“That’s just the calm before the storm,” Grant observed morosely before hanging up. The holidays were a uniformly brutal time throughout the industry. The day before Thanksgiving had been known as “Black Wednesday” for decades, and enjoying Christmas at home in their line of work was a rare treat.
“Looks like I got here just in time,” Penny said as she strolled up behind him.
“I’ve got it under control. How are your crews doing down there?”
“Restless. Itching to get moving. Afraid I’m about to make things a little more complicated for you, though,” she said, handing over a tablet as if were radioactive. “One of Taggart’s charter clients just booked a trip.” Their VP of business operations kept a number of high-maintenance clients, almost all of whom were tremendous pains in the ass. But they were willing to pay handsomely for exclusive use of a spaceplane on short notice.
Grant appraised the reservation with a skeptical frown. “Singapore, huh?” And they wanted to leave in two hours. “We’ll put it on 501,” he sighed, glancing at his watch. “Gentry’s crew was going to burn out, but they can handle a one-way trip. This’ll clear out the bullpen, though. Liz has one reserve crew with a hot spare in the hangar that can cover the scheduled routes.”
“Leo was probably betting on that when he accepted the trip. Notice the pax?”
Grant scrolled down to the passenger manifest and rolled his eyes. “Aw hell, Penny. Colin Magrath’s a nightmare, I don’t care how much money he throws at us.”
“I’ll brief Marcy to stow all the sharp objects. All of a sudden I’m glad to be flying a desk this week.”
…
On the ramp by Austral Clipper, Gentry and Hunter each reached for their hip pockets as their phones buzzed and simultaneously flipped the screens open. The sight brought a stifled laugh from their flight attendant.
“What’s so funny?” Ryan asked, oblivious to their choreography.
“Who gets to say ‘beam me up’?”
He looked Tom over and caught her joke. “Captain’s privilege. But you get to wear the velour mini-dress and thigh boots.”
“They’d look better on you.”
“You think I’m joking. That was Hammond’s original plan. Remember the hot pants the girls used to wear on Southwest?”
“I thought he wanted old-fashioned classy, like Pan Am.”
“You wish. Skin sells. You’re just lucky the male attendants talked him out of installing those stripper poles in the cabin.”
“But they were okay with the hot pants?”
“Yeah, well, some of them…”
Tom closed his phone with an exasperated expression normally reserved for misbehaving grandchildren. “All right kiddies, knock it off. Change of plans. Hope you packed for warm weather.”
8
Denver
The crew briefing room had been largely cleared out, so Ryan quickly found a network terminal and pulled up their new itinerary. Looking over the plans, they saw the load was unusually light: only a half-dozen passengers and their bags, no cargo except for some random company freight.
Tom cracked a smile when the route appeared. It traced a nearly perfect arc halfway around the world, from Denver to Singapore. “This’ll be a hoot,” he said.
“We’ll be hauling ass, that’s for sure. Trip time’s barely two hours,” Ryan agreed, just noticing that Tom looked like a kid at Christmas. “Guess the only thing left to ask is which one of us flies this leg?” The next one would have ordinarily been his.
Tom studied the plans a bit longer. “Sorry, I’m claiming this one. I’ve got an idea,” he said, and picked up the phone to dispatch.
…
Penny was surprised as well. “Say again—they want to do what?” she asked while waving Grant over. “That was one of your dispatchers,” she explained. “Tom just made things a little more complicated. He thinks they can set some speed and altitude records on Taggart’s charter.”
“They’re serious?” he asked, and slung a chair over to her terminal. “Have you seen their release?”
“Right here,” she said as their flight plan appeared on a monitor. There was no arguing with the numbers, despite her mounting skepticism. “Sporty,” she mused. “Plane’s almost empty, inclination’s just about perfect. But what about all that fuel you guys tankered?” With the spaceplane nearly empty, dispatch had arranged for them to carry almost enough propellant for the next trip, saving time and money.
