The lead flight attendant calls on the intercom, tells us they are ready. Matt talks to the ground crew, who give us the OK to start one engine. We've been plugged in to the terminal for power, but that requires too long of an extension cord for the flight to Hawai'i. I reach up into the overhead panel, push the buttons to start the fuel pumps and turn the start switch on engine 2 to ground. It spins for a few seconds, then I reach onto the center console, turn the fuel switch to run, and watch the EICAS screen (that's engine information and crew alert system) to make sure everything's fine. The ground crew disconnects us from the terminal, and I repeat the procedure for engine 1. The ground crew then disconnects us from themselves and waves goodbye.
Matt gets on the radio. "Ground, Mountain 4-6-1 ready to taxi."
"Mountain 4-6-1 taxi via Bravo to 2-4 right. Follow the Tahiti 340."
"Bravo to 2-4 right, follow Tahiti, Mountain 4-6-1." Matt is efficient at airplane talk.
It means to drive down the road called "Bravo" to the runway called 24 right. Runways are compass headings. Our "24" means it's 240 degrees on the compass, and there's a pair of runways, so they are cleverly called "left" and "right." It's not really 240, but LAX has so many runways the numbers are close, not perfect. We're following an Air Tahiti Nui Airbus A340. Matt hits the throttles, steers with a little handle at his left hand, and gets us nicely behind the bright blue Tahiti.
A line of aircraft haul down the runway to our right, until finally Tahiti is rolling in the deep, OK, down the runway, and we are next. Ground calls us and tells us to contact the tower.
"Los Angeles tower, Mountain 4-6-1 with you, 2-4 right."
"Mountain 4-6-1, position and hold, 2-4 right."
"Position and hold, Mountain 4-6-1." We make a sweeping right turn, and line up on the runway. We see the Tahiti airborne, maybe five miles out. We wait about 30 seconds.
"Mountain 4-6-1, wind calm, cleared for takeoff."
"Cleared for takeoff, Mountain 4-6-1." Each pilot flies the aircraft one way on these flights. Matt gave me the LAX to Hawaii segment, so I am in command. I reach over and press a button on the Mode Control Panel (fancy terminology for our autopilot) that tells the computer to run the engines to takeoff power, then I put my left hand on the throttles as if I were actually doing it. Matt is still steering until we get above 80 knots (yes, airplanes think they are boats, and measure things in nautical miles).
When we get there, I say "80 knots," and Matt says, "Your controls." My right hand closes on the yoke between my legs (no jokes please). There are two speeds that matter now. The runway is only so long. If we get going too fast, and we're too far down the runway, in an emergency we'd end up in the ocean. So we have a speed called V1 after which it's either fly or swim. The other speed is our rotation speed, the speed at which we bring the nose up, and leave the earth behind. Matt never gets to V1, he calls "rotate" and I do.
We leave the ground exactly as predicted. Matt calls "gear up," pulls the handle out and up, and three red lights change to green. We don't need them, we feel the landing gear and hear it, as do the passengers.
"Mountain 4-6-1 contact Los Angeles departure, 1-2-3-point-3-5."
"Twenty three thirty five, Mountain 4-6-1," Matt pushes a button on the radio to change frequencies, "Los Angeles departure, Mountain 4-6-1 out of 1.8 for 3." We're 1,800 feet up, and not allowed to go above 3,000.
"Mountain 4-6-1, radar contact, fly heading 2-1-0, climb and maintain 1-0-0." We turn a little more to the south, and we're good to 10,000 feet. We put away our flaps, turn off our lights, and flip a few more switches for the fun of it (I'm kidding).
Summer mornings in LA there is a marine cloud layer just above the ground which rises to a few thousand feet. Ground folks refer to it as "June gloom," because it makes their early summer mornings depressing by blotting out the sun. We're inside it now, hoping that no student pilot in a Cessna is lost in here doing something stupid.
We break out into the bright morning sun, the clouds gorgeous and puffy below us. It's the one point in the flight where you can really feel our speed. To the left, I see the peak of a coastal island. I scan to the right. There's a 200 foot tall man, wearing a black cloak and carrying a staff the size of a redwood, standing on the clouds. He looks me in the eye and moves the end of the staff until it points directly as us.
"Traffic?", there's worry in Matt's voice. There must have been panic on my face. My apparition disappears.
"Bird," I lie. If I tell the truth, we're going back to LAX and my career ends. "Clear now."
I don't have to explain any more, because departure is calling again.
"Mountain 4-6-1, climb and maintain flight level 3-5-0, resume own navigation. Radar service terminated, contact oceanic control."
In other words, we're basically on our own to fly wherever at 35,000 feet. For the next five hours, it's routine. Check the fuel every 30 minutes. Send a report on our position every hour. Climb another couple thousand feet as the gas tanks get emptier and lighter. Try not to look out the window, just in case.
When we're 150 miles out, I have no choice. Honolulu center tells us to descend to 12,000 feet, and we set a course to fly toward Maui, then turn left, go lower, and line up on the Kona runway. It's all uneventful. We land, taxi over to the terminal, spend a few minutes turning everything off. This aircraft is going back to LA in 90 minutes, but not with us on board.
