Test Pilot's Daughter: Revenge

by Ward, Steve

  “You’re the boss. Let’s do it.” She hadn’t even thought about soloing so early in her training. Suddenly she realized her response, “Let’s do it,” should’ve been, “I’ll do it.” The thought of landing by herself, without the security of an instructor was a bit chilling.

  “I think we’ll fly to Winder and get out of this traffic,” said Furgeson.

  PDK was well known as one of the busiest small airports in America with over 10,000 landings a month. Located close to metropolitan Atlanta, it was used by students, private pilots and business executives seeking a convenient alternative to Hartsfield International. The two parallel runways at PDK were always swarming with small planes and business jets. To complicate matters, the FAA used the airport to train air traffic controllers. Green controllers and novice pilots often resulted in chaos aloft. At certain peak times of the day, like 6:00 p.m. when traffic would build, pandemonium was the norm. A great place to learn, if you survived. A private pilot accustomed to such traffic could handle any airport in the United States.

  Christina took off from PDK and flew forty miles northeast to Winder, a little town about half-way to Athens. She entered the pattern midfield on a “left downwind” leg and went through the procedures she’d learned. When the Cessna contacted the runway without a lot of awkward bouncing, her confidence surged.

  “Remember when I get out,” he warned, “the plane’s gonna be lighter. Don’t panic if it starts to float or drift sideways on your flare. Just make sure your airspeed is right and do a full-stall landing. You’re gonna have a little crosswind from the right, so don’t forget to cross your controls.”

  She frowned but nodded bravely.

  “Don’t worry none. . .you’ll do fine. Have fun.” Furgeson got out and shut the door. He walked over to a nearby hangar, crossed his arms and leaned back with a look of confidence.

  A full-stall landing, she thought. That’s one of the harder ones. It was much easier just to fly the plane onto the runway under power. A full-stall landing required sufficient touch and timing to put it down without power, completely stalling the airplane just inches off the surface. Done properly, it would eliminate the dangers of bounding back into flight or porpoising down the runway out of control. Stalling too high, of course, could be deadly.

  A defining moment had arrived for Christina Matthews. Come to Jesus time for sure. There are moments in life that are etched in the brain: high school graduation, wedding, the birth of a child. But, for a pilot the most memorable of all is the first solo. They say novice trapeze artists or mountain climbers should “never look down.” Well, a novice pilot on first solo should “never look right.”

  A little anxious, she sat alone in the cockpit and made her first mistake. With a quick glance to the right, the empty space normally occupied by John Furgeson looked like a huge chasm. Hello, if I make a mistake now, there’s no one to fix it. She taxied toward the runway and started to break a sweat. With only four hours training, she could hardly believe she would actually be “pilot in command.” Once in the air, there would be only one option, get back down. . .alive. As her dad had done many times in his career, she prayed the infamous test pilot prayer, “Please God, don’t let me screw up.”

  Her solo assignment was simple: take off, climb to pattern altitude, circle the field once in a standard box pattern and put the plane back down on the runway, ALONE! She tried to relax and concentrate on the many things she had to remember. She did a quick engine run up to test the gauges, worked the controls and looked for traffic before she took the runway. Trying to recall the standard radio procedures at an uncontrolled airport, she entered the local Unicom frequency.

  “Winder traffic, Cessna Two Eight Eight Three Sierra taking Runway 27 for take off, Winder.” She rolled out onto the runway, took a deep breath and yelled, “Banzaiii!” Shoving the throttle forward to the firewall with her right hand, she grasped the yoke firmly with her left. We’re rolling.

  Watching the runway centerline and glancing at the airspeed indicator, she accelerated rapidly: twenty, thirty, forty knots. The crosswind started drifting her left, so she remembered to turn the yoke into the wind and correct with a little pressure on the right rudder. At fifty knots, she pulled smoothly back, and the Cessna leaped into the air. Her airspeed started to drop, so she eased down the nose. She could hardly believe the rate of climb without the extra weight. In less than a minute, she was five-hundred feet above the ground and started a left turn.

  “Winder traffic, Eight Three Sierra turning left crosswind for closed traffic, Winder.”

  At 1,000 feet, she squared up her pattern, turned left parallel to the runway and pulled the throttle back to 2,000 rpm. Going well, ahh, I can relax.

  “Winder traffic, Eight Three Sierra downwind for landing Runway 27, Winder.”

  She watched for her cue. When she pulled even with the threshold of Runway 27 over her left shoulder, she spoke out loud the steps she had memorized:

  “Mixture rich.

  Fuel pump on.

  Carburetor heat.

  Pull power to 1,500.

  Ten degrees of flaps.

  Trim for an airspeed of seventy.”

  She watched back over her left shoulder for a forty-five-degree angle to the runway and started the left turn.

  “Winder traffic, 83 Sierra turning left base, landing runway 27, Winder.

  Ten more degrees of flaps.

  Check your airspeed.

  Trim for sixty.

  Check the runway numbers.”

