Surly Bonds

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “That was sweet of you.”

  “Sweet?”

  “Yes, sweet. It was my fault and you did your best not to make me feel guilty. That’s rare for a guy these days. Especially a pilot.”

  “Student pilot. We’re not allowed to be arrogant until we actually graduate.”

  She chuckled. “Well, if it helps, you don’t appear stressed out.”

  “Looks can be deceiving, but thanks. I’m Jason Conrad.”

  “Hi, Jason.” She extended her hand. “Kathy. Kathy Delgato.”

  “Hello, Kathy. It’s my pleasure.”

  Kathy’s eyes gave him a quick once-over. “I need to get back to work. Are you going to be here all night?”

  “No, if I stay too long, I’ll do something to embarrass myself. I’m sure I’ll leave a little early.”

  “Well, don’t be a stranger while you’re here.”

  “I won’t. You can count on that.”

  Kathy turned and walked back inside, stopping to pick up empty beer bottles on the way. His eyes tracked her every movement. Glancing back, she noticed him watching her; and she smiled.

  She disappeared into the dark confines of the bar. He surprised himself with the interest he showed in her. It had been years since he had been attracted to another woman, but he could not take his eyes off her. Sure, she was beautiful, but women like that were a dime a dozen around pilots. No, something was different about her. Something that held his attention.

  Matt passed her as she walked in; his eyes followed her like Jason’s did.

  “Man, is she a good-looking gal or what?” Matt said.

  “She’s gorgeous.” Jason sipped his beer.

  “Okay, so good-looking was an understatement.”

  “She seems nice. What do you know about her?”

  Matt winked. “That’s valuable information in these here parts, my friend. That there is a prime target for many a young buck. Come back at rutting season and you’ll have to fight them off two at a time.”

  Jason set his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Life’s too short to listen to you beat around the bush. Spill it.”

  “I think she’s from San Antonio.” Matt took a long swallow from his beer. “Heard something about her following some boyfriend from Randolph up here. She used to date an instructor who got an assignment and left her in Enid. Typical story. Right girl chasing wrong guy. She didn’t tell you?”

  “I didn’t get that far.”

  “You must be out of practice, partner.”

  “I am, bozo. Where you been the last month?”

  “I’ve been inside the bar here,” Matt said. “And I’ve got the bar tab to prove it.”

  The two friends walked inside and sat back at the table.

  “Where did you guys go?” Lenny said.

  “Just a little recon action by my friend Conrad here. And he was quite successful, if I do say so myself,” Matt said.

  “If he did so well, where’s the girl?” Vince said. “If you’re not going home with her, you lose.”

  “She’s not that type of girl, Vince. She’s got class. Enough to avoid you,” Matt said.

  “Class, huh? Let me tell you guys something . . . they’re all that type of girl. It just takes the right guy to lead them down the path.”

  “Vince, you can be such an asshole,” Matt said. “Give the guy some slack. He’s on the rebound.”

  “Only the strong survive, my friend. If you have a problem playing by the rules, you might want to take up another sport.” Vince left the table. “Now, if you toads have nothing better to do, watch a master at work.”

  Vince gave Lenny a sneer over his shoulder and walked toward Kathy.

  “Don’t look at me for help,” Lenny said, “I’m with Matt. I’ve always thought you were an asshole.”

  UNSHAKEN, VINCE SLINKED to the bar and slid next to the well-tanned figure picking up a heavy order of beers and mixed drinks on her tray. He stared wantonly in a manner that would have been corny, had it not been so rude. His eyes traced every curve of her body. “I must say, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think I’m in love.”

  Kathy turned. “Nice try, soldier. That line went out in the ‘50s.”

  He leaned on the bar next to her. “Well, I watch a lot of old movies.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Hey, I realize you’re busy. But I was wondering when you’re going to take me to dinner.”

  Her eyebrows scrunched over her blank expression. “Really? Don’t you think I should have your children first?”

  Vince smiled. He liked her. Admitting defeat, he stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Vince Andrews.”

