Keeping the fires from joining, he thought, was going to be the rough equivalent of a miracle.
Chapter 9
STEIN AVIATION, WEST YELLOWSTONE AIRPORT, MONTANA
Trent Jones could feel his pulse pounding in his ears.
It was happening a lot lately, and he was afraid of what it might mean to his FAA medical qualification and his continued ability to pilot the machines he patched together as a mechanic.
The hangar was quiet, other than an occasional metallic clank from all the activity around the damaged DC-6B, but the whooshing in his ears seemed loud enough for everyone else to hear. He thought about his upcoming flight physical, and whether he should risk mentioning the phenomenon to his doctor.
“It’s stress, Trent,” Karen had told him the year before in her absolutely-sure-of-herself mode. “You haven’t figured that out yet?”
“Well, duh!” he’d fired back, irritated that she had to find an explanation or a solution for everything—and aware how screwy that complaint would sound if he voiced it. Men were always getting accused of trying to solve problems when a female just wanted sympathy, but the truth was, women like Karen could be just as irritating.
Of course, it wasn’t sympathy he’d been looking for, just a receptive ear, and his solution had been to stop talking with her about work or anything related to Jerry Stein’s business—especially during the fire season.
Trent glanced around in irritation, feeling exasperated that he couldn’t get a complete sentence out between Jerry’s incoming phone calls.
Stein was still pacing around in a far corner of the hangar, holding his tiny cell phone like a weapon and using a headset to chew royally on the caller with a liberal dose of profanity, his free hand gesturing for emphasis.
The cup of coffee Trent had retrieved like a glorified gopher for Jerry sat untouched on a workstand next to one of the mechanic’s battered FM radios, which had just been turned on. It was adding to his irritation by blaring hip-hop garbage into the night.
Trent cautioned himself to keep his temper in check.
Like all the other calls over the past half hour, Jerry had answered this one instantly, cutting his maintenance director off in midsentence with an upheld index finger, as if he were merely hitting a “pause” button.
Trent glanced over at his team of mechanics working on the twisted and torn engine mount for the right outboard engine nacelle. They were looking grim. He tried to recall exactly where he’d been in his explanation to Jerry. There was an intricate nature to the battles they faced in repairing and reflying Tanker 84, and he needed at least a little of the owner’s attention to explain it.
Jerry had apparently finished his call and was walking briskly back toward the DC-6B. “Sorry, Trent. Go ahead.”
“I was saying, I think, that getting an engine mount located and shipped here is going to be impossible inside a week, and that’s if we’re lucky.”
“Bullshit. This airplane’s going to be flying tomorrow.”
“How, Jerry?”
“Hell if I know. You’re the maintenance director. Direct some maintenance. Make one if you need one. The frickin’ feds aren’t around at midnight.”
Trent sighed again and rubbed his eyes before looking up. “Jerry, for God’s sake, we’ve been having a version of this conversation for years now. You tell me, ‘Fifteen minutes or die,’ and I tell you it will take at least a day, and you…you order me to work a miracle, and I try my heart out, and it ends up taking a full day just like I said it would. In other words, all your pressure can’t change the realities I have to work with, except to kill me with ulcers or a coronary.”
“You have an ulcer, Trent?” Jerry chuckled.
“Not yet.”
“Well, until you have your ulcer issued, I expect you to find a way to get this bird flying by tomorrow without cannibalizing another DC-6. We get paid, if you recall, by the hours we fly, not by the hours we sit on the ramp with broken airplanes. No flight hours, no contract, no job. Got that?”
Trent raised his hands in frustration. “I know you’ll go ballistic at this, but Jerry, the truth is, I only live in this dimension of reality, and the answer in this reality is that I can’t do it by tomorrow.”
Jerry Stein simply nodded and looked down for a few moments as if checking his shoes for something disgusting. With equal unpredictability, he snapped his eyes back to Trent as he pointed to Tanker 84, his voice surprisingly controlled.
“Follow me,” he said, moving toward the ladder leading to the cabin of the DC-6B. Trent trailed after him, noting how battered and ancient the old Douglas looked in the harsh glare of the hangar lights. On an anthropomorphic level he felt a growing kinship. He was feeling equally old and battered.
