David L. RobbinsPrologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
* * *
David L. Robbins
CINCINNATI RUN
Prologue
The copilot gazed out of the cockpit window at the thousands of people gathered near the terminal and gulped. “If we crash, I’ll be so embarrassed.”
“You won’t be the only one,” the captain muttered.
“I didn’t realize President Toland planned to invite everyone in the Civilized Zone to witness our takeoff,” the copilot said.
The captain laughed. “Sure looks like he did, doesn’t it? There must be four thousand out there, but most are from Denver.”
“What if we blow it, Skip?”
“We won’t, Bob.”
“I wish I had your confidence.”
They both tensed as a voice crackled in their headsets.
“Captain Orton, this is your friendly controller in the tower speaking.
Do you copy or are you peeing your pants?”
The captain grinned. “I copy, Max. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to see if you’re still awake,” Max responded.
“We’re raring to go,” Captain Orton said.
“Between you and me, Skip, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes,” Max commented.
“I wouldn’t want you in my shoes either,” Captain Orton quipped.
“Your feet stink.”
“Seriously, Skip. How’s it going?”
“Everything checks out A-Okay,” Captain Orton stated. “We’ve been through the preflight list twice, and all systems are go.”
“President Toland is about to give his address to the crowd,” Max mentioned. “Do you want me to pipe it into you guys?”
“Must we?” the copilot asked.
“Behave yourself. Bob,” Captain Orton said. “We wouldn’t be flying this bird if Toland hadn’t pressed for the service. Let’s hear what the man has to say.”
“You’re the boss,” Bob replied, grinning.
“Let’s hear the speech, Max,” Captain Orton told the controller.
“You’ve got it,” Max said.
A moment later their headsets hissed and sputtered, and the dulcet tones of President Toland reached their ears.
“…for coming here today,” the Chief Executive was saying. “This is truly a momentous occasion. Some might rightfully call this an historic occasion.”
“I can see him,” Bob remarked, craning his neck. “He’s about twenty feet from our nose.”
Captain Orton glanced down the nose of the 757 and spotted the familiar figure of the Civilized Zone’s duly elected leader attired in a dark blue suit. “I see him too.” President Toland’s back was to the aircraft, but there was no mistaking those square shoulders or his neatly clipped black hair and his straight-as-an-arrow posture.
“And it is historic,” Toland declared, talking into a microphone held in his right hand. “Think of it! This is the very first airline flight since World War Three, at least between members of the Freedom Federation. Once this flight has been successfully completed, we can expand our schedule to include other Federation members. California was selected this time because the L.A. Airport is fully operational.” He paused for effect. “The word has gone out to the Flathead Indians in Montana, to the rugged frontiersmen and women who control the Dakota Territory, to the Moles in their underground city in northern Minnesota, to the Clan in northwestern Minnesota, and to the Family. They appreciate the importance of this flight. Restoring regular air service is but another rung on the ladder we must climb to return our respective societies to some semblance of our prewar greatness…”
“Why do all politicians sound the same?” the copilot asked sarcastically.
“Hush,” Captain Orton said.
“We have worked diligently and expended countless hours of hard effort, not to mention the cost in monetary terms, to rehabilitate the 757 you see behind me. We have salvaged parts from the aircraft abandoned in hangars here at Stapleton, and we have fabricated new parts where necessary. Two of our top officers, Captain Skip Orton and Lieutenant Bob Gunther, spent a year in California learning to fly the single-engine, twin-engine, and jet aircraft utilized by that sovereign State.” He glanced over his right shoulder at the cockpit and smiled. “We can rest assured that our investment is in excellent hands.”
“Then why are mine sweating?” Gunther quipped.
“Thanks for reminding me,” Captain Orton responded.
“About what?” Lieutenant Gunther queried.
“I forgot to bring your diapers,” Captain Orton said with a smile.
“Maybe we can delay our takeoff while one of the stewardesses fetches extra towels.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you have a nasty streak?” Gunther questioned.
“Sweet, innocent me?” Orton said.
They both shifted their attention to the President’s speech.
“…plans are already on the drawing board to expand our airline fleet to four airliners,” Toland disclosed to his fidgety audience. “Within two years, if all goes well, we hope to establish weekly flights to each Federation faction. Fuel is our primary concern. California refines enough to barely meet its needs, and we produce a limited supply. Unfortunately, the days of our ancestors, the days of unlimited reserves of gas and oil, are long gone. Oh, it’s not that the crude isn’t out there, waiting to be brought to the surface. We know, for instance, that Wyoming alone could provide our needs for the immediate future, if we possessed more of the equipment needed to bring the crude to the surface. Our shortage of equipment and competent personnel is critical, and we hope to alleviate both in the next five years…”
“He’s putting me to sleep,” Lieutenant Gunther remarked.
