Life, Love, & Laughter

by S. L. Menear

  I passed the flight test in the Twin Otter. While I waited to take off for my test on the Shorts 330, an airplane landing gear-up crashed right in front of us, but no one was injured. The fed onboard was also an accident investigator. My chief pilot suggested we drop him off so he could investigate the crash. The fed made more veiled threats against female pilots and said the wreck would still be there when we finished.

  I had to fly all the flight maneuvers perfectly so the fed wouldn’t have an excuse to fail me. It’s a good thing I passed because by the time we were finished, my boss looked like he was about to punch out the fed. It felt good to have somebody on my side for a change.

  I loved my job as a commuter airline pilot flying Shorts 330s and 360s (they looked like Winnebagos with wings) and STOL (Short Take Off and Land) Twin Otter prop jets. The airplanes didn’t have autopilots. That was my job. On a typical day, I flew several short roundtrips from my base in Lancaster, PA, to Newark, NJ, Allentown, PA, and La Guardia Airport in NYC in the Shorts. Afterward, I switched to the Twin Otter for a late trip to JFK International Airport or Philadelphia.

  The Twin Otter was the most fun because it could take off and land in very short distances and cruise at a decent speed. My copilot job exposed me to bad weather, hundreds of instrument approaches, and lots of landings, so I was well prepared when the time came to apply to USAir (later changed to US Airways and now American Airlines) a year later.

  Thanks to recommendations from my old boss at Pan Am and my chief pilot at the Allegheny Commuter, I was granted an interview with USAir right before their big hiring wave. My first hurdle? A flight test in a DC-9 simulator. I’d never flown a jet airliner or a flight simulator. Back to sink or swim.

  The DC-9 simulator flew like most airplanes, but everything happened faster because it simulated a jet. My instrument skills were excellent from all my bad weather experience, so I passed the flight test, even making a smooth landing. What a relief!

  Next, I was grilled in a conference room by six senior captains who barraged me with questions that would be illegal today. I managed to convince them they could count on me to do a good job and not be a “pain-in-the-ass whiny broad like the first one they hired who quit when her husband complained she was gone too much.”

  I assured them if my husband disapproved, I’d find a new husband, which would be far easier than landing a pilot job with a major airline. They laughed. I won them over and endured six hours of the strangest written tests I’ve ever taken. I still wonder why the recipe for quiche, whether red or chartreuse was easier to spot from a distance, or if men were smarter than women were typical questions on that six-hour PILOT test. Maybe they ran out of aviation-related questions but needed to keep the test going long enough to see if they could wear down the applicants.

  They saved the flight physical for last, but that was easy, except for the one-hour interrogation by the doctor. He asked the same questions the senior captains had asked. I guess they planned to compare notes later.

  I was the only woman in the first new-hire class of ten pilots, and most of the men were captains’ sons. We were all trained to be BAC 1-11 copilots, which involved some exciting late-night training in the airplane because the simulator was too primitive, using visuals from a video recorder that operated above a toy train board with model towns, rivers, hills, and an airport to give us a view out the cockpit window.

  My training partner had been a Navy fighter pilot, and our instructor had been an Air Force fighter pilot and the first Thunderbird—absolutely fearless, until we practiced the stalls. At 15,000 feet, the instructor’s voice filled with tension as he reminded me our jet would lose 15,000 feet in the first turn if it entered a spin. Translation: If you screw this up, Sharon, we’re all gonna die!

  Everyone survived.

  After three months in the British airliner, I moved to copilot on the B727, the queen of the fleet at that time. Normally, a new pilot would stay on the initial airplane for the first year, but the chief pilot asked me, and the pilots hired with me, to upgrade to the 727 so they wouldn’t have to put pilots directly from a new-hire class into their biggest airplane. Apparently, he didn’t consider three months of experience to be “new.”

  Pilots received one week of 727 ground school followed by written and oral exams, then six days of flight-simulator training, involving every emergency imaginable, followed by the flight check. We also got some fun late-night training in the 727 because the simulator wasn’t approved for everything. The reason all training flights were conducted late at night was because the airplanes were used for passenger flights during other times.

  After a few years on my favorite, the 727, I flew copilot on the DC-9 and B737 to prepare me for upgrading to captain. That was because the copilot position on the 727 was too easy. The flight engineer did the preflight walk arounds and handled all the aircraft systems. All I had to do was fly the airplane or talk on the radio. The fun stuff.