  Kathy smiled, smug with her victory, and shook his hand. “Kathy.”

  “Kathy. That’s a lovely name. Kathy what?”

  “Oh, no, if I tell you, then I’ve got to tell the next guy, and he’ll tell his friends. The next thing you know, all of you will be calling me day and night.”

  “You sound confident.”

  “Well, you approached me, remember?”

  “So, what you’re telling me is, I shouldn’t bother asking for your number?”

  Kathy hoisted the tray of drinks off the bar and balanced them on her shoulder. “I think I underestimated you, Vince Andrews. You’re not as dumb as I thought.” She walked to the other side of the restaurant.

  Vince smiled as she left. She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no either—and with an attitude like hers, she would have. They would meet again. He was sure of it.

  “Everybody hits on Kathy,” a voice said. Vince turned to see a girl standing next to him. She stood about five-seven with more than ample breasts and bleach-blond hair. Attractive, though Vince thought she could stand to lose fifteen or twenty pounds.

  “Just being friendly, like I’m being friendly now. My name is Vince.”

  “I’m Gwendolyn. I’m a travel agent downtown. Are you a pilot?”

  “Yes, I am,” Vince said, not disturbed by his less-than-truthful answer. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Sure. How about a Sex on the Beach?” she said with a smile.

  Vince got the hint at once and signaled the bartender. “Give me a Sex on the Beach for the young lady here. Put it on Jason Conrad’s tab.”

  The bartender sifted through the tabs behind the bar. “You don’t have a tab open. You want me to start one?”

  “Yeah.” Vince grinned slyly, pointing to the table where his friends sat. “And send all those guys a kamikaze on me.”

  “You got it,” The bartender took off to mix the drinks.

  “Hey,” Gwendolyn said playfully, punching him in the arm, “you said your name was Vince.”

  “It is. I’m playing a joke on my buddy.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a very nice joke to play on a good friend.”

  Vince shrugged his shoulders as he handed her the shot glass. It wasn’t a nice joke, but they weren’t good friends.

  6

  August 14, 1995

  * * *

  THE THERMOMETER SAID NINETY degrees, but on the ramp, it easily rose to one hundred ten. Not ideal conditions to for his first flight in the T-37, but Jason showed no signs of discomfort as he walked out to the aircraft with his instructor, Captain Mike Rawlings. The T-37 engines were loud; the flight doctors determined long ago that earplugs alone would not be sufficient protection from the high decibel levels produced from the Tweet. To counteract this, everyone wore earmuffs, or Mickey Mouse ears as they were called, on the Tweet side of the airplane ramp. The whining of the engines stretched across the ramp of the flight line as the noxious odor of JP-8 burned Jason’s nostrils. He squinted to shield his eyes from the glare as he searched for their jet. The first flight, nicknamed “the dollar ride”, was supposed to be fun. Essentially an orientation ride, it was a no-threat situation.

  The T-37 Tweet was one of the oldest planes in the Air Force inventory. Built to replace the T-33 back in the 1950’s, it had pushed well into its fourth decade
as the primary jet trainer. It sat close to the ground with a low wing configuration. The Tweet’s round nose, straight wings, and small fuselage resembled a dragonfly, the name of the combat version of the Tweet, flown in the Vietnam conflict. The wide bubble canopy housed the cockpit in which the instructor and student sat side by side. The students didn’t enjoy this because the instructors could observe their every move. That was precisely the reason instructors liked this seating arrangement. Instructor Pilots always wanted to be aware of what their students were doing

  The Tweet had the distinction of being the only aircraft the Air Force had specifically designed for spin training. The T-37 also had a reputation for being an aerobatics marvel. T-37 instructors ribbed their supersonic counterparts in the T-38 by saying real men didn’t need G-suits. However, the constant G environment proved a hindrance to the students as G-LOC (gravity-induced loss of consciousness) caused many to wash out of the program.

  His instructor didn’t say anything while walking to the jet. When they reached the aircraft, the instructor tossed his parachute on the right seat and grabbed the aircraft’s Form 781, an orange covered notebook encased in plastic.