Jerry fairly bounded up the rickety metal stairs with Trent in trail and turned into the empty cabin. Now, more than a half century after its manufacture in Long Beach, California, the cabin reeked of the ammonia-based chemical essence of retardant instead of rich fabrics and fresh coffee. In the early fifties, eighty to ninety well-dressed passengers routinely had been seated in here, Trent thought, most of them puffing on their complimentary cigarettes as stewardesses in military-drab uniforms bustled around with pillows and drinks and chewing gum to relieve ear pressure.
There were probably ghosts in here, Trent decided—a thought that had softly tapped him on the shoulder more than a few late evenings when he’d entered one of the old Douglas airplanes and felt anything but alone. Thousands of fascinating human stories had to have shared briefly the space he was standing in.
Jerry had reached the rear of the cabin and was turning, his arms crossed beneath a pugnacious expression. For just a moment, Trent wondered if he was about to end up in a fistfight with his boss, but Jerry motioned him to sit on a plastic crate, his face deadly serious.
“I don’t want anyone overhearing this. You heard what I said in Operations a while ago, right?”
“Of course.”
“Paraphrase it.”
“What?”
“Tell me what I said, because I’m not sure you got it, cowboy.” Sharpness, almost anger, was creeping into his voice.
“Well, Jerry, you essentially said that there’s a growing movement in Washington, D.C., to give our mission to the military, or have the government buy a new set of tankers that we’d fly and maintain on contract.”
“Right. And what have I been racing around trying to get our senators to do?”
“I’m not following you?”
“Christ, Trent! Think. Why’d I send you to Arizona last year?”
“You mean, the trip to Davis-Monthan’s boneyard?”
“Of course.”
“Oh. Well, sure, we want to buy a bunch of the older airplanes they’ve got retired, like C-130s and maybe C-141s, and—”
“And for surplus prices! Especially since we’d have to refurbish them.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Jerry threw his hands up in a gesture of extreme frustration, and Trent reacted with a hurt expression.
“What?”
“Trent, I swear, sometimes you’re denser than a fence post.”
“Thanks a hell of a lot.”
“Look, man. You need to understand what we’re dealing with here. The DC-6s and DC-7s are probably going to be grounded for the rest of the season now, and the helicopter fleet, most of which we don’t own, accounts for over ninety percent of the firefighting capability nationwide, and while the Forest Service and the Bureau of Land Management like us a lot, they can put out their fires without us, and we don’t want them figuring that out. If Uncle decides to use their Air Force C-130s with the portable tanks, they wouldn’t need us at all. You getting this?”
Trent nodded, his face crimson.
Jerry Stein turned and paced a few steps toward the front before turning back.
“My political friends think they’re doing me and the other owners a big favor pushing the bill that would have the government buy a fle
et of tankers that we’d fly, like you said, but you know what? We can’t make any money flying government airplanes. Even if it’s the other idea which I had to say publicly sounded fine…where they give us low-interest loans to buy new planes and convert them…we still lose all the serious money. The margins would be paper thin, and it just won’t be worth it. I, for one, would close down and sell everything.”
Trent was struggling to control his temper and barely succeeding. Jerry’s condescension was pushing him to the limits.
“Jerry, we wouldn’t have all these maintenance headaches if we had newer airplanes—”
“Trent, dammit…” Stein’s voice was rising, his gestures becoming more manic as he warmed to the rant. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the maintenance expense for these old pelicans.”
“What? Jerry, you ride me constantly about every damn penny!”
“Yeah, but those expenses are a drop in the bucket compared to what we can make each season with airplanes that were paid for decades ago. We get to sign these amazingly lucrative contracts that lease our airplanes to Uncle Sugar as if our airplanes themselves were worth millions, and costing us maybe fifty grand a month per bird. Instead, they’re paid for and cost us nothing but maintenance. But, Trent, if we’re forced to really buy new stuff and pay fifty thousand per month per airplane in principal and interest, we’d make peanuts and the game would be over. What about flying a federally owned fleet? Then we’d get even fewer peanuts, because we’d be just renting out pilots. And, of course, if the military takes over completely? We get shit. You got it now? They change the game, the game is over.”