  No flight engineers on DC-9s and B737s, hence more duties and daily experience with the electrical, hydraulic, fuel, and air-conditioning systems. And exterior preflight inspections, rain or shine.

  After six years as copilot, I earned my fourth stripe and flew as captain on the BAC 1-11s, then later the DC-9s, and finally the B737s.

  During my twenty-year airline pilot career, I also flew antique, military, and exotic experimental aircraft on my days off. I helped my husband restore antique airplanes and build experimental aircraft. My favorites were the fully aerobatic German Bücker Jungmann biplane, Italian SIAI Marchetti SF260, Glassair III, Swearingen SX300, Russian Yak 52, and Piper Cub Special.

  Years of high-adrenaline activities finally took their toll. I developed a rare eye disease called central serous retinopathy (CSR), which damages the center of vision when the patient experiences any kind of stress that produces an adrenaline response.

  I had to take an early retirement. It took three years for me to accept I needed to stop doing all the exciting things I’d loved most of my life, not just the flying. No more riding my stallion or my motorcycle. No more surfing, snow skiing, or scuba diving.

  No more fun.

  Lost, I almost drowned in another sink-or-swim situation.

  My dear mother rescued me by convincing me to become an author, urging me to draw from my experiences to write action thrillers. It took me four years to learn how to write novels well enough to get a publishing contract.

  My first book, Deadstick Dawn, which features a young female airline pilot, won the Royal Palm Literary Award for Best Unpublished Thriller. Two years later, it was published, followed by several more books in the series.

  Deadstick Dawn is Book One in my Samantha Starr Series. Book Two is Poseidon’s Sword, Book Three is Blaze, Book Four is Stranded, and the fifth book, Vanished, will be published soon. (Note: The first 3 books are being re-published with new titles by a new publisher.)

  Good thing my parents taught me how to swim.

  Unbelievable

  D.M. Littlefield

  Tracie Scott smoothed her long red hair as she stepped off the elevator into the elegant hotel lobby in lower Manhattan. Her red stilettos clicked on the polished marble floor as she strode toward the front desk.

  The reception clerk nudged the man beside him who was focused on the computer monitor. “Look, here she comes, the beauty I was telling you about.”

  The man looked up. “Wow, you didn’t exaggerate. I like her thick shiny hair.” He sighed. “I’d love to meet her.”

  A bellboy overloaded with a mountain of packages collided with Tracie, and three packages fell to the floor.

  “Geez, I’m sorry,” he said.

  “No problem, let me help you,” Tracie said in a sweet, Southern drawl.

  She set her Prada purse on the floor to gather the errant packages and rearrange them in his arms so he could peek through. “Can you see all right now?”

  The bellboy blushed. “Yes, miss, thank you.”

  “You’re welc
ome.” Tracie smiled, picked up her handbag, and strolled to reception.

  She handed the clerk her room key. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, miss,” both men said in unison.

  “Wish me luck. I have an appointment with the editor-in-chief at Black Stallion Publishing. I sure hope she decides to publish my book.”

  “What kind of book is it?” a clerk asked.

  She leaned close to read his name tag, her long lashes fluttering over her emerald-green eyes. “You’d like it, David. It’s an action thriller.”

  Both desk clerks’ eyebrows arched. Guests rarely addressed them by name, more often treating them like invisible servants.

  David nervously straightened his tie. “Sounds like a winner. I’ll be rooting for you.”

  The other clerk stepped forward to flash his name tag. “I’m Jack. Tell us more about your book.”

  “Well, Jack, the story is set in the hill country of east Texas. Islamic terrorists hide in an abandoned ranch house and build suicide bombs they intend to use to exact revenge for al-Qaeda by blowing up former President Bush while he’s at home on his ranch. A beautiful young woman married to a Texas Ranger stumbles upon the terrorists while searching for her lost horse on the ranch land. The ranger races to rescue his wife and thwart the bombers before time runs out.” She smiled. “My book is very fast-paced.”

  “Sounds exciting. What’s the title?” Jack asked.

  “Texas Terror. Thanks for asking.” Tracie tilted her head and offered her hand. “I’m Tracie Scott, pleased to meet you. Folks back home in Texas said New Yorkers weren’t friendly. I’m glad ya’ll proved them wrong.” She brightened the room with her smile as she waved good-bye.

  Both clerks sighed as she sauntered off, her red hair gracefully bouncing against her shapely form.