Grant scrolled down the screen. “It adds weight, but still not as much as a full cabin and cargo deck. Half of it will be burned off by the time they reach shutdown. They can definitely hit the velocity targets,” he said. “So what’s got you in a twist?”
Penny frowned. “Probably nothing.” As she reached for a calculator, they were interrupted by a call from the Chairman’s office. Grant hit the speaker button.
“Charlie, this is Art Hammond. Listen, Gentry thinks they have a good shot at scoring some records tonight on that charter. Give them whatever they need, okay?”
He gave Penny a wink and smiled. “Yes sir. We’ll see to it they get priority handling.”
“Good man. Make it happen.” Click.
“Reckon that settles it.”
…
Marcy crouched by the jetway entrance as she carefully inspected their flight’s catering order before a steward rolled it aboard. Her concentration was broken by a loud voice booming across the passenger lounge.
“Just what in hell are you doing here?” The voice carried a hint of an Australian accent.
She stood to find a rotund figure striding towards her, trailed by a small gaggle of apparent hangers-on. Oh no. She carefully masked her surprise. “I’m assigned to this flight, sir. Just making sure the catering’s been prepared correctly.”
“It had bloody well better be,” he said, motioning to someone who must have been a personal assistant who showed her their reservation.
Marcy checked it against her own copy of the manifest. It was as she feared. The same man whom she’d had to threaten with arrest on the flight in was the same man who chartered this trip: Colin Magrath, international media baron and well-known cantankerous old bastard.
“I presume we’ll have drink service this time,” he said peevishly.
She displayed her tightest professional smile. “Of course, sir. All in accordance with the conditions on your charter agreement,” she said, returning his paperwork.
“I don’t have time to read that bunk,” he said dismissively, and jerked a thumb behind him. “That’s what I pay these people for. Kelly, come here.”
A man with unruly brown hair in a weathered leather jacket came forward, carrying a large canvas travel bag over his shoulder. “Martin Wade Kelly,” he said, extending a hand. “Transportation manager for Magrath Media. I believe they requested a jumpseat pass for me.”
She tentatively returned his gesture and looked once more at the manifest. Sure enough, it showed him seated up in the cockpit. Even for a private charter, that was highly unusual. “Well then, we’ll need to get you introduced to our flight crew. All jumpseat riders are subject to the captain’s approval.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t,” Magrath interrupted. “I’m paying for this ride. Park your bum wherever you want.”
“It’s okay, Colin,” Wade said as he tossed a reassuring wink her way. “That’s standard airline practice. These people don’t know me from the man in the moon. What’s their guarantee I’m not some wild-eyed terrorist?”
“Because those loopy bastards don’t pay a million dollars for exclusive-use flights,” he shot back.
“I’m sure there won’t be a problem with it,” Marcy said. I hope.
…
Tom shook his head in dismay. “Do you know who authorized him?”
“Mr. Hammond,” Marcy said, handing over the manifest. “Last-minute addition at Magrath’s insistence.”
“Is he accounted for in the payload?�
��
“He is,” Ryan confirmed. “All the pax were already in the load manifest. Sorry, skipper.”
The pilots exchanged looks of resigned defeat. Tom could reject any cockpit observer, but in this instance he’d have an awfully hard time explaining that decision to the boss. “Well, that seals it,” he sighed. “But let me know if he gets the slightest bit out of line with you, Marcy. I’ll toss him out like bad catering.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him. Between you two and our passengers, if this job doesn’t work out I could always go run a day-care center,” she said, sliding towards the main door to signal their guest in with a wave. Brimming with enthusiasm, the man in question bounded through the crew entryway.
“Captain Gentry?”
Tom answered with a curt nod. “I understand you want to ride the jumpseat,” he said, looking him over while leading him to the back of the flight deck. “It’s pretty much the same layout as any other cockpit. Sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable out in the cabin? You’ll find it better than even a really nice private jet.”
