The Future is in the Air Ch. 01

It was a fairly busy afternoon at the airport when I left, but the familiar voice was doing its familiar task spectacularly. As I received my clearance to taxi to the active, I knew there were already four airplanes in the pattern, and I would be number three in line for takeoff.

The lady in the tower massaged the traffic perfectly to allow departures to escape between the others' arrivals.

A Bombardier Global Express was ahead of me on the taxiway, and I made sure to stay an extra distance behind it lest I risk being blown over by its jet-blast. The delay for takeoff gave me the time to do the run-up checklist where I stood.

The GX was cleared for takeoff, and I took its place at the holding position. As soon as the jet began its roll, the tower controller instructed me, "Skylane eight lima mike, runway one eight, line up and wait."

The phrase usually implies one should expect clearance to take off shortly after the plane ahead leaves the concrete plus a little buffer for wake turbulence to clear. I lined up, expecting to take off in mere moments.

"Piper three quebec sierra, traffic in position will be departing ahead of you. Cleared to land runway one eight."

I heard the acknowledgment and moved my hand to the throttle anticipating my imminent clearance.

Only then did I see smoke erupt behind the jet almost two thousand feet down the runway.

"Tower, zero golf x-ray aborting takeoff," I heard on the radio from the GX five seconds later.

"Zero golf x-ray, roger, break break, piper three quebec sierra, landing clearance canceled. Overfly the field and make a left crosswind to rejoin the pattern."

She chirped off several other instructions to other planes in the area.

"Attention all aircraft, McKinney National Tower. Runway is temporarily closed. All aircraft in the pattern, continue left closed traffic at pattern altitude and extend upwind and downwind legs three miles from the field, or state intentions. Expect update in one zero minutes."

Damn, she's good, I thought to myself, hearing the unperturbed controller do her thing. Two aircraft called in to advise they were leaving to go somewhere else.

I sat quietly as the hobbled airplane ahead of me exited the strip. I leaned forward and looked up through the windshield to see the twin-engine Piper Seneca overfly me.

"Skylane eight lima mike, hold your position or exit at taxiway bravo two. It's going to be maybe five minutes until maintenance clears the runway."

"I'll wait here, eight lima mike."

"Roger," she said.

I saw two airport utility trucks with flashing light bars on their roofs drive slowly down the runway between bravo two and bravo four. Once or twice, a driver exited a truck and threw rubber into the bed.

After they'd done their thing, I heard, "Skylane eight lima mike, runway one eight, cleared for immediate takeoff, traffic on a three-mile final. Traffic above and ahead is no factor. Right turn northwest when able."

"Cleared for takeoff one eight, right turn, eight lima mike," I acknowledged, then sent the throttle to the firewall and got out of the way.

The controller instructed me to switch to flight following a minute later.

"Contacting departure. Nice work, tower."

"Thanks, Lance. Fly safe, see you soon."

It made me smile because she'd "turned it off."

Work the following week was much more familiar. I was surrounded by people I knew. I felt like I was back where I belonged. What surprised me was looking forward to flying to Texas Friday afternoon.

I found myself watching the clock, anxious to be airborne. I wanted to hear the voice again.

At 3:30, I pulled up the weather on the web. It didn't look promising. Hell, it was April, after all, and spring weather in Oklahoma and Texas has a tendency to get fierce fast. There was a SIGMET posted indicating potentially hazardous conditions. As is typical of the season, it was showing a threat of thunderstorms in the vicinity. Aircraft and convective weather have never been friends.

The terminal forecast indicated the highest chances were at 12:00am through 2:00am, so I planned on getting there ahead of them, and decided an instrument flight plan would be in order. I filled in the required information then clicked the SUBMIT button, finished my day, then headed directly to the airport.

As I pulled into my reserved parking spot at Mace Aviation, a thought struck me. I logged back into the flight planning system and modified my departure time to 0115Z, meaning 8:15pm central daylight time. I figured I might get to see "the voice" again when the tower closed instead of only hearing it.

I radioed Clearance Delivery and was happy to receive the short routing I'd requested.

I was airborne at 8:27pm. I wasn't terribly thrilled. Once I'd reached my cruise altitude fifteen minutes later, I saw lightning in the distance off my right wing. The satellite-delivered XM weather radar was layered on the multi-function display. What I observed suggested I'd be landing before the storms got in the way, but also hinted I wouldn't avoid the rain. I started forming contingencies to land at airports farther east should the need arise.