  Harry Stone, head of hotel security, glanced over his broad shoulder as he joined them. He plucked the unlit cigar from his mouth, leaned against the counter, and grinned. “That girl’s a real bright spot in this bleak city.”

  Tracie swept through the revolving doors into the sunlight. She smiled at the doorman in his red uniform with gold braid when he asked if she wanted a cab. “No, thank you, Mike. It’s such a nice day, I think I’ll walk. Black Stallion Publishing is only four blocks that way, isn’t it?” She pointed to her left and showed him the business card.

  He glanced at the address. “Yes, miss, but they’re long blocks.”

  “I don’t mind. I have plenty of time.”

  She was only twenty yards from the hotel when a disheveled young man leaped out from the shadows of an alley and grabbed her Prada purse. Though startled, she clutched it to her body.

  He glared at her with glazed, bloodshot eyes. “You’d better let go, lady!”

  “No!” Tracie yelled. “My friend loaned it to me.”

  He yanked on the handbag while she screamed for help and kicked him.

  “Ow!” He pulled a switchblade from his jeans pocket, flicked it open, and stabbed her.

  When the doorman saw the glint of a knife plunging into Tracie’s abdomen, he shouted for the bellboy to call 9-1-1 as he ran to help her.

  She collapsed as her assailant bolted down the alley. Mike knelt beside her and pressed his linen handkerchief against her bleeding wound. Her eyes fluttered closed as a crowd gathered.

  Sirens wailed as police cars arrived, followed by an ambulance. An unmarked car with a pulsing dashboard light skidded to a stop alongside them. A tall, muscular detective stepped out and asked the police to move the crowd and clear a path for the paramedics. He knelt beside the redhead and looked for identification. No handbag. He swore under his breath as he stood to make room for the stretcher and gazed at her face. Too beautiful to be a Jane Doe.

  He flashed his badge at the crowd. “Can anyone identify this woman?”

  “Her name’s Tracie Scott,” Mike said. “She’s staying back there at the Grand Hyatt Hotel. The desk clerk can give you more information. I heard her screaming and ran over. She fought like a wildcat when the creep tried to grab her handbag. He stabbed her in the gut and ran into the alley with her handbag.”

  After the paramedics finished working on Tracie, they lifted her onto a stretcher.

  One of the medics turned to the detective. “It doesn’t look good. She’s lost a lot of blood.” He glanced at his partner. “Start an IV, and I’ll notify the ER we’re on our way.”

  Tracie moaned in pain. “Get Prada handbag ... behind dumpster ... Manny’s Smoke Shop.”

  The detective leaned down. “Wait! What’s she saying?”

  “She won’t be saying much more if we don’t get her to the hospital,” a medic said.

  The detective tilted his ear close to her mouth. “Can you repeat that?”

  “Get handbag ... behind dumpster ... Manny’s Smoke Shop.”

  Tracie lost consciousness. The medics shoved the stretcher into the ambulance and raced off with their siren wailing.

  The detective scribbled on his pad as he asked the doorman, “Did anyone chase the assailant?”

  “No, I was trying to help her, but I can describe the creep,” Mike said.

  “Good, let’s have it.” He took notes as he followed the doorman into the hotel to talk to the desk clerks.

  When the detective told them what happened, they looked crestfallen.

  “Oh no, not her! She’s just a sweet, small-town girl from Tyler, Texas,” David said.

  “She’s here because she wrote a novel, Texas Terror,” Jack said.

  “She was here to meet with an editor at Black Stallion Publishing,” Mike said.

  The detective wrote it all down and asked for her room key.

  He hoped to find an easy way to notify her family.

  After searching Tracie’s room, he ran his fingers through his thick black hair. “Damn, nothing useful here.” His intense blue eyes filled with concern as he contemplated the impression she had made on the hotel staff. They obviously were concerned about her. Too bad they had only her business address and not her home phone.

  He ordered a cup of coffee in the hotel coffee shop and sipped it while reviewing his notes.

  Harry Stone from hotel security settled next to him. “Good morning, Mark. I hoped you’d get this case.” He smoothed his thick gray hair. “That little gal from Texas needs the best man on the job. Think she’ll be all right?”

  “I don’t know, Uncle Harry. The medics were worried about blood loss. Can you tell me anything about her?”

  Harry tilted his chair back, smiled, and removed the cigar from his mouth. “