The Flight Before Christmas Ch. 01

(Revised 12/11/2023)

This story came from a disturbing dream.

It was published in November of 2020, deeper into the worsening pandemic. When my wife and kids began relating their own strange dreams, I found academic articles online describing that very phenomenon, so I stopped feeling like I was going nuts, and went to writing.

All characters involved in adult activities are much older than eighteen years of age.

We hope you enjoy:

'Twas the Flight Before Christmas

There's something particularly rewarding about ferry-flying. I've never understood why people hire me to fly their otherwise-empty planes from point A to point B instead of doing it themselves, because the country is spectacularly beautiful. I'm pretty damned sure I've seen most of it. Seen from above, the landscape is so breathtaking, especially the western Rocky Mountains.

Don't get me wrong. I don't ever complain when I'm offered a job. That was the primary reason I wanted my commercial pilot certificate. I mean, jeez ! When someone is willing to pay me to fly all over God's incredible creation, no way would I turn it down. Such was the case for a particularly easy ferry flight of a 2011 Cirrus SR22 from Bozeman, Montana, to Louisville, Kentucky.

I'd amassed almost a thousand hours enjoying a hobby. I have a full-time and very flexible schedule which allows me to aviate on weekends and holidays, and, given my position, I can even step away from the office for a few days whenever a particularly nice opportunity springs up.

My usual fee is $300 and an additional $1.00 per great circle mile. Fuel and agreed-upon expenses are added, so the Montana to Kentucky job would net me $2,000. Half of the fee was due before the flight, and the other half was due on delivery.

I reckoned the buyer of the Cirrus had paid about a half-million for his bird, so my fees were a drop in his bucket.

The seller had scanned and emailed me all of the airplane's logbooks as well as the results of the last oil and filter tests and examinations. Everything checked out. The buyer also reviewed and approved the materials. He faxed me the cover document from his insurance carrier listing me as personally covered for the ferry flight.

I triple-checked my portable oxygen equipment. Even though the SR22 had a convenient built-in system which indicated full, I was more familiar with my own. Its nine cubic-foot bottle would give me eight hours of gas, which was plenty for the two hours I'd need.

The weather was "severe clear" for the departure, and the forecast showed the same for the entire first leg. I settled into the pilot's seat. The beautiful beast's engine started easily because the local FBO had placed a hot air blower at the cowling to preheat it. The overnight temperatures had dipped into the low single digits, and was still below freezing as I climbed in.

I tuned the radio to the automated terminal information broadcast. I shook my head in mild disgust. The horrible synthetic robo-voice did its best to convey the information, but even now, I still can't understand why a world superpower can't invest money for a more natural voice like Siri's or Alexa's instead of one that'd make even the late Stephen Hawking roll his eyes.

At any rate, the recorded message offered no surprises, so I swapped frequencies and requested my instrument clearance from the controller. On receipt, I programmed it into the Garmin avionics.

I was airborne nine minutes later, heading east in a climb to 17,000 feet with my nasal cannula secure and standing by. On the way through 12,000 feet, the next ninety minutes of the flight would be at oxygen-requiring altitudes until exiting the easternmost fringes of the Rockies into the plains of eastern Montana where I'd turn southeast toward Wheeler Airport in Kansas City, Missouri.

I'm going to let you in on a little something. Breathing pure oxygen at low altitudes is an experience on its own. It's why Wal-Mart sells cans containing a few snorts of it for ten bucks apiece. When inhaled, muted colors immediately become brighter. Night vision is enhanced, as is one's sense of smell. Every sense is heightened.

Of course, it's required at hypoxia-inducing altitudes to … well, maintain life. But a side effect, for me at least, is it makes me hungry.

Ravenous is a better descriptor.

I was already craving dinner at Arrowhead Barbecue as I exited the high altitude pass and began my descent to 11,000 feet where I would no longer need to breathe the pure life-giving gas. I shut off the bottle's valve and stowed the entire kit into its purpose-built case.

The desire to eat a whole smoked moose waned as my body reacclimated to its normal atmosphere, but my overall appetite didn't. I charge ferry customers a $50 per diem for long shuttles, and I'd put the $40 remainder on business expenses because I was planning on meeting a potential client at the restaurant. I'd enjoy the plentiful leftovers for dinner the next evening at my destination in Louisville.

The thing was, though, it didn't happen.