“Yeah.”
“The only way I continue to make serious money to pay your inflated salary and bonuses and keep cute little Karen happy is if we keep doing things the way we do things now. Even then, we’ve got maybe a year, tops, before Congress screws us.”
“A year, you think?”
Stein nodded fiercely. “In the meantime, if you hadn’t noticed, there’s a forest burning, a contract to fulfill, and a huge tub of money to be made. But if I can’t deliver the goods to the Forest Service…if I can’t provide the contracted-for airplanes because my maintenance chief wants to let a DC-6 sit in the hangar for a week rather than fixing and flying the damned airplane…the contract doesn’t work and our golden goose gets barbecued.”
“Look, Jerry—”
“You know what our margins are?” Jerry Stein leaned down, shaking his masticated, unlit cigar at Trent’s nose.
“No.”
“Absolute minimum, worst season? Eight percent. Best year? Forty percent profit. Forty percent, Trent, of millions. But I have to fly to get it. No dash, no cash.”
Trent tried not to let his jaw drop in shock. Jerry was always bitching about being on the ragged edge of bankruptcy when he’d been making millions per season? And you fly around in a ratty Lear 23, Trent thought to himself, recalling equally disturbing yell-fests over the maintenance expenses Jerry Stein had just dismissed as trivial.
“You know why I make that much?” Jerry continued. “Because, as I said, these airplanes are already bought and paid for! As long as I can use these planes, we’re a money machine. Of course, now I’m down by one whole DC-6, which the insurance company will almost pay for, and we’ve got two dead pilots whose families will try to sue and raise our insurance premiums some more, and we’re going to have the damned NTSB and FAA crawling all over our frames for weeks trying to figure out why the wing came off.”
“I know.”
“So why did it?”
Trent looked up, startled at the sudden ambush. “Ah…sorry?”
“The wing. The long thing on the right side of Tanker 86 that should still be bolted on? Why isn’t it?”
“I…” Trent snorted, both hands out, palms up. “Jerry, I haven’t got a clue. That bird was given a very thorough, very expensive, and very monitored inspection last fall by Sandia Labs at the direction of the Forest Service, as you well know. They did eddy current, they pulled the wing bolts and X-rayed them. Everything.”
“So why did it crash and kill Jeff and…and…oh yeah, Mike Head? You best be ready to answer that, because they’re sure as hell going to be asking.”
“I know.”
“I need planes in the air, including this one, by tomorrow. Otherwise, man, we’re on a slippery slope to oblivion.”
Trent took a deep breath and stood up, his hands on his hips. “Jerry, I’ll do my best.”
“Good.”
“But…given some of the things I’ve made happen for you over the past few years, maybe two other changes would be helpful now that I know you’re not starving.”
“Yeah?” Jerry replied, cocking his head in suspicious anticipation and already regretting his financial revelations.
“Yeah. For one thing, maybe you should be a bit less abusive when you talk to me. Okay? I’m not your lackey. And, second, maybe I should get a few more tiny percentage points of that eight-to-forty-percent gold mine I didn’t know you’d been raking in. After all, if I’m not your most loyal, hardworking employee, I’m the most important.”
“Or what?” Jerry asked with a carefully controlled sneer. “What would you do if I said no? Run to the FAA?”
Trent shook his head. “There is no ‘or,’ Jerry. I’m not threatening you, although…it probably isn’t the wisest of moves to completely piss off someone who knows where at least some of the bodies are buried.”
They stood and stared at each other for a few very long seconds before Jerry broke into a laugh and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Good bargaining, Trent. But…I really will see what I can do. You hang in there, meanwhile, and keep us flying.”
“Yeah.”
Jerry’s smile was broadening. “Hey, cheer up. I only yell at you ’cause I love ya, right?”
“Sure,” Trent said, keeping his anger in check and forcing a strained smile. “But I bet you say that to all the mechanics.”
Jerry smiled at the I’m-not-mad-at-you humor and waved as he bounded down the stairs and out of the hangar.
