical for late summer. Thunderstorms were expected to pop up during the early evening, so I suggested we tanker an extra three thousand pounds of fuel. Chad was easily convinced.

Sure enough, two hours into the flight, we received a call from Jacksonville Center, one which pilots worldwide despise.

"Spark 452, Jax Center. I have an amendment to your clearance. Advise when ready to copy."

Chad groaned. "Jax Center, Spark 452. Ready to copy."

"Spark 452, cleared current route to, then hold west at SCURF, bearing two two zero, twenty-mile legs, right turns. Expect further clearance in one hour."

Chad read it back and began scribbling on his paper pad, looking at the enroute high altitude chart on his tablet.

"You're not going to put the hold in the FMC?" I asked.

He looked over at me and grinned wryly. "No. Fly it by hand."

"That has to be a joke," I challenged. He simply shook his head.

It'd been a long time since I'd plotted and hand-flown a hold. Hell, the last one was when we still used paper charts one could draw the patterns on. Back then, I was flying twin turboprops in the Caribbean.

According to the FMS, we'd arrive at SCURF in less than ten minutes. My brain struggled with the task. I pulled up the chart on my iPad, found SCURF, and began visualizing it all in my mind.

Present heading, 175 degrees. Holding bearing, 220. 220 minus 175 is 45 degrees, so a direct entry. Outbound turn will need to be shallow, or the inbound turn will be tight. Passengers won't care for that.

I then had an epiphany.

"You're pilot monitoring, acting as first officer though you're a rated captain and check airman, correct?"

"Yeah. Why?" Chad responded.

"As acting captain, I'm asking my first officer to program the hold into the computer. Please."

"I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to play your ace in the hole," he said after a brief spate of laughter. He immediately complied with my request.

The oval racetrack of the hold appeared on my MFD, and our MAX 8's autopilot obediently flew itself along it when we reached the assigned waypoint.

We discussed the change of status to ensure we had sufficient fuel to be airborne an additional hour and still have the regulated reserves on board. We weren't going anywhere soon, so I decided to slow to just above the minimum safe airspeed to conserve even more fuel.

Chad had the chore of informing our passengers of the delay.

When fifty minutes elapsed without being cleared to continue, Chad and I began considering contingencies. Though Tampa International, our filed alternate, was only thirty miles to our north, they were reporting poor visibility even without the thunderstorms. Approaches were in holds there, too. We agreed our best option was to divert to Orlando.

Just in the nick of time, we were given the clearance to exit our hold and fly direct KLEET, then continue into the approach to Miami.

We were almost ninety minutes late to the gate. We were both relieved it was our final leg of the day. I was looking forward to a beer or two over dinner. Since the crew had an atypically late muster the next morning, I could enjoy a couple.

The bird we flew into Miami was to be parked overnight, so we went through an additional checklist to shut it down to almost dark after the passengers deplaned.

"Fantastic performance, Captain McGarry. I'll submit my evaluation when we get to the hotel," Chad said, offering a handshake which I easily accepted.

"Yeah?" I asked.

"Definitely. Today was … challenging. You did well. You've certainly earned your extra stripe," he said as we gathered our things and walked up the bridge.

"Pam?" Chad spoke. "What are you still doing here at the airport?"

I couldn't believe my eyes. Nor, apparently, could my face as it pulled my mouth into a broad smile.

"Other than watching you boys flying donuts over Bradenton Beach on a flight tracker for the last hour and a half? Nothing," she answered with a laugh but looking at me with her own beautiful smile.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him shifting his stare between Pamela and me.

"Oh, I see," he said with an oddly lowered and knowing pitch. Apparently, he'd noticed something.

"Yeah," she answered, still not taking her eyes off mine. "So, how'd it⁠—"

"I've seen better," he interrupted after clearing his throat instead of allowing me to deliver the news. "He tried to fly the hold by hand. It didn't go well. He didn't exit the pattern when ATC told us to, and … well … he wound up causing four traffic alerts. Jax Center asked him to call the violation bureau's phone number."

"He's lying," I said with a huge grin.

Chad laughed. "He did a stellar job, Pam. His promotion will officially be in the bag in the next few hours."

"Congratulations, Mack," she said, almost in a whisper, reaching up and stroking the side of my arm. "I knew you could do it."

"Yep, he's a good one. You and Joe did well. Mack, I'll get out of your hair. I won't be on the rest of your sequence because I'm jump-seating with another crew tomorrow morning. See you around?"