I'd just flown by Osceola, Nebraska. I was less than ninety minutes away from my stop when something strange happened.

"Whoa. What the heck? Bugs don't fly this high, do they?" I asked myself aloud when a splat appeared on the windshield. I was still at 11,000 feet, and saw another blob impact the clear screen about a minute later.

"What the …" I said when I realized it wasn't insects hitting the windscreen. Anything that high would be frozen solid in air indicating -20° Celsius.

"Oh, no no no ," I groaned as the splats became splashes.

I scanned the instrumentation. The oil pressure indication was still in the green, so it hadn't yet sounded an alarm, but it was way too close to the yellow line to be normal. There was an oil leak somewhere in there, and it was escaping the cowling.

"Oh, crap ," I said to no one as warnings began to sound and flash on the MFD.

I poked some buttons on the multi-function display to bring up the list of the nearest airports. As part of my preflight, I'd already looked up and written down on my kneeboard the best glide speed, and, as luck would have it, I was within range of one suitable runway.

I radioed Minneapolis Center. "Mayday, mayday, mayday, Cirrus seven three three delta whiskey, mayday. Losing oil. Engine failure imminent. Need to land at Sierra Whiskey Tango immediately," I said, using the three-letter ID for the airport I saw on the MFD.

"Cirrus seven three three delta whiskey, Minnie Center. Mayday received. Uh … turn left heading niner zero for Seward. State fuel and souls onboard."

"Left to niner zero. Two plus hours, one soul. Descending at best glide now. Do I need to call approach?"

"Altitude and heading at pilot's discretion," said the controller. "I am coordinating with Omaha Approach. Remain this frequency. Seward is at your twelve o'clock and fourteen miles."

"Altitude and heading PD. I'll circle a few here to shed some altitude, three delta whiskey."

"Roger," said the controller.

I pulled the power back to idle and set the autopilot for a constant-rate turn. If the engine was losing oil…

If  ?

Yeah, no. It was definitely losing it and I didn't want it coming apart under the cowl. Even shutting it down completely didn't stop the leak.

I briefly considered using the autopilot for an RNAV approach to the runway but decided it was an insane plan. I tried forward-slipping the craft to see if the wind might blow the oil off to the side enough to regain visibility.

Fat chance of that.

"Center, oil has covered the windshield. I can't see anything in front of me," I radioed. "Do you have a positive fix on me?"

"Affirmative, three delta whiskey. State intentions."

"I'm going to pop the chute."

I knew it'd result in a huge claim against the buyer's freshly minted insurance policy and might even total the plane. I also knew there was no other safe choice.

I could see out the side windows somewhat, but oil blowback had begun to obscure them, too. Even though the engine was shut down, the windmilling prop continued to hemorrhage. I'd descended in circles to about three thousand feet above sea level. On one of the turns, through a small rear window, I saw a huge flat white square with a straight two-lane road at its edge. I aimed for it.

"Minnie, do you have a wind report nearby?"

"Seward automated observation, eleven miles east your present position reports winds zero seven zero at six. Observation taken twenty-three minutes ago."

I appreciated the controller doing the math for me, advising the currency of the report instead of the time it was issued. It helped me think faster. I was close to that heading anyway and added a few seconds to my plan because I wanted the wind right on my nose. I did some quick math in my head and watched the clock. The cockpit seemed to dim as even darker oil coated every bit of the clear acrylic.

I tightened my harness, read the deployment instruction placard over my right shoulder again, popped its cover, and firmly yanked the CAPS handle.

I absolutely was not expecting the cacophony which ensued as the rocket engine fired in its canister, dragging the drogue and main parachute out with it. About two seconds later, I heard and felt the Kevlar sling embedded in the plane's fiberglass skin rip into place. The PFD went haywire as the plane pitched severely nose up. The horizon soon leveled and bobbed gently on the display.

"Minnie, chute deployed. I'm turning out the lights now," I radioed.

"Roger. Search and rescue has been notified. Best of luck."

I shut off the masters, closed the fuel valve, then activated the battery-powered emergency locator transmitter. I found myself drumming the fingers of both hands on my knees, not knowing when to expect the reunion with the ground, or what it'd feel like. I could only see vague shapes and forms outside.

I removed my headset and was somewhat startled by the quiet. I stowed the set along with my iPad in my flight bag. The bag, as well as the portable oxygen system, were secured to the seat next to me with the passenger harness through their handles.