Unfortunately, what I couldn't have taken into account during my planning was the unforecasted stronger headwind. My ground speed was only 118 knots, or just shy of 136 miles per hour, and my ETA was showing to be fifteen minutes later than I'd anticipated.

"Skylane eight lima mike, direct SASIE, cleared RNAV one eight approach McKinney," said the Dallas area approach controller at 9:43pm.

"Direct SASIE, cleared RNAV one eight approach, eight lima mike," I answered.

The autopilot tracked the route precisely, leaving me free to monitor the instruments as well as the approach since I couldn't see anything outside due to rain.

As my plane approached the next waypoint, I heard via the radio, "Skylane eight lima mike, contact tower on 118.82."

"One eighteen eighty-two, eight lima mike, good night," I responded. I switched the radio to the tower frequency.

Before I could press the transmit button on the yoke, I heard, "Attention all aircraft. McKinney National Airport tower. Time is zero three zero zero zulu. Class delta services are terminated. This frequency is now the common traffic advisory frequency. For more information, contact regional approach on one two four point three. Observed traffic is a Cessna Skylane on the RNAV approach to one eight, ten miles north of the field at three thousand."

I was still eight minutes away from touching down.

"Dagnabbit," I said to myself.

"McKinney traffic, Skylane three four eight lima mike is on the RNAV 18 approach, three-mile straight-in for runway one eight for a full-stop at McKinney," I radioed several minutes later.

I listened for any other advisories and heard none. I was the only one in the area who cared, or perhaps was too stupid to be flying.

The rain slackened a little as the altimeter tape spooled downward from twelve hundred feet. I was barely four hundred feet above the ground when I, at last, saw the flashing approach strobes aligned with the runway. I disconnected the autopilot and landed ungracefully with a little bounce.

"McKinney traffic, Skylane three four eight lima mike is clear of the runway. I'll be on taxiway alpha to northwest hangars," I broadcast after I exited at taxiway bravo two.

The rain and wind picked up again, and I concentrated on keeping the control surfaces in proper positions so a gust wouldn't flip me upside down or otherwise push me where I didn't want to go.

I saw a bright glow as I turned the final corner into the alley toward my hangar. I realized it was a truck situated at the end of the pavement, aiding my visibility as I shut down in front of my hangar's doors.

First its left, then its right headlight was occluded as someone ran through the rain. I opened my airplane's door and climbed out under the wing.

"Need some help?" It was a woman's voice.

Before I could answer, she held an umbrella over us. I unlocked my hangar, pushed its doors open, and fetched the tow bar from a mounting hook on the wall. She shielded me as best she could from the increasing rain as I attached the bar to my plane's nose gear then handed me her umbrella. She ducked back under the plane's wing.

"What should I do?" she asked.

"Pull backwards on that strut. I'll push and steer."

It was difficult trying to hold the umbrella in the same hand I was using to push against the root of the prop, but in less than a minute, my Skylane was in its sheltered berth.

Though the umbrella was a nice gesture, it hadn't helped much.

"Jeez! Thank you!" I said, shaking water off me.

"Don't mention it, Eight Lima Mike."

The voice was attenuated by the driving rain atop the metal hangar, but it was unmistakable, nevertheless. It was her. I hadn't seen her clearly when she'd chatted with me from the tower's catwalk, so I hadn't recognized who it was until she spoke.

Oh, holy crap. Even mussed by her encounter with the weather, and despite the illumination from the single 100-watt bare-bulb overhead light being quite dim, I was startled. The woman standing there was a striking one. I struggled for a moment to think of something to say.

"I heard you close the tower right as I tuned in."

"Yeah, sorry about that, but the FAA really frowns on extended operation. We have to shut down at the published time unless there's an emergency inbound."

"No need for apologies. I understand."

"I watched you start your approach on the radar. The rain was too heavy for me to see you land, so I thought you might could use a hand."

"I certainly do appreciate it. You're very considerate," I said as I folded her sopping-wet umbrella and cinched its strap. I handed it back to her.

"I had another reason, too."

"Oh?"

She ran her right hand over the leading edge of my plane's "freshly washed" left wing.

"This plane is new to you, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I took delivery two weeks ago. How'd you know?"