“Tell you the truth, I’d prefer to kick up my heels back there,” he said, aware he was being sized up. “But my boss is negotiating with your boss to lease one of these beauties for his own use. He wants me to kick the tires and look under the hood.”
Which means Art’s already been talking to this guy, Tom thought. Well, it’s his company.“So you’re aware we’ve filed for a record attempt?” he asked pointedly.
“Sure am. Anything we should be concerned about?” he asked. “Mr. Magrath’s a bit skeptical.”
“He won’t really notice much difference. Acceleration will be about the same, it’ll just last a bit longer. We’re almost empty except for fuel and you folks,” he explained.
“This thing will really go all the way to Singapore in one skip?”
He’d clearly been studying, so Tom decided to indulge him. Might as well find out how much this guy really knew. “Even better—we think we can do it ballistic.”
Kelly whistled. “A single parabola…all the way to Singapore? That’s got to be at least a 400-mile apogee at, what, Mach fifteen? You guys aren’t screwing around.”
Good. He gets it. “Wouldn’t dream of it. It’ll be a great ride, Mr. Kelly.”
“Wade, please. Mom hated ‘Martin’ so she always used my middle name.”
“And the moms usually win, don’t they? Marcy will show you where to stow your gear. We’ll need you to sit tight with her for a few minutes,” he said in parting. “I’ll have our first officer here come take you to watch him preflight.”
Behind him, Ryan pretended to still be absorbed in setting up his controls. “Thanks skipper,” he whispered.
Wade wore a satisfied look as he slipped out of the cockpit. He’d passed muster and was about to get a front-row seat for one whopper of a ride. Earning the crew’s confidence was always the first order of business. He looked at Marcy, attempting to gauge her reaction. “Looks like I get to put my spurs on, huh?”
“Just make sure your seatbelt’s tight and fully fastened, cowboy,” she said through that same tight smile.
9
Denver
The evening air grew chill as the sun’s warming light disappeared behind the mountains. The ramp glowed with a stark pink fluorescence, and its arrival gates were now filled with workers and equipment swarming around the dozen parked Clippers. Ryan and Wade stood on a raised lift beneath the wing of spaceplane number 501, the Austral Clipper.
Ryan took a small metal ruler from his sleeve pocket and clenched a grease pencil between his teeth. He then pulled up the plane’s design specs on his tablet and began measuring panel seams along the hull, making a small “x” on anything that was outside of tolerance. Each would be called in to maintenance for a technician to adjust. Holding his ruler up to another panel edge, he noted the height and continued, occasionally pulling a rag from his flight bag to wipe down any smudges.
“What I’m doing is making sure the access panels and control seals are buttoned up extra tight,” he explained while tugging against a flap panel. “The outer mold line needs to look like it did straight from the factory…smooth as a baby’s butt. We don’t want so much as a centimeter of skin out hanging in the breeze.”
“I wondered. So this isn’t your normal preflight inspection?” Wade asked.
“Not hardly,” Ryan said, hopping down the ladder to work his way forward to the yawning engine intakes. “Little things mean a lot at these speeds.”
“Turbulence hot spots?”
“Bingo. Anything that disrupts boundary airflow screws up our heat distribution. Any turbulent areas get real hot, real fast. Doesn’t help with drag either. The faster we go, the worse it gets.”
The extreme friction and compression heating always threatened to become a problem. Keeping the outer mold line—the shape the air “feels”—as close as possible to the original design controlled temperatures across the spaceplane, not concentrating it too much in any one place.
“Drag increases with the square of velocity,” Wade agreed. “I imagine you don’t spend much time transonic,” he said. The spaceplane’s broad, black nose towered ahead of them atop gangly landing gear.
“As little as possible,” Ryan said. “Sounds like you know your way around an airplane. So what exactly does Magrath’s ‘transportation manager’ do?”