I shook his hand again. "Looking forward to it. It was nice working with you. I learned a lot."

"Glad to hear it. Take care, and be safe," he said, then briskly walked down the concourse.

"Hi," Pam whispered after turning squarely toward me.

"Hi," I replied as softly. "It's a surprise seeing you. A wonderful one."

I was certain anyone walking past us could tell by our expressions and carriages that we had something between us, but my uniform prevented me from showing affection publicly. She leaned closer to me, her chin just over my shoulder. Her proximity and scent almost set me ablaze.

"I want a kiss. I've been craving another since you left St. Louis two weeks ago," she whispered.

"Oh?"

She stepped back and nodded a little sultrily.

"Give me a minute," I said, then hurriedly returned to the jet I'd just exited with my roll-aboard, almost leaving tire marks behind me. It was completely shut down except for the ramp-powered lighting which local ground crews would tend to overnight. I quickly checked to make sure the plane was, indeed, vacant as I lowered a dozen windows' shades in first class along the way.

I pulled the curtain between the cabin and the forward galley, just in case, then quickly redressed right in the middle aisle. I even changed underwear and reapplied my deodorant. I debated whether or not to brush my teeth, but the thought of using tap water from a lav gave me the gags. The galleys' catering trolleys had already been removed which meant there was no bottled water to use. I settled the issue by crunching four "curiously strong" mints. I checked myself in the lav's mirror before returning to the terminal. The lights extinguished as I departed, just in time.

"Hey, you! Stop! What were you doing in there?" yelped a woman working behind the check-in desk.

"I'm crew," I told the panicked ramp agent who probably thought a stow-away was fleeing. I held up my ID and security card, earning a look of immediate relief.

Despite the presence of the woman five yards away, Pamela grasped me and pulled my head toward hers. Her tongue entered my mouth quite pleasantly as my hands settled at her slender waist.

The employee shutting down the gate laughed. "I get it, but mind your bearing. People are staring."

Pamela released me and my easy grasp. She looked at me with the sweetest eyes, then showed her credentials to the woman as well.

"We can go back aboard the plane if you want," she suggested.

"Jeez, you two," the lady admonished with a laugh. "Ground crew is setting up to push her to another spot for the night."

"Phooey. Dinner, then?" asked Pam.

"I'd love to," the ramp agent said cheekily.

"Aren't you a live wire, Sandy," I said after stealing a look at her name tag. "It'll be only Miss Rix and me."

"Oh," she whined with a humorous pout. "Going for the captain, huh?"

"Quite literally," Pam answered, broadly grinning. "He just completed his line-check. He's InterAir's newest captain, at least for a few hours."

"Congratulations. You should go out and celebrate. Now get out of here so I can finish up and go home."

We started walking to the exit. Pamela took my hand in hers.

"It really is a pleasant surprise seeing you," I said.

"We were all comparing schedules last week. Coincidentally, I was assigned to be your check airman, but, when I discussed with my supervisor what's going on, we agreed it wouldn't be a good idea."

"You told him? About us?" I asked in a little shock.

"I had to. You know the corporate policy. InterAir has absolutely no problem with relationships between employees as long as they aren't on the same line of management. The ethics are clear there, and the same policy applies to employees who have the potential to jeopardize or advance others' careers. A maintenance engineer can date the chief pilot, but no pilot can, and no pilot can be line-checked by someone they're involved with."

"Makes total sense."

"Rudy swapped me with Joe. Joe decided he wanted an assignment going to Los Angeles, so he swapped for one with Chad, and I landed here on my check flight about four hours ago, right before all the storms started boiling up. If I'd known how long you were going to be delayed, I could've gone to the hotel, but instead, I changed in the crew lounge."

"You look even more lovely in regular clothes," I said after catching a glance of her cute little tush as she passed through the revolving door from the secure area into the arrivals section of the terminal.

"Very much the same for you," she said with a gentle chuckle. "You're good-looking dressed out, too."

I grinned and pulled her into my arms as soon as the elevator doors closed. We kissed softly and slowly for the fifteen-second ride to the lower level.

"Where'd scheduling put your crew?" she asked as we stepped out of it.

"A freaking Best Western. You?"

"Courtyard Airport."

"No fair," I grumbled, making her laugh.

"Bad luck. Let me soften the blow with dinner. You can take an Uber or Lyft from the Courtyard to your hotel afterward. My treat."