This class worried him. Although he wasn’t an engineer, he managed to acquire his private pilot’s license in college. Jason struggled during his first few weeks in Undergraduate Pilot Training (UPT). Aircraft Systems class had been hard enough for him. The only hydraulics he knew about were X-rated videos. AC and DC weren’t electrical currents—they were an old, heavy-metal rock band. The course on weather proved a challenge, too.
“ROOM TENCH HUT!”
A few chairs tumbled to the floor, as the students snapped to attention. Jason bolted up from his seat. His legs hit the edge of his desk and sent his books flying off the other side. The large black notebooks fell with a dull thud on the carpeted floor.
A short, stocky captain strode along the off-white wall adorned with pictures of various aircraft. When he reached the front, the class’ Senior Ranking Officer (SRO), Captain Gus McTaggart saluted sharply. “Sir, all students present and/or accounted for,” McTaggart said. A tall, lean fellow, McTaggart flew in the backseat of the F-15 Strike Eagle as a Weapons Systems Officer. Captain McTaggart was one of the few officers allowed to crossover to pilot training.
The instructor returned the salute in a slow, methodical manner, along the outer edge of his black, horn-rimmed glasses, that rested on the bridge of his flat nose. This guy appeared to be straight out of a 1950’s training film. His close-cropped flattop haircut and menacing scowl suggested the next forty-five minutes would not be fun.
“Take your seats. I’m Captain Ralph Harrison. Welcome to Aerodynamics for Pilots.” The instructor approached the dry-erase board and began to write.
Jason recovered his books from the floor. Most of the students watched the instructor for a moment, then realized they should start writing or they might not catch up with the instructor’s furious pace.
Jason recognized the first formula, the equation of lift, from civilian flying. Harrison broke down each segment of the formula and wrote out multiple equations on lift, air density, and velocity in excruciating detail. After what felt like an eternity of writing equations on the board, Captain Harrison turned to the class.
“Are there any aero majors in here?” It was the first thing he said since he began writing more than five minutes ago. Samantha Williams, the black female student in the rear of the classroom, shyly raised her hand. A graduate of the Air Force Academy with a degree in Aeronautical Engineering, she was one of the smartest students in the class.
“Who are you?” Harrison asked.
“Lieutenant Williams, sir,” she said.
“Well, Lieutenant Williams, are these formulas correct?”
“Yes, sir, they are.” She answered slowly, but deliberately.
“And is it not true, to understand the theory of lift, one must understand each of the forces that compose the components of lift and how each of the parts affect the whole?” Captain Harrison leaned against his podium at the end of his question. “Lieutenant?”
“It’s true, sir.”
“Thank you.” Harrison went back to his writing.
Jason sighed. A tough academic instructor was the last thing a student pilot needed in the high-pressure environment of pilot training; the flight-line training would be hard enough. The squatty captain continued to write. Jason’s pulse increased, and his stomach tightened. He may have known the formula for lift, but it went downhill after that.
Laying his pencil down, he wiped his sweaty palms on his legs. He was defeated without ever having a chance to fly the jet. As he scanned the cramped classroom of twenty students, Jason gained little comfort in the fact that others seemed just as lost.
Harrison stopped and glared at the class. “Are you getting this?” His voice deepened. “Do I need to slow down, or are you all able to keep up?” Many students nodded their heads, yes, while some shook their heads, no. It would have been a comical sight under different circumstances. To the stocky academic instructor, it added fuel to a fire that raged inside him. This nightmare of an instructor grew into an ominous beast about to unleash his anger.
“Do you people think this information is important to you as a pilot?” The students remained silent as Captain Harrison’s voice increased in volume and tempo. “Do you agree this information will be beneficial for you to memorize so well that you can recite it in your sleep?” He yelled now; his face flushed crimson, as if he were about to explode. Heads nodded, and a sense of doom overcame enveloped the room. What happened? What did they do to set this guy off?