Wade looked down with a self-effacing grin. “Pretty much whatever I want,” he laughed. “He gives me a lot of latitude to manage the company fleet and run business deals like this.”
“What sort of fleet?”
“Well, there’s the royal barge for starters. He keeps an eighty-footer berthed in Sydney. Two helicopters, one on the yacht. I fly those sometimes. But you’re probably wondering about the jets.”
“Always,” Ryan said as he marked another panel. “Not that I could ever afford one, but toys are always fun to talk about.”
“He has a couple of Falcon Sevens and a Global Express. I’m checked out to fly right seat in the Falcon whenever he’s on board, but most of the time I’m riding a desk at the LA office. Our purchasing team had been out here all week, and Mr. Magrath was coming to meet Hammond face-to-face.”
“Awfully quick meeting for such a big deal,” Ryan observed. “What happened?”
“Nothing on your side to worry about,” Wade assured him. “Another deal he’s been massaging in Singapore hit a snag. Local politics.”
Which meant Magrath was probably going to grease a few palms to keep whatever project it was moving ahead, Ryan realized. “Guess it’s pretty important. The guy doesn’t waste time, does he?”
“That’s why he wants one of these,” Wade said. He knew there were other, more personal reasons as well. “He’ll have the whole world at his feet then.”
Wade’s tone revealed a trace of cynicism, so Ryan took the opening. “Money can’t buy happiness, they say.”
“True. But Magrath will tell you it’ll buy a boat big enough to sail right up next to it.”
…
“They want what?” Donner blurted out. He had just taken the call from maintenance control, tasking him with cleaning up 501 for its record attempt.
“The FO marked a dozen or so spots where panels are out of tolerance. He also wants some leak residue cleaned up,” said the disaffected voice on the other end of the line.
“All so they can be hotdogs and get their names in the record books? Nice of ‘em to give us a warning,” he grumbled. “We just got that bird fixed and now they want to show off in it?”
The maintenance boss cut him off. “That’s enough, Donner. Hammond called flight control himself and said ‘make it happen’. So make it happen!”
The line went silent. Donner continued to hold the phone to his ear and nodded, trying to salvage his dignity. “All right, all right. I’ll be out there in a minute,” he muttered, shooting a glance at his assistant. “You know how many pilots it takes to screw in a light bulb, don�
�t you?” he asked. “One. He just holds it up to the socket and waits for the world to turn around him!”
The younger technician turned away, smiling. They must have really nailed the cranky bugger.
…
“Polaris guests waiting for flight 501, Austral Clipper charter service to Singapore, are now invited to board.”
Each Clipper could only carry thirty people, all of whom were treated as “executive class” and as such the boarding gates were clustered around private lounges. Colin Magrath was still nursing a drink when the boarding call finally came, and his staff hurriedly finished their business to head for the jetway.
Once aboard, Marcy took great care to make sure everyone’s four-point, aerobatic seatbelts were fastened and that any loose items were tucked away. Regardless, there would always be considerable cleanup after each flight. Even the frequent fliers couldn’t resist setting random items loose in freefall.
There were other, more delicate tasks, such as instructing them on how to use the zero-g toilet.
“Are you serious?” one asked. “There’s an alarm on that thing?”
“It’s very subtle, but yes, I’m afraid so,” Marcy explained. “There are pressure sensors around the rim to make sure you’re, well, properly sealed. Otherwise, things could get a bit messy up there.”
“Wonderful.”
10
Denver
Tom pressed his face against the side windshield to make certain their intakes were clear. As the engines spun up, any stray piece of equipment or unfortunate soul standing in the wrong spot could instantly be sucked down an inlet and puréed. Ryan did the same on his side as a tug slowly pushed them out of their parking spot, lurching along the pavement.
“Number One start valves open,” Tom commanded as they went through the startup checklist.
“Start valves open on One,” Ryan answered. “Boost pumps on.”
“Ignite.”
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