“He has a captive audience,” Captain Orton commented. “We could be parked here an hour from now.”
“But I can see that you’re eager for the main event to begin,” President Toland declared, and the crowd vented enthusiastic cheers. “But before I conclude, there’s one crucial point which must be stressed.”
“God deliver us from mutants, famine, and politicians,” Lieutenant Gunther cracked.
“Amen,” Captain Orton added.
“None of this would be possible without your cooperation. As citizens of the Civilized Zone, you have a right to feel proud of our achievement. The 757 would not get off the ground without your support.”
“Without their tax dollars, he means,” Gunther said.
“I should have brought a book,” Orton observed.
“…hold your heads up in more ways than one as this big bird takes to the air.”
“Will that be this year?” someone in the throng shouted.
President Toland hesitated, surveying his restless constituents. “I can take a hint,” he joked.
A ripple of laughter greeted his stab at humor.
“So let’s get on with the show!” Toland stated, and walked toward the front of the assemblage, mingling with a row of other dignitaries; representatives from every Federation faction, members of Toland’s administration, city officials from Denver and a dozen lesser municipalitie
s, members of the media, and military bigwigs.
Orton and Gunther’s headsets imitated frying bacon for several seconds.
“You heard the man, kiddies,” Max the controller declared. “Time for the main event.”
“What’s the latest on the weather?” Captain Orton asked.
“Unlimited ceiling and unrestricted visibility,” Max said. “The temperature is seventy-three. Just another gorgeous, sunny, September day in Colorado.”
“Say, Max?” Lieutenant Gunther said.
“What, Bob?”
“Are you sure you know how to work the radar unit?”
Max snorted. “Are you maligning my professional integrity? I studied for eighteen months in California, and spent an entire year at the Los Angeles Airport. True, they don’t have any birds this size flying out of L.A., but I learned everything there is to know about keeping track of your inept butts when you’re in the air.”
Gunther laughed and looked at Captain Orton. “I wonder if the air-traffic controllers in California are so sensitive?”
Orton was busy studying the instrument panel. “Let’s get serious,” he stated somberly. “We both know what’s at stake on this flight. We’ve both flown the 757 on a dozen practice jaunts. Like Max, we’ve received the best training available. The Federation leaders consider this flight important for Federation morale. They see the airline service as a means of bringing the factions closer together. You heard President Toland.” He paused and grinned. “Let’s give the man his money’s worth.”
“Fine by me,” Gunther said.
“Stapleton Tower, we’re firing our engines,” Captain Orton announced formally.
“Roger, Flight 1 A,” Max replied in kind. “You are cleared to use Taxiway Nine to Runway Eighteen.”
“Thank you,” Captain Orton said, and proceeded to start the engines.
A swell of excitement undulated through the crowd as the huge aircraft thundered to life, and many applauded. A collective, hearty shout arose when the jet lumbered slowly to the left and headed along Taxi way Nine.
Captain Orton looked at his copilot. “Flaps?”
“They’re down,” Lieutenant Gunther confirmed.
“We wouldn’t want to make a basic blunder now,” Captain Orton remarked.
“I wonder how our passengers are doing?” Gunther mentioned.
Captain Orton flicked a switch. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We will be taking off shortly. Please insure your seat belts are fastened. Once we are airborne, we will circle Stapleton Airport once, then climb to an elevation of twenty thousand feet. I will address you again when we’re at cruising altitude. If you have any questions, just ask a stewardess. We hope you enjoy your trip, and trust you will fly Federation Airlines in the future.” He clicked off.
“How many do we have on board, anyway?” Gunther inquired, scanning the array of instruments before him.
“Toland finally decided to allow forty to take the flight,” Orton answered.
“Is that all?”
“I know we can carry almost four times that number, but forty passengers was all Toland would allow,” Captain Orton said.
“And every passenger won their seat in the lottery?”
Orton nodded while scrutinizing Runway 18. “A lottery was the fairest method of picking the first passengers. Otherwise, only those with connections, the rich and the powerful, would get a seat.”
The 757’s engines whined as the aircraft rolled onto the runway.
“It’s hard to believe this bird was built over one hundred and five years ago,” Gunther commented.
“The 757’s were put into service in the decade prior to the war,” Captain Orton casually noted, checking the rudders.
“The airline industry was in a shambles, and the passenger traffic had fallen off drastically. So many of the aircraft were past their prime and on the verge of obsolescence that there were incidents where the jets simply fell apart in midair. Several major crashes were blamed on structural stress from old age. The cost of jet fuel was at a premium, and the larger birds, the 747’s and such, became financially impractical to fly. The airlines were losing money hand over fist.”
“An that’s the reason they manufactured the 757’s?”
“Yep. The 757’s were the last of the new breed of aircraft, smaller, sleeker, and more fuel efficient. About fifty were put into service before the war.”
“I hope this one holds together.”