“Take a look at this board people . . . a good, hard look. Some of you will never see this information again,” Harrison said loudly. He ripped off his glasses and threw them at the dry-erase board. The glasses impacted with a loud “SMACK” and fell to the floor. No one uttered a sound. He stared at the class for a moment; his words sank into their psyche. The hopelessness evident on everyone’s face.
He singled out a student in the front row. “Lieutenant Bailey, what is the name of this course?”
Bud Bailey’s glasses and flattop almost matched the instructor’s. “A-Aerodynamics . . . for Pilots.”
“That’s right.” Harrison’s voice calmer now. He leaned against his podium again. “Aerodynamics for Pilots. Gentlemen and ladies, I am a pilot. I am not an engineer, nor a scientist. I am a pilot. I fly jets. Therefore, I don’t give a hoot ‘n’ holler about these damn formulas on the board here.”
A smile formed on his face. “Hell, I was a business major in college. I couldn’t tell you what half this stuff means.” The students exchanged puzzled glances. A sigh of relief overcame everyone as Jason’s classmates exploded into laughter, the victims of a cruel, but harmless, joke.
“Folks, this is Aerodynamics for Pilots. Sure, we’ll talk about lift a little, as well as a few other things, but the concepts in this course are simple. Push the stick forward, houses get big. Pull the stick back, houses get small. It’s not much tougher than that.”
Captain Ralph Harrison beamed–like someone who pulled off the con of the century. For several minutes, he had. After an overview of the course, he described how long it would last, what the test would be like, and what they would cover the rest of the class.
Jason’s nervousness slipped away, like an inmate reprieved on his walk to the chair. With a quick glance at the ceiling again, he mumbled, “Thank you, God.”
The class went smoothly, and when he returned to his dorm room, Jason collapsed on the sofa. UPT took its toll on him. Successful at most things he’d done in his life, he usually made them appear easy. This time was different. It was a new and unusual environment. Pilot training compared to taking a sip of water from a fire hydrant.
UPT lasted fifty-two weeks. One full year of concentrated studying and flying. The course was designed to take any pedestrian off the street and turn them into a jet pilot. While this was true to some degree, the difficulty was doing it within the required timeframe.
The first part of the program was loaded with the basic academics that applied throughout the course. Then the students went to the flight line to fly the initial jet trainer, the T-37. This phase was around six months.
Many students came here with aspirations of being the next Tom Cruise. Maverick. Joe Fighter Jock. Everyone wants a fighter, whether they admit it or not. Students that wanted a fighter, had to finish at the top of the class. They had to be the best, not because the best had the skills to fly a fighter, but because the best got first pick, and that was where the fighters were.
Jason’s flying instructor told him on the first day, “UPT will give you the highest highs and the lowest lows of your life.” So far, Jason had experienced the low side of this spectrum. The T-37 phase was humbling. Everything came hard and fast. Some students did very well in the T-37 phase—usually navigators fortunate enough to earn a pilot’s slot. They had experience in military-style flying, possessed some airmanship, and were not intimidated by the instructors. Those with prior flight time also did quite well.
The second phase of training was faster
paced; students moved on to either the T-38 or the T-1. Advanced jet training for the fighter track was done in the supersonic jet trainer, the Northrop T-38 Talon. This jet was the great equalizer. All previous flight time no longer mattered. It was a different realm.
Those slotted for the tanker/transport track moved to the Beechcraft T-1. It was a little more forgiving. A newer jet, it had the most current avionics and systems. Jason wondered if he would make it that far.
The clock showed nine-thirty in the evening. Jason had studied his Dash One, the T-37 flight manual, since five o’clock that afternoon. He had to wake up in another six hours for a 0500-brief time. The early morning show times were the least desirable aspects of UPT. Everybody hated them, instructors and students alike. Jason ran his fingers through his hair as he stared at the ceiling. He was supposed to meet the guys in Lenny Banks’ room. Lenny was a sharp guy, who, more importantly, had a lot of flying experience. As Jason contemplated whether to study with his classmates that night, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Jason? It’s me,” a woman’s voice said. His skin went cold, and his muscles tensed. He glanced at the gold band on a small wooden box on top of his dresser. His heart sank, as a wave of depression fell over him.