  She looked for the runway numbers, and they were so flat she could hardly read them. God no, must’ve turned base too late. Way too low! She started to get a choking feeling. She pushed the throttle up to compensate. While adjusting the throttle, she overshot the left turn to final and tried to make it up by turning much too steeply. Shit! Christina, don’t you stall this thing! Suddenly she was “sweatin’ bullets.” Her left hand had a death grip on the yoke, and a bead of sweat dropped into her eye.

  “Winder traffic, Eight Three Sierra on final, landing!” she barked in a more desperate tone.

  As she raised the nose to try to make the runway, her airspeed was too slow, and the stall warning screamed, “Beeeeeeeep!” She lowered the nose and added more power. Now she was going too fast, so she pulled the power all the way back. She was getting confused. The crosswind drifted her left, off the runway line, so she rolled the wings right into the wind and pulled the nose back with left rudder. Once more she heard the stall warning and added power again as the runway started coming up fast. Just as she thought things were under control, a strong thermal off the end of the runway jolted the plane, bounced her up out of her seat and banged her head on the ceiling. Totally dazed, she remembered her instructor’s advice.

  If you don’t feel right on the approach, always be prepared to go around.

  Diving down towards the runway, she shoved the throttle full forward and took out the carburetor heat. She pulled up the flaps and “crop dusted” down the runway gaining airspeed. At seventy knots she started to climb.

  “Winder traffic, Eight Three Sierra, departing Runway 27.”

  She wondered what Furgeson was thinking. Her confidence was shot. She worried he might regret letting her solo so soon. God forbid, should I miss another approach, he’ll be calling for fire trucks. She was a nervous wreck, soaked in her own sweat.

  On the second try, she decided to extend her downwind and delay pulling power. She turned final early to give more time to think her way through the approach. On short final she could see the numbers clearly. The VASI lights were right where they should be, white over red, indicating a perfect three-degree descent. She set up the cross wind slip early, right aileron to counter the drift and left rudder to point the nose down the runway. Approaching with full flaps at fifty knots, she felt much more comfortable. As the runway came up slowly, she tried to talk herself through a full-stall landing.

  “Just relax, girl, you can do it.

 
Pull the power.

  Back easy on the yoke.

  Fix your eyes on the far end of the runway.

  Back smoothly now, no jerking.”

  A thermal jolted the little plane once again. She compensated by releasing back-pressure.

  “Relax, relax.”

  The runway rose up smoothly just below her landing gear as the airspeed decelerated.

  “Hold it off, now. Make it a full stall.

  Keep that nose coming up.

  Hold it off. Hold it off.

  Drifting again, right aileron, left rudder.

  On back, hold it off.”

  Nose high, the yoke was all the way back in her gut. The stall warning sounded just as the tires squeaked softly onto the runway, first the right tire, then the left. She lowered the nose smoothly releasing back-pressure and used the rudder to keep the plane pointed down the center line.

  “Thank God for small miracles!” she shouted. Excited by her accomplishment, she taxied back to the hangar and cut the engine. She was surprised when she saw Furgeson casually standing with his legs crossed, leaning against the hangar and chewing on a piece of straw. He didn’t look the least bit worried.

  As Christina exited the cockpit, she wasn’t feeling very lady-like. She had grease on the back of one hand, and her white blouse was ringing wet with perspiration. The headset had squished her hair off to one side in a real mess. Femininity’s not the issue, she mused. She stood tall and strolled up to her instructor filled with wonder and pride.

  “So, how do you feel now?” Furgeson asked.

  “Like a dumb shit for having to go around. I got totally balled up on that first approach. Damn thermal banged my head on the ceiling. Should’ve had my seatbelt tighter.” She rubbed the top of her head feeling for a lump.

  “Are you kidding?” bragged Furgeson. “Goddam unbelievable! I’ve soloed hundreds, and you’re the very first one that had enough brains to go around. Most of ‘em just bounced the damn thing down the runway. I had one guy that hit the ground in a panic. He instinctively hit the right rudder like the brake pedal on his car and ended up out in a bean field.” Furgeson grinned and threw the straw on the ground. He picked up his old Polaroid camera and snapped a shot.

  “Well, thanks, I guess.” Christina was so relieved. “Damn glad it’s over, that’s for sure. I’ve got a lot more confidence now.”

  “I have to tell you, girl, that full-stall landing in a crosswind wasn’t just good, it was damn near perfect. I couldn’t a done much better myself. Let’s get back to PDK. I wanna watch you do it one more time in traffic, then I’ll sign you off.”

  Furgeson started to shake her hand, but she gave him a hug. “Okay, girl, that’s enough.” He carefully attached a big pin to her shirt.

  YES,

  I AM A PILOT!

  He wrote the solo date on the photograph and gave it to her for a souvenir.

  Christina’s joy was overwhelming. “I just want to thank you, John. You’re a fabulous teacher. Never guessed I was ready for that.” She hugged him again with no less affection than if he was her own dad.

  “Well, girl, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but you’re by far the best goddam student I ever had.”