The encounter with the ground felt like … an abrupt arrival.

I wiggled my fingers and toes and looked at my feet and hands. Everything was still attached. I sniffed the air and listened. Nothing seemed perilous. Though it felt as though it was a bit tilted, the plane was motionless, and the sunny side was, indeed, up.

I cautiously opened the door.

I almost burst out laughing at what I saw. It must have been the adrenaline which prevented it.

The plane had managed to settle near a gravel driveway. A freaking driveway !

Yes, I was adjacent to a gravel and rock path, staring at a house about fifty yards away. I thanked my lucky stars considering there'd been a real chance I could have impacted the structure.

I saw a nylon rope stretched underneath the left wing, making the plane's level a little wonky.

My focus on the weirdly situated cord distracted me, so, when I stepped out onto the wing, I wasn't paying attention to the fouled surface of the composite skin, and I missed the friction tape. The oil coating the non-friction surface next to it, of course, easily lubricated the soles of my shoes, and my legs flew out from underneath me.

I saw stars when my face met the surface on which my feet had failed to remain. My entire body slid off the oily wing and quite ungracefully flopped itself onto the ground below.

Darkness settled in around me.

Every human on the planet has probably bitten themselves while chewing food, but the pain I felt was far worse.

I tasted blood. A lot of it. I'd bitten my cheek and tongue in the impact.

"Hee! Mitwaer! Yah key ?"

"Huh?"

"Ryuoah ayeet ?"

"Commaggim?"

My bleariness continued to abate as consciousness returned.

I heard a tinier voice through the fog in my ears. "Mommy! It's Santa!"

"Ugh, shi⁠—" I aborted my expletive when I realized the voice was a child's.

"Stacie, go back to the house. Get inside right this instant," said the first voice urgently.

"You okay? Hey, mister!" the elder said, "Hey! Are you alright?"

I felt subtle nudges on my shoulder. The voice offered me something which I instinctively applied to my schnoz to staunch the flow of blood from my nose and mouth.

"Oh. My frigging faysh. Oush ," I lisped and groaned.

"I've called 911. They're on their way."

"The reindeer are gone, and his sleigh fell down!" the tinier voice said.

"I told you to get inside, chigger, now scoot !" the other voice commanded.

"But it's Santa!"

"Now , Stacie!"

I was finally able to regain my balance. I moved my feet underneath me and stood up behind the wing just in time to see a little girl walking away. She looked like a marshmallow waddling toward the house all bundled in a heavy white coat and a lilac-hued stocking cap and matching gloves on her hands.

"Are you okay, sir? What happened?"

"My faysh ish shmashed."

"Ambulance and fire and probably the whole county is on its way. Is there anyone still in there?"

"I'm by myshelf," I said before spitting blood into the thin blanket of snow. "Shorry I'm grossh," I offered.

"I've seen much worse. Is it safe to be standing here?"

"It'sh okay. I'm sure."

I removed the cloth from my face.

"I fink I broke a toof," I said, feeling them with a finger. I couldn't tell, but it was red when I removed it. I spat again.

"Your nose might be broken, too," the woman said, looking more closely at my face.

Sirens cut through the still air only a few seconds before the unmistakable whoop-whoops of a helicopter.

I saw the gray aircraft in a nose-high approach as it flared to a hover about fifty yards away. The rotor-wash reinflated the parachute and the plane began to move. I managed to grab the woman and pull her aside as the wing tilted enough to release the nylon cord. The fiberglass poles on which the ends were attached flexed, and the ropes sprang upward with an audible, warbling screech.

The woman gasped. "Oh, crap! I wasn't expecting that."

"Neiver warsh I," I awkwardly replied.

The chopper settled onto the empty field on which I was hoping to touch down. I'd missed by only a hundred yards.

Two firetrucks, an ambulance, and a county sheriff's deputy's SUV came up the road. It was at that moment I realized I was shivering. I needed my coat from the back seat of the Cirrus, but I couldn't reach it without climbing the wing.

I thought I could get to it via the luggage compartment, but as soon as I reached for the latch, I realized my brain wasn't working quite right because I'd forgotten I'd need the key to open it. It was still in the ignition, and … yeah. I couldn't reach it without climbing the wing, and I didn't want to do that again.