“Worrywart. The engineers and mechanics have gone over this bird with a fine-tooth comb. We’ve already flown fourteen hundred miles on our practice drills. She’ll hold together,” Captain Orton asserted.
“I’m ready when you are,” Gunther said.
“Stapleton Tower, this is Federation Airlines Flight 1A. We are ready for takeoff,” Orton announced.
Max responded immediately. “Flight 1A, you are cleared for takeoff on Runway 18. Happy flying.”
Captain Orton directed the 757 into the wind and opened the throttle, grinning as the aircraft hurtled forward. In 15 seconds the wheels lifted gently off the smooth surface and the 757 climbed into the air. He retracted the landing gear and pulled up the flaps.
“All systems appear normal,” Lieutenant Gunther stated.
The recently renovated buildings of Stapleton Airport appeared below them as they banked.
“You’re on your way!” Max declared happily.
“Roger, Tower,” Orton said smiling. He continued to ascend, executing a wide circle for the benefit of the passengers and the thousands on the ground now far below.
“I can’t get over how small everything is from up here,” Gunther observed. “The people look like ants.”
Captain Orton grinned, starting to relax, his gaze on the Rocky Mountains to the west, admiring the glistening, snowcapped peaks.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
“What?”
“I’m glad I qualified for this post. Flying is the only job for me.”
“Qualified?” Gunther said, and chuckled. “You tested out at the top of the applicants. No one is more qualified than you.”
“You came in second by two points,” Orton mentioned.
“Yeah,” Gunther said. “I still think you cheated.”
They both laughed, relieved to be up and away, anticipating the long flight to California with relish.
“Do you want me to buzz Gail for a coffee?” Gunther queried.
“Not yet,” Captain Orton replied. He inspected the vertical-speed indicator and the altimeter. “What’s the latest between you two anyway?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you going to ask her to marry you?”
Gunther glanced at the cockpit door. “Ssssh. She might walk in and hear you.”
“So?”
“So she’s been bugging me about marriage,” Gunther revealed. “She wants a December wedding.”
“And you don’t?”
“I’m not ready for marriage,” Gunther said.
“What are you waiting for? Old age?”
“You know me. I like playing the field. I’m not ready to settle down.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Orton stated. “I’ve been married for nine years, and I’ve loved every minute of it.”
“Even the four kids?”
“Especially the four kids.”
Gunther shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Handle a big family. My younger brother has a wife and two kids. Just two. If I go to visit for a week, they drive me up the wall. They yell and fight and spit and run all over the place. One of them even glued my shoes to the kitchen floor! I don’t know how anyone can handle a family.”
“All children go through phases.”
“Maybe so. But I’m not ready for kids, and I’m certainly not ready for marriage. What’s the rush? I have my whole life in front of me.”
Captain Ort
on gazed at the instrument panel. “We’re almost at twenty thousand feet.”
“Do you want me to take over?”
“Not yet, thanks. I like…” Orton began, then stiffened.
A brilliant flash of crimson light enveloped the cockpit, casting the instrument panel in an eerie reddish glow.
“What the hell!” Lieutenant Gunther blurted out.
Captain Orton could hear a muted, sizzling noise, and he reached up and tapped his headset.
“What’s going on?” Gunther asked, bewildered.
“I don’t know,” Orton admitted. The aircraft was still on course, steady and stable, but the sizzling was growing louder.
“What’s that sound?” Gunther inquired, gazing out the cockpit. “Look! Even the nose is glowing red!”
Captain Orton started to angle the 757 in a tight turn.
“What are you doing?”
“Returning to Stapleton,” Orton said. “I don’t like this.”
“What could it be?”
“Beats me,” Orton said, frowning, alarmed by a dramatic increase in the bizarre sizzling.
“Is it me, or is the temperature rising?” Gunther asked.
Captain Orton abruptly realized he was sweating profusely, and he looked at a circular gauge to his right. His breath caught in his throat.
“The temperature is climbing! It’s ninety in here!”
“It can’t be the engines,” Gunther said.
The cockpit door unexpectedly opened, and in dashed a lovely brunette in a prim blue uniform. “The passengers are scared to death. What’s happening?”
Gunther twisted in his seat. “We don’t know, Gail. Try and keep them calm.”
“It’s so hot.” she declared.
“We’re returning to Stapleton,” Captain Orton said. “Advise the passengers.”
“Will do,” Gail responded, and turned toward the door.
She never made it.
The red radiance intensified, attaining the shimmering luster of a miniature sun, while simultaneously the temperature soared, the heat blistering the occupants of the cockpit.
“Damn!” Lieutenant Gunther exclaimed. “I can hardly breathe!”
Captain Orton gasped as a violent vibration shook the aircraft, and he struggled to maintain control, but the 757 started to dive of its own accord.
Cincinnati Run Page 1