There aren't jetways here, you walk down a long, winding stair that they roll over to the plane. There's always a perfect breeze, warm sun, ocean, lava beds, and lots of people pretending to be Hawaiian and saying "mahalo" a lot. That's Hawaiian for "thank you," but nowadays you only hear it at airports.
I say Mahalo, though, and mean it. No cloaks, no staffs, no worries.
Chapter 2
The seven of us catch the shuttle to the Royal Kona, check in and meet back downstairs at the bar for lunch. Good food and you are 10 feet from the ocean where you can eat and watch the activity on the water, letting all your cares and worries evaporate. By the time we finish our catch of the day, I'm thinking about two things, and they are both sitting across the table from me. Luckily, I manage to talk them into letting me teach them how to snorkel. Unluckily, Matt invites himself along.
In case you didn't know, we are limited in how long we can fly in a day, and we have rest requirements between flights. Today is Monday, got in 11:30 a.m. Hawaiian Standard Time, and we won't fly out until tomorrow, 1 p.m. I know, cool job.
I run a two week cycle: Monday to Hawaii, Tuesday home, then off until Friday back to Kona and Saturday home, off until Tuesday, back home Wednesday, and then start over. I usually get called in on that second Friday to do a day trip, maybe Denver and back or the shuttle, which means I get to sleep in my own bed. It's not bad really, work 7 days out of every 14, and love every minute of it. Plus parts of six days in every 14 in Hawaii, all expenses paid (or almost all).
We grab our swim gear from our rooms, and catch the Keauhou shuttle up to Kahalu`u Bay. There's a little snorkel shop there where I rent equipment for four, and fight off the old surfer dude who wants to give the women a private lesson (and possibly teach them how to snorkel too). I give one of our women some hands on instruction, and Matt takes care of the other. They pick it up quick, and we spend a fun afternoon swimming with wild looking fish and friendly turtles.
Once we're tired out the bus takes us back into town, where Matt's friend leads him toward the elevator while offering to wash the sand off his back, and mine shows me a picture of her 250 pound linebacker boyfriend. At least he doesn't have a staff.
I go shower alone, not a bit bothered by the steam at this point, head back downstairs and meet the crew for dinner, minus Matt and his shower buddy who are apparently going for room service. I try to extend the meal as long as possible, but soon I'm all alone. I wander the hotel until 11, which is 2 a.m. LA time, and give in. I am, after all, taking 188 lives in my hands tomorrow.
The bed is king size, soft and
inviting. It scares the crap out of me. For a while I stand out on the balcony, overlooking Kona town and a piece of the ocean. Eventually, I go back in, close the curtains, take my clothes off and slip naked between the sheets. Ocean sounds fill the room through the open screen door, about as restful and sleep inducing as a sound can be. I fight it, but before too long, I slip away.
If the Chicago fog slips in on little cat feet, the Hawaii fog would use a mongoose. Right now I feel like a cobra. The fog is thicker, heavier, deeper. No dancing spots of light tonight, no hint that a gap might appear. It's warmer too, making me feel the swirls as much as see them. The mongoose is going for my neck.
The same path is laid out before me, the same evil grass keeping me from sprinting off. The boots start again, I know who's coming, and I wonder if he's pissed that I got away. He doesn't seem that fast, maybe I can elude him, at least until morning.
The fog briefly parts once more, and there he is, six feet in front of me. I'm fucked. He could whack me with that staff without stretching, and my feet can't move, even though tonight they remember how. No face is visible, even at this close range. The one hand looks human, but who knows what's really there. He brought his wind with him again, but not the little balls of fog.
He starts once more with that so human voice, tonight it seems to me that I recognize it, some lost memory from long ago I can't quite place. Maybe if I wasn't terrified, it would come to me. A small sound leaves my lips, not identifiable, even to me.
"You," he emphasized the word, "have a choice to make. We," more emphasis, "have already chosen you. Our path leads to your death. Choose the other and you will only wish for death."
Now I'm even more terrified. The choices are death or wish for it? What the fuck? How about guess the right price before the yodeling dude gets to the top of the mountain and falls off? Chose dead or worse than dead? Jesus.
"Our offer is simple. We will make you the most powerful person on earth. The most powerful human to ever walk the planet. You can change the course of history. End wars. Free the oppressed. Feed the hungry. Do that which you wish and go where you will."
"Used wisely, your power will save thousands, perhaps millions of lives, and improve the lot of millions more. You can make the planet a better place for countless future generations. But there is a price. No human can hold this power. In no more than three years it will consume you. You will give your life for the millions you save."
Fuck me.
"I will not accept an answer tonight. You will see me again, and I will answer whatever questions I can. Then you will chose. Good night, Simon Packer."
The fog swirls around him, and he is gone. The swirls continue, forming a whirlpool of fog, speeding past at eye threatening speed. I am in the eye of the hurricane, which grows as I watch, revealing the path in front of me. It looks like any fantasy movie path, red clay colored, surrounded by the evil grass, curving over and around a hilly countryside. Then it gets even more cliche: the fog is gone, and I see the path ends in a solitary white light. I can feel the power of the light, even at this distance. I expect a very short woman to appear, begging me to go into it. She doesn't, but I still want to. Instead, I wake up.