There was snow on the ground, so of course it was cold. The continued rotor-wash was making for a brutally frigid wind chill. I couldn't breathe through my nose for obvious reasons. The frigid air burned my mouth.

"Do you know where you are, sir?" asked a paramedic.

"Nebrashka, I fink. Shomewhere wesht of Rincoln."

"Correct. Do you know what day it is?"

"Deshember nineteenf."

"Good. Tell me what hurts."

"My whole damn faysh ," I said with irritation. "Pardon my French," I added. "I'm shorry. It'sh been a bit of a rough afternoon. In a bid of pain here."

"Let's get you in the back where it's warmer," he said, escorting me to the mobile medical unit.

The other EMT wheeled the gurney there and stowed it, then helped me climb in. He instructed me to lie down upon it.

The first guy looked inside my mouth with a flashlight and tongue depressor.

"Oh, yeah. That's got to hurt. Give me a sec."

He rummaged through a compartment and removed an aerosol can.

"I'm going to spray this in your mouth. It's benzocaine, and it'll numb everything in there. Swish it around for a few seconds. Whatever you do, don't swallow it or you'll be coughing on your own saliva for an hour. Spit it into this," he said, giving me a thick gauze pad.

Not ten seconds later, the inside of my mouth was numb. I felt much, much better. He then packed both of my nasal passages, and the other guy checked my vitals and decided I wasn't in any danger. The rear door opened, and a flight-suited individual spoke.

"I reset your ELT. Do you have a coat somewhere?" he asked.

"In the back seat. My flight bag is in the front. Watch your step on the wing," I said, pointing to my face.

He smirked at me a little because I had numb-tongue and my words sounded like I'd been chewing ice all day.

A few minutes later, he brought my heavy coat to me. I took off my oil-stained shirt before I put it on.

"I'm just guessing, but I think a head gasket failed," the airman advised.

"The plane has barely fourteen hundred hours on it."

"Your maintenance has been horrible. When was the last time you changed the oil?"

"The plane isn't mine. I was hired to ferry it from Montana to Kentucky. I was planning on overnighting in Kansas City. The prior owner sent me info indicating it was changed last month."

"I'm much more familiar with helicopters than airplanes, but I'm willing to wager someone screwed up something."

"Yeah. I think so, too."

"I need to get some info from you so I can file a report with the NTSB."

"One of yours?" I asked when I heard another helicopter in the air.

"Nah, probably media. We're with the Air National Guard out of Lincoln. We were on exercises in a training area. ATC contacted us, and our pilot saw that bright-ass chute of yours from miles away, so it wasn't much of a search," he answered and chuckled.

He talked to me for a few minutes to collect basic information. Another airman brought my flight bag. He shot a photo of my pilot and driver's licenses. At the EMT's insistence, he departed, then the ambulance took me to a hospital in Lincoln where I was fully examined.

The doctor swabbed more silver nitrate on the inside of my cheek and stitched three catgut sutures into my tongue after a local was injected. A CT scan determined my nose, thankfully, wasn't broken, and my brain looked like it was supposed to.

Since my clothes had become sodden with oil, a nurse gave me a set of scrubs to swap into as soon as I arrived. They weren't the super-comfy type the staff wore, but basic substitutes to protect my modesty. I was sure they'd still show up as a $200 charge on the bill.

She put my dirties in a red plastic bag and knotted the top. When she reached out to hand it to me, I told her to discard them because I had no intent of keeping what amounted to oily rags anywhere near me because the bundle would be a fire hazard, and I'd already had enough bad luck.

The ER staff was amused how I'd managed to essentially crash-land an airplane and suffer not a single injury but needed the hospital after I'd face-planted myself on egressing the airplane on a wing just two feet above the ground.

Any landing you walk away from is a good one , says an old adage.

Horsecrap.

Any landing where you walk away from an unharmed airplane and body is a good one , would be more accurate. I'd done neither and it didn't matter. I only wanted to get home.

That's when I realized I didn't know where my suitcase was. I had my flight bag, but there was nothing useful in it to dress myself in after my ordeal. My stuff was still in the plane, but I only had a general idea where it was. I'd been an idiot and didn't set a pin on a map in my phone before the ambulance hauled me in, and none of the responders were still around to ask. I didn't even think to ask what fire department they'd dispatched from so I couldn't call to learn the address where I'd been picked up.