  She didn’t take the compliment lightly. She was so moved, tears almost formed in her eyes. She could hardly speak.

  “You know, I’ve always been puzzled why my dad refused to teach me,” she said with a sad look. “To be honest, we haven’t been that close since my mom died. Just want to thank you, John, for being so good to me.”

  Furgeson seemed a little choked up, himself. “Sure! Let’s see how you feel when I put you through instrument training.”

  “John, I want you to know that you’re much more than a flight instructor to me. You’re a wonderful mentor, and I’d trust you with my life. But most of all, you’ve done a helluva job filling in for my dad.”

  Furgeson didn’t answer. She thought she could see tears forming in his eyes as he quickly looked away. She wondered what he was thinking. It must’ve been a long time since he had received such praise from a young lady.

  Finally, he cleared his throat and turned back around to face her. “Come on, Christina, let’s quit whining in our beer. We got a lot of flying to do.”

  Chapter Eight

  On the ritual train ride to PDK, Christina stared in wonderment at the floral beauty of spring in Atlanta. It was a crisp day in April, and the hardwood forests glistened in dogwoods. Hundreds of ornamental pears lined the technology parks like something out of a fantasy. It was a majestic scene and took her mind off lingering nightmares. Her research at Georgia Tech was progressing beyond expectation, and at last she was learning to fly. Now that she was flying every week, she called her dad more often. He loved hangar talk and showered her with whoppers.

  With a little over ten hours in her logbook, Christina was building confidence, and Furgeson had cleared her for solo cross-countries. He wouldn’t let her turn on the GPS, that was too easy. She had to learn dead reckoning, point to point navigation with a compass and map. She didn’t mind. She loved everything about flying. As she approached each small town she would dive down to the water tower to double-check its name. It was standard procedure from the old days described in her grandmother’s book. She loved crop dusting, buzzing ground targets, engine outs, and even power-on stalls.

  When she arrived at PDK, Furgeson had a curious twinkle in his eye. He seemed to be in an unusually stellar mood. “Hey ace, you’re one lucky chick. Daddy called to talk about your birthday. How’d you like to taste some real flying, dogfightin’ that is?”

  “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “No, he came up with one hell of a birthday present.”

  “What, a war video?”

  Furgeson handed her a brochure about an adventure enterprise called Sky Warriors. “He’s gonna pay for you and I to spend a day in the Sky Warriors combat training program.”

  She looked at the pictures, pointed and said, “You mean we get to fly these? Holy crap, where is it?”

  “Fulton County, Charlie Brown Field on the west side of Atlanta.”

  “Wow, that’s gotta cost a shit-load.”

  “It’s over a thousand dollars.”

  “Just like my dad,” she said, “see what the little girl can do. I’ll show him.”

  Glancing over the brochure, she learned the business was started by two guys who owned military trainers, T-34 Mentors. After years of dogfighting each other, they realized people in search of an exceptional thrill would pay for the experience of being a fighter pilot for a day. They equipped their classic airplanes with 300 horses of muscle to simulate the feeling of a small jet. Just like military fighters, the Mentors were flown with stick and rudder. A heads-up gun sight was mounted in front, allowing the pilot to aim the nose at the opposition and fire a laser gun by pulling a trigger on the stick. Laser actuated smoke generators would indicate a kill. The program was organized to teach one very basic dogfighting maneuver called the “High YoYo.”

  High YoYo, my ass, she chuckled as she stared at the inverted airplane on the brochure.

  Like kids on a fieldtrip, Christina and Furgeson drove through heavy Atlanta traffic across town. Stuck in a mass of automobiles on the north loop, forward progress slowed to a creep. A fast jogger would’ve had a significant advantage.

  “God, this sucks. Can’t we figure out some other way?” Christina was restless.

  “I guess we could head down to I 20.”

  “Do it. We’ll never get there this way.”

  Furgeson picked his way through traffic and headed south.

  “So do you think you can handle air combat?” he asked.

  “Hope so,” she replied, looking at the brochure. “It’d be mighty embarrassing to toss the cookies all over one of those beauties.”

  “Just remember to tighten your stomach when you get into the G’s.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Blood runs out of your head. .
.you’ll black out.”

  Christina giggled, reaching over and poking at his potbelly. “Shit John, if tightening the stomach is the trick, you’re dead meat.”

  “We’ll just see. My body ain’t in the greatest form, but remember, I been there.”

  Eventually, they made it to Charlie Brown field and located the big green building with Sky Warriors over the door. Ron Jacobs, owner of the business, introduced himself and almost ripped their hands off with enthusiasm.

  “Hi ya’ll doin’? Ya’ll come on in to the briefin’ room now. Mighty glad to see ya’ll. I’m Ron Jacobs, call name, Blue Eyes.”

  They were fitted with flight suits, helmets and parachutes. He gave them a cup of coffee and a quick safety lecture. The primary topic was how to exit the aircraft in an emergency and how to deploy the ‘chute. Christina began to wonder, Is this a dog an’ pony show or what?