I'm dripping in sweat and the sheets are a mess. I feel as though my head touched the pillow five minutes ago, but it's 9 a.m. according to the room clock. I have to be at the airport in two hours. I fall out of bed, stumble into the bathroom, and get into the hottest shower I can stand. I spend forever in it, trying desperately to scrub off last night and failing. Interestingly, my knee and hands are completely healed. No sign of yesterday's carnage.
It's 10 by the time I'm dressed and headed down to get some breakfast. I go for orange juice, a scrambled egg, and a couple slices of wheat toast. Back upstairs, brush my teeth, grab my bag, and get back down in time to catch the shuttle out to Keahole.
No dispatcher here, we only put three aircraft on the ground every day, so the flight plan is sent by courier from Oahu. Matt is already there, going through it, I try my damnedest to get my head screwed on straight as we talk it over. It's a good thing Matt is doing the flying on the way home because I'm fuckin useless. How can I be so sure that a dream is real? With a wild story like that? But I am.
We roll down the runway and into the sky, no giant dudes in cloaks this time. Uneventful doesn't even begin to describe the flight, nothing to distract me from meaningless random panic. Matt spends as much time as he can talking to his snorkeling partner and leaves me alone. I wonder if she knows he has Ms. Mankat's phone number in his wallet.
We land and taxi to gate 75 this time, since our aircraft is going on to Denver, not back to paradise. The new crew is waiting at the top of the jetway, so I tell Matt he can leave with his friend and I will take care of the transition. He seems happy with that, but I bet the flight report he files will not be complementary.
I don't care. The new captain is sitting next to me, his first officer behind, while I go over the checklist for crew changes with them. Everything is as it should be. Everything but me, that is. I'm dead, or worse.
I walk into one old lady and run some businessman over with my bag trying to leave the gate area. I am out of apologies before I can get to the men's room. I stop, gather myself, and grab a couple tacos at the little stand across from our gate, trying to settle my nerves. It doesn't work. And it's 10 p.m., nearly time for a visit from the fog.
The bus gets me back to employee parking, and Starbuck starts first try as always. I take the surface streets home, praying for red lights, desperately thinking of anything else I can do to delay the inevitable. I come up empty. I park, take the elevator upstairs, sit down on the couch and am quickly asleep before I even pull out the mattress.
Tonight's fog is half cat, half mongoose, swirly with dancing lights, but hot as hell. The dude is waiting for me, sitting on a boulder next to the path. The evil grass leaves him alone, I think about throwing myself into it and see if I can be mowed to death. There's a smaller boulder with a flat top sitting in the middle of the path, facing the cloaked man. I take the hint and use my rock. My ass thinks it's OK, the rest of me thinks it's a trap, and we're going to get sucked into it if we give the wrong answer.
He just looks at me, apparently expecting that I have a million questions. I can't even think of one. I shift my ass to the left. I shift it back to the right.
He decides to break the silence. "You believe me." Statement, not question.
"Yes." He still sounds totally human. Comforting even.
"You've made your choice." Again not a question.
"Not a fuckin chance. My brain looks like this fog."
"The light thinks you have." He looks that way, I follow. Without question the light is heading toward me. The frakkin' thing could have the decency to wait until I'm ready, or at least done screaming like a little girl.
"I'm not a hero."
"You will be."
"And you know this because?"
"I'm an excellent judge of character. And you are one."
I stand up, the light 20 feet away and closing. One foot is ready to run, the other has given in. I don't know if I can hop fast enough on my one smart foot to get away. And, if I remember correctly, toward the light is death, run away is worse. Now I do have a question and it's too late to ask. What is worse than death?
The fog turns icy. It drips down my face, which is suddenly covered with a wet sphere. I open my eyes. There's a spit covered ball on my cheek and a cat staring into my eyes from four inches away. There's a quiet mew from her mouth. I hug Halloween so hard it probably hurts her. Apologizing, I thank her and promise catnip.
It's six in the morning, and I have nothing to do today except not fall asleep under any circumstances. I need to call the girlfriend and party, maybe a quick trip to Vegas. I don't think they ever have fog there.
I throw on clean running clothes and get to the beach, today is going to be a double loop, maybe my first ever triple. The first go round is painful, I can't thi
nk straight, or crooked, for that matter. Second run down the beach, I start to clear things out. I need that clarity of vision that comes from thinking while not thinking. I decide to run as fast as I can down the stretch to the sidewalk, force myself faster, push harder, make the sweat drip.
I don't remember running through the shopping village and into the park, I finally feel right as I round the big curve around the light house and see the river push out into the ocean. It's hard to describe. The river seems so powerful, so strong, and then it's just gone. The ocean, calm and flat, extends out forever. Allegory? The river is dead, but the ocean lives on because of it. Do I believe I can fix the world? I don't even know what "more powerful" than anyone ever actually means. I want a third choice: reset time and go back to the way things were.
As I leave the park and head back home, my thoughts go quiet. I'm in the shower before I have another conscious one.
Fog Bastards 1 Intention Page 2