3
August 10, 1995
* * *
JASON GRIT HIS TEETH and took a deep breath. “Bethany, why are you calling me?”
Bethany. Jason’s ex-wife. The divorce occurred six months ago, but his emotions still lingered.
“I-I’ve just been wondering how you’re doing. I’ve been thinking about us a lot. Wondering where things went wrong.”
“And?”
“And . . . and . . . maybe if we communicated more in the beginning, this whole thing could have been avoided.”
He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation.
“I feel so bad. I know I let you down. I miss you so much, and I’ve thought about calling you so many times.”
“So, why didn’t you?”
“I was afraid, I guess. Afraid you wouldn’t want to talk to me. Afraid I didn’t deserve to talk to you. I-I hurt you, and if there were any way to take it back, I would. But it’s done, and I can’t change it. I know I did some things wrong . . . we did some things wrong, but if we both tried harder, I think we could make it work.”
“Make what work?”
“Us, Jason . . . you, me, our relationship. We could still make it work.”
He considered this comment for a moment. She was the last person he needed to talk to this time of night. The phone call stirred unsettled emotions. Unsure if he was angry or sad; the confusion bothered him.
“Bethany, I thought you remarried.”
The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. She had married the movie director she had the affair with. As it turned out, he wasn’t really a director. Jason had caught them screwing on their couch when he’d returned from a trip to England over a year ago. It was the first time in his life he had to wait for a guy to put pants on, so he could kick his ass.
“I don’t love him. I’m going to leave him. I want you, Jason. If we—”
“Look, it’s late, I need to study, and have to wake up in six hours. I’ve got to go. Good night.” Jason slammed the receiver down, his mind spinning. There was no way he would accomplish anything here. He gathered his books and left for his study session.
LENNY BANKS HATED TO STUDY. Even more, he hated to study subjects he already understood. He sat sprawled in front of his computer monitor, his feet propped up on his bookcase, clicking his mouse through America On-Line.
It was late. The four of them—Jason, Lenny, Vince Andrews, and Matt Carswell—crowded into Lenny’s small dorm room. Jason sat on the floor in front of the window, tapping his pencil on his forehead. Matt sat on Lenny’s bed, his notes and flight publications spread out all over it. Vince took up residence in the middle of the floor, stretched out, flipping through the current copy of Air Force Magazine.
“Call me crazy, but what the hell do they want for an answer on question fourteen?” Matt said. A pudgy Georgia red-neck, Matt was raised in Marietta, on the outskirts of Atlanta. A proud Georgia man, he refused to admit his family had lived at one time across the border in Brewton, Alabama. Matt’s deep brown hair cut was high-and-tight, like a Marine.
“What is it?” Jason scanned the workbook pages to find the question.
“They’re asking what causes the aircraft to spin.”
“Stall and yaw,” Jason said. “Remember when Captain Harrison talked about how we’ll spin the jet when we hit the flight line? You raise the nose to bleed off airspeed, then as the aircraft starts to buffet and shake—”
“—at the critical angle of attack,” Lenny added.
“Yeah, at the critical angle of attack, you feed in some rudder to yaw the aircraft, and off you go.”
“Okay then, tell me this—if we use rudder to induce the spin, why do we use the rudder to recover from it?”
“Uh, excellent question,” Jason said. “What’s up with the rudder on the spin recovery, Vince?”
“Ask Lenny, he knows everything.” Vince focused on his magazine. His dark hair was combed back across his forehead, held in place by mousse or hairspray. Deep gray eyes showed little patience for those around him.