She grinned. "Your voice sounds a little different on this plane's radios, but I could tell it was you. You did an out-and-back the night after you first flew in with this one, right?"

I was a touch confused. "Have you been watching me or something?"

"Well, not in a stalker sort of way, but … yeah. I can see most of the field from the tower, and I've seen you walking back and forth between here and the parking lot. You also sound competent on the radio. I know, I know, I'm goofy. Try not to hold it against me."

"I sound 'competent?'" I asked.

"Yeah. You have a good radio voice. Not all do. A good chunk of the folks who fly in or out of here are student pilots. They always seem timid and scared until they get experience under their belts. The ones who train at non-towered airports seldom shake it because they get so little practice talking to controllers. Then there's the ones who sound like they've been doing it all their lives. Like you. How many hours do you have?"

"About six hundred," I said.

The glints in her eyes, even in the dim light of the hangar, caught my attention. I wasn't expecting it, but I was enjoying the company. She made me smile easily.

"Come on. I'll drive you to your land-based otto-mo-beel so you don't have to walk in the rain," she said, darting out of the hangar toward her truck.

Her phrasing gave me a laugh. I quickly slid closed and locked the doors, then made my own dash to her nicely outfitted F150 through the driving rain.

"Sorry," I gasped after I jumped into the passenger seat and quickly shut the door. "I'm getting the leather all wet."

"No worries. My dog used to do far worse," she said as she began to drive.

When she turned the steering wheel, I noticed the gold band on her left hand's ring finger. The observation made me a touch crestfallen.

"Oh," I said, and tried to think. "You have a dog?"

"Had. His name was Roget."

"Like the thesaurus?"

"I don't know what that means. What's another word for it?" she asked.

"Uh …" I stammered.

She chuckled. "Jeez . No one gets my jokes."

I thought she was quick-witted, but I didn't feel much like laughing. I simply stared straight ahead as we approached the vehicle exit gate separating the airfield from the parking area. She tapped her ID on the reader mounted to the stalk to open it.

"Thanks for getting rained on to help me out," I said as she pulled into the parking spot next to my car.

"I have absolutely no problem getting wet."

I stared at her with a smirk for a second. I wanted to tell her she sounded naughty again but decided not to encourage her flirtatious banter considering I didn't even know her name.

Before I noticed her ring, I had every intention of asking her out for a couple of drinks, but, instead, I posed the only appropriate question under the circumstances.

"Leah. Leah Reynolds," she answered.

"Lance Marlin," I said.

She was quiet for a few seconds, looking at me with furrowed brows.

"Lance Marlin? The Lance Marlin?"

"Well, one of them," I replied.

"The Reiter-Marlin Lance Marlin?"

"Okay, yeah, I'm that one," I said with some surprise.

"Mr. Marlin, you sorta paid for this truck!"

"Lance is fine. I'll bite. How'd I do that?" I asked, turning to look at her more squarely.

"Yeah! It's kind of a convoluted story, but a guy I used to know back in Oklahoma City works for you. When Reiter-Marlin went public, I guess the employees were allowed to buy in first? Well, I bought some through him. I sold half the shares at the beginning of the year. The gains paid for this truck and a kitchen upgrade."

"What a coincidence," I glibly said. "Good to hear the company did right by you."

"You bet it did."

"Again, thanks for the help."

"When are you planning on flying again?"

"Next week when I head back to Oklahoma."

"Coolio. Drive carefully, Mr. Mar⁠—uh, Lance," she offered before I transferred quickly from her truck into my car.

She pulled out of her spot and drove away. I found myself sulking, listening to the rain. A few distracted minutes elapsed before I drove to my house. I was so close to asking her out to socialize a little, but then saw what I saw.

Just my luck.

The week, as expected, crawled along. The foul weather which began the weekend remained on top of the whole region and gave it a dreary pall.

One thing I decided to do was purchase a few umbrellas so I wouldn't have to dodge rain again. I bought five. Two to keep in the plane, one in each hangar, and an additional one for the back seat of my car. I have a tendency to lose umbrellas. And pens. And sunglasses.

As per the typical schedule, I flew back to Oklahoma City, then returned to McKinney the following Friday afternoon, not really caring about what time I arrived. The departure and enroute weather forecasts were fine, so I didn't have the headache of filing an instrument plan. I didn't file a flight plan at all. I only wanted to fly.