  “This is the maintenance form of the jet. You need to check this out each time before you fly,” he yelled to Jason over the sound of the jet engines.

  Jason nodded his understanding and placed his parachute in the left seat. He reviewed the aircraft’s forms and started his pre-flight walk around. With his checklist out, he carefully inspected each item. Captain Rawlings let him go for a few minutes, until his frustration got the best of him.

  “Hey, Lieutenant Conrad, we’re not gonna buy it, we’re just gonna borrow it for an hour or so. Let’s pick up the pace a little or we’re going to miss our takeoff time.” Jason nodded and started to move faster. He finished the exterior inspection of the aircraft, climbed inside the jet.

  After he struggled for a minute or two, he managed to put on his parachute. Rawlings tapped him on the shoulder. Jason looked at his instructor, who was already strapped in and wearing his helmet.

  “Let’s hurry, Lieutenant. We don’t have all day.”

  Jason had heard about the student harassment on the flight line but didn’t expect it on his dollar ride. He connected his seatbelt and harness, then read over the interior checklist. Everything was challenge and response.

  When he was ready to start the number one, or left engine, Jason signaled the crew chief. He held up the starter switch and flipped on the ignition. The small J-69 engine roared to life making its trademark high-pitched squeal. No wonder they call this jet a six-thousand-pound bird whistle, he thought. The number two engine started as slow as the first. As he continued with his engine-start checklist, the perspiration poured down his face, stinging his eyes.

  “The longer we sit here, the more we’ll sweat,” Rawlings said.

  Jason accomplished his checks and called for taxi clearance. “Vance Ground, Bison Seven-Four, taxi with information Echo, Dogface.”

  Dogface—Vance’s auxiliary airfield where the T-37 students would accomplish most of their pattern work without terrorizing the control tower at Vance.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Rawlings said. “I have the aircraft. I’ll take us out on the taxiway, then I’ll give it to you to taxi.”

  “Roger, sir. You have the aircraft,” Jason said as his instructor shook the controls.

  Rawlings gave the crew chief the signal to remove the aircraft’s chocks. He advanced the power and the aircraft crept forward on to the taxiway. He accomplished the taxi checklist and gave the jet back to Jason.

  “Don’t forget to engage the nosewheel steering.”

  “Got it.”

  “It can be tough at first. Like everything else, it takes a little practice.”

  Jason taxied up to the T-37 runway. The controller call-sign was Eastside, because of the three runways at Vance, it is on the east side.

  “Not too bad, lieutenant. I have the aircraft for the takeoff. IP demo.”

  “Eastside, Bison Seven-Four, number one, Dogface.”

  “Bison Seven-Four, cleared for takeoff.”

  Rawlings repeated the clearance, closed the canopy, and taxied out on the runway. Pressing his toes on the brakes, he pushed the throttles all the way forward, to military power. He checked the warning lights, followed by the navigation and engine instruments.

  “Four green, no red, no amber. Engines look good. Let’s go.”

  Releasing the brakes, Rawlings used the nosewheel steering to guide the aircraft until it travelled fast enough for the rudder to become effective. The jet slowly accelerated due to the heat but managed to reach its go-no-go speed without much problem. Rawlings rotated at eighty knots indicated airspeed and the Tweet lifted off the ground.

  “Two positive climbs, gear clear.”

  “Gear clear,” Jason said.

  Rawlings raised the gear but waited to pass through one hundred ten knots before he raised the flaps. Once the T-37 was in a clean configuration, it began to accelerate. At one hundred eighty knots, Rawlings raised the nose to hold his speed as the jet climbed lazily to five thousand feet.

  “You’re going to find out in this program there’s not a lot of time for sightseeing,” Rawlings said. “I’ll go ahead and fly the departure, so you can see some of the reference points.”

  “Roger.”

  “Departure Control, Bison Seven-Four, Airborne passing two-thousand feet, Dogface,” Rawlings said over the radio.

  “Roger Bison Seven-Four, cleared northern transition.”