“What’s the matter, Mister max-every-test-so-far?” Lenny said. “Afraid you don’t know?” Lenny had more flying experience than anyone in the class. His father had a private pilot’s license but wanted his son to be the fabled military aviator that he never had the chance to be. Papa Banks made sure his boy took to flying at an early age. Most kids would have died for an opportunity like that, but his interests lay elsewhere. Yes, he enjoyed flying, but he was much more at home behind a computer.
“I will by test-time, you damn nerd. Isn’t that when it counts?” Vince glared at Lenny with contempt, as if he had disturbed his concentration during a complicated task.
“Yeah, in your dreams.”
“Fella’s, thanks for the entertainment, but why don’t one of y’all help me out here,” Matt said.
“By putting the rudder in,” Lenny started to explain, ignoring his angry classmate, “you’re throwing the rudder into the slipstream creating more drag. Remember, Harrison called it the ‘barn door effect’ because it’s like sticking a barn door out into the wind. That, in conjunction with pushing the stick forward, allows more air flow over the wings to break the stall and get the airplane flying again.”
“Hoo-rah.” Vince flipped through his magazine. “Give the man a beer.”
“Speaking of beer,” Matt said, “Gus says we might buy a keg over at Chicaros for a flight party.”
Lenny turned from his computer. “Hey, I hear there’s a pretty hot waitress working there.”
“Whoa, man,” Matt said. “Her name is Kathy. Major babe, major babe.” His slight hint of a Southern accent all but disappeared when he got excited. “I met her when I first got here. I think I’m in love.”
“Well, don’t get to attached, pal,” Lenny said. “Once she meets this flyboy, she’ll be hooked.”
“Yeah, right, you pencil-neck geek. Like she’s going to fall for your sorry ass,” Vince said. “No chance for you. She’s more like Comrade Conradski’s type here.”
“No thanks,” Jason shook his head. “A woman is not what I need.”
“What are you, gay?” Matt asked.
“No, divorced. Six months now.”
“Ouch, partner. What happened?”
The three listened to Jason review his marriage with Bethany. The two of them had met while they were in college. A lovely creature with strawberry blond hair and the figure of a model. Bethany quit college to pursue a career making television commercials in New Orleans after they began dating. Like many others, she had hoped to become an actress in Louisiana’s ever-increasing film industry. The relationship had been a steamy one, based on physical attraction and plenty of sex. Her care
er as an actress fell flat as the opportunities dried up. His senior year, she seemed very much at ease with the idea of marriage. After all, it had appeared her career was not going anywhere.
They were married in a small church in Baton Rouge. Jason’s mother and father had divorced before he was born. He had invited his father to the wedding, but he never responded. In fact, he’d never actually met his father until a few months ago.
With Bethany, he should have seen the signs—constant trips to New Orleans without him, her getting a job in a nightclub, and not wanting him to bother her at work. Bethany’s drinking increased, and she became more secretive. Next came the ultimate cop-out: complaining about his future in the Air Force. She said she did not want to compete with his airplanes. The affair was inevitable, yet he failed to see it coming. He recounted his trip to England to fly on the B-25 for the D-Day celebration. It was the trip of a lifetime, he told them, but she had chosen not to go. He glossed over the consequences of that experience, focusing on her actions.
“Well, I came home a couple of days early. Caught her screwing some guy on our couch.”
“Man, that sucks.” Matt sat back, arms folded and nostrils flaring. “Guys catch crap all the time, and the damn chicks act like they never do that stuff.”
“The worst thing, she acted as if it was no big deal, like I found her going through my mail or something. She thought I was supposed to expect it. I thought I knew her, but I guess I didn’t.”
“Do we ever truly know the women we fall in love with?” Lenny rested his forearms on his knees as he queried his classmates. “Do we even know our friends? Everybody has a past, and everybody has his vision of the future and how it should be.”
“Ah, this is getting a little deep here, guys. Let’s talk about airplanes,” Matt said.
Surly Bonds Page 2