When he had gone, Trent climbed down from the airplane feeling distracted and suddenly disquieted by something Jerry had said.
What was it, and why was it disturbing him?
He stood at the base of the steps trying to remember, the memory returning after a few seconds.
Oh, yeah, Trent recalled. Jerry had referred to his wife as “cute little Karen,” and somehow that seemed like a red flag.
Or perhaps his reaction was nothing more than the pain of knowing what he was about to lose.
Chapter 10
WEST YELLOWSTONE, MONTANA
Less than a mile away from the West Yellowstone Airport, Judy Deason returned from the ladies room at the Grizzly Lounge to find Misty Ryan gone.
She quizzed the bartender and one of the waitresses in the adjacent restaurant, but no one had seen Jeff Maze’s longtime girlfriend leave, and a quick check of the street outside turned up only a passing truck and a bizarre-looking teenage couple with more punctured body parts and tattoos than brains, judging from the nonsensical argument they were having.
Judy went back inside and pulled out her cell phone. Bill Deason was relaxing in their motor home, which was parked in a cluster of RVs belonging to eight other pilots, a parking area located near the end of the runway adjacent to the Forest Service ramp. Bill answered his cell phone on the first ring.
“How was she, before she pulled her disappearing act?” Bill asked when Judy explained she was gone.
“Well, she cried a river all the way in from Jackson Hole, but she’d settled down to just being numb. Maybe quietly distraught. She was definitely drunk. She’s been knocking back straight Scotch as an anesthetic. You know our Misty. Just like she was at our tailgate party last summer. One minute she’s saying Jeff was the greatest male who ever lived; the next she’s calling him names that would embarrass a drunken sailor.”
She heard her
gentle husband laugh. “Now, wait a minute, Mrs. Deason, ma’am. Exactly how would a demure and proper lady like you be aware of what it would take to embarrass a drunken sailor?”
“We have cable.”
“Oh, yeah. I tend to forget.”
“Seriously, Bill. I’m sure she never for a moment gave up thinking that wild man was going to marry her someday. Her world has just been zapped into oblivion.”
“You want me to come look for her?”
“Yes! That’s what husbands are for.”
“Okay, but first go down the street and check the Coachman Lounge. They used to hang out there together and terrorize the bartender.”
The Coachman Lounge was just a few blocks away, and Judy pushed through the door just in time to see Misty onstage, trying to turn on the microphone, her body wobbling gently from the effects of the liquor and the pain. Her cascading mane of red hair seemed to be electrified and almost standing on end, her eyes glazed as she found the switch suddenly and overboosted the speakers, causing the customers to jump.
“HOW DO…I GET THIS DAMN THING…oh, shit…izz on. Sorrr-r-ry.”
Judy made a beeline for Misty, motioning her to be quiet and sit down.
“NO!” she boomed into the mike, pointing a weaving finger at Judy as she tried to hang on to her highball glass, which was sloshing house rum in all directions as she teetered. She looked around at the other people in the bar, most of whom were well aware of who she was and what she’d lost.
“THISSS…” she overboosted again, then repeated the drawn-out word more quietly as she pointed the glass at Judy.
“Thisss…wunnerful woman right here is Chewdy…Judy…decent. Izza different word, see, Deason, which izzer name…BUT…she’s the most de CENT girl I know. AND…didja know that she has a husband? Yeah! How ’bout that? An’ he’s still alive.”
“Misty, please, come with me.”
Misty ignored Judy.
“I never had a hussand…husband.” She shook her head and looked around. “No-o-o-o sirree, Robert! Didn’t. Jeff was supposed to be my husband, and he…he sure felt like my husband in bed…but didja know that ’cause his airplane went south for the winter and did stuff…he couldn’t keep it glued together today and so…he’s all gone! Still dead. Bur-r-r-rned up beyond recognition. You might say heezza crispy critter, see? Can’t sleep with a crispy critter.” She tried to laugh through a cascade of tears. “Well, a girl can try t’sleep with a crispy…critter…but charcoal’ll get all over the sheets, see—”
Fire Flight Page 12