  “Bison Seven-Four.”

  Jason observed the terrain around Vance Air Force Base. It did not offer much variety. Enid had some of the flattest land in a very flat state. Wheat fields spread across the horizon in all directions. As they leveled off at five-thousand feet, Rawlings pointed out the Salt Plains Reservoir located next to Dogface. The auxiliary airfield sat nineteen miles from Vance. Bison 74 would be there in a matter of minutes.

  “Are you ready to fly?”

  “You bet.”

  Jason took the controls. The instructor had trimmed the jet for straight and level flight. At first, he had difficulty holding his altitude, but after a few moments, Jason had it to plus or minus a hundred feet. Not bad. It was his first time flying a complex aircraft, other than his brief flight in the B-25 in England. It didn’t take long for him to realize his time in the Cessna 172 didn’t help as much as he thought it would. But it was better than nothing.

  “Check your airspeed.”

  “Oh, yeah, thanks.”

  “You need to start building your cross-check. Eighty percent of it should be outside at this stage. Don’t stare at the instruments—they won’t hit you. It’s the things outside the airplane that will kill you.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Use the horizon like a big attitude indicator. You should be able to tell if you are in a climb, descent, or a turn just by looking at it.”

  “Okay.” The more Jason worked on his cross-check, the harder it became. He had to fight off the urge to stare at his instruments.

  “See this black field here?” Rawlings said as they passed the blackened coal plant. “That’s the town of Kremlin. We normally accomplish the approach to field check here. That will help you to keep from forgetting it.”

  “Thanks,” Jason said as he began the checklist. At five thousand feet, the air vent now blew cool air on them, making the flight a little more comfortable, though still a long way from being an effective air conditioner. Captain Rawlings took the aircraft again for the descent at the “football”, a huge riverbend several miles east of Dogface. He continued to point out various reference points all the way into Dogface.

  The instructor flew the jet to the runway for a quick touch-and-go landing, then departed the traffic pattern for the Military Operating Area (MOA). The MOA’s were split into two separate blocks for the T-37s: seven thousand to twelve thousand feet, and thirteen thousand to eighteen thousand feet. I
t was in these areas where the students practiced stalls, spins, and aerobatics.

  They received an area assignment from MOA control and made their climb toward it. The jet climbed through seven thousand feet and they entered the working area.

  “One of the most important things you need to remember when doing your maneuvers is to always maintain your energy level,” Rawlings said. Rawlings maneuvered the aircraft around a small puffy cloud hanging alone near the middle of their area. “If you ever get slow, make sure you do it at the top of your area. That way, you can turn your potential energy into kinetic energy. Never get slow at the bottom of your area. If you do, you’re screwed. You’ll waste a lot of time and burn a lot of gas trying to get it back.”

  “Got it.”

  “Well, I can show you the stall and crap you’re allowed to see, or we can have some fun. What’ll it be?”

  “Fun, I hope.”

  “I’m glad you said that,” Rawlings said as he rolled the T-37 inverted ‘til the nose tracked below the horizon twenty degrees. Rolling the aircraft upright, he let the jet accelerate to two hundred and fifty knots, then pulled the stick into his lap, flying a tight, three-G loop. Jason felt his body increase to three times its normal weight as he sank into the seat. He began his anti-G straining maneuver of controlled breathing and muscle contraction to keep his blood from pooling in his feet.

  Seconds after he started the loop, they were finished. “What do you think?” the instructor asked.

  “Awesome, man. Awesome!”

  “Are you ready to try one yourself?”

  “Can I?”

  “Well, let’s say I never saw it if you did. You have the aircraft.”

  “Awesome, I have the aircraft.”

  “That’s ‘roger’, you have the aircraft.”

  “Roger.”

  Jason set up his parameters and the instructor talked him through the maneuver. His heart raced as he lowered the nose of the jet and he watched the airspeed increase to two-hundred fifty knots. Before he had a chance to pull back on the stick, he felt Rawlings on the controls. Jason increased the pressure on the stick.