After leaving Oklahoma City, I figured I'd go for a tour. I did a touch and go in McAlester which reminded me why I hadn't been there in a while. Its runway was still poorly maintained. From there, I flew to McCurtain County airport near Idabel, Oklahoma, then on to Mount Pleasant, Texas, and, finally, McKinney. Instead of the typical hour-plus, my flight lasted almost three.

I tuned into the tower frequency and heard nothing. Not a peep for at least fifteen minutes. It was an incredibly quiet day. I only guessed it was due to the gusty winds keeping the student pilots grounded. I heard one other airplane make a departure, and yeah, it was her voice on the radio.

"McKinney Tower, Skylane three four eight lima mike, 380 bridge over Lake Lavon at 2,500, inbound, full-stop," I called.

"Skylane eight lima mike, McKinney Tower. Welcome back, Lance. Make right base runway three six. Wind 320 at 18, gusts 25. Altimeter 30.05."

"Right base for three six, eight lima mike."

A few minutes later, I heard, "Eight lima mike, runway three six, cleared to land."

I decided I was in no rush. I wasn't tired, and I wasn't particularly looking forward to cooping myself up in the house. I figured I could use some practice with crosswind landings.

I radioed, "Eight lima mike, request the option."

The "option" being either to overfly the field, fly a low approach, do a touch-and-go, a stop-and-go, or a full stop, without any specific additional clearance. The choice was mine to make, even at the last second.

"Eight lima mike, runway three six, cleared for the option. Right closed traffic."

My first approach was a little faulty. I turned too soon for the final because of the stiff crosswind, so my angle was sloppy. I had it sorted out quickly, dipped my left wing into the wind and yawed the nose the opposite way with the rudder. I knew my wingtip wouldn't scrape the ground, but it sure looked like it might.

I came to a complete stop, cleaned up the plane, took two deep breaths, then re-launched. I felt my heart racing a little.

"Eight lima mike, cleared for the option," I again heard on the radio when I was on the downwind. I acknowledged.

My second and third landings were spot-on perfect. I felt a little pride prickling up.

My fourth began with a clean approach on the centerline, but when I was maybe ten feet above the pavement, I was suddenly buffeted toward the grass. I was too close to the ground to recover safely, so I pushed the throttle to the wall to abandon the landing.

"Eight lima mike will be full-stop this time around," I radioed on my downwind leg.

"Roger." Pause. "You okay, Lance?"

"Yeah. A little pucker-factor on that last one."

I knew the FAA recorded all communications and, if I wound up scratching the paint, I didn't want anything untoward to be made a matter of public record, otherwise I might have been more blunt.

"You're the only one out here and still cleared for the option. Winds now 290 at 16, gusts 21."

Yeah, the overall winds were lighter, but the crosswind portion was stronger. Yay. I'd only done a max-demonstrated crosswind landing once before. I decided if I needed to go around again, I'd head to Addison where the runway was oriented more into the wind. I used the time to tune in the ATIS broadcast at ADS in case I needed it.

Thankfully, it wasn't necessary. Though there's no such thing as greasing a maximum crosswind landing, my wheels chirped in satisfying order, and I managed to keep all the paint on the plane instead of transferring any to the concrete underneath it.

"This is a full-stop. I'm done," I transmitted as I braked for the upcoming exit.

"Roger. Contact ground point nine."

"Wilco."

When I did, it was "Doofus" who answered. I wasn't a fan of the guy at all. He was sometimes … well, he was a doofus. At least he provided me just slightly less-than-clear instructions.

I filled out my logbook after securing the airplane.

N348LM. OKC-MLC-4O4-OSA-TKI. Duration: 3:10. Seven landings, et cetera et cetera.

I felt parched, so I walked to the FBO lounge to use their restroom, then fed $1.25 into the vending machine for a bottle of ice-cold water.

As I was walking toward the door to leave, she walked in.

I'd talked to her "professionally" a few times each week for a number of months, had only seen her in shadows when I talked to her at the tower, and then again in the storm which made her as disheveled as it had me. That conversation was when she revealed she'd observed me a number of times, possibly with binoculars, as I'd walked the field back and forth to my hangar. It was also when I saw she was wearing a wedding band.

Inside the FBO that day was the first time I'd seen her in full light, and what I observed depressed me a bit, because she was an even cuter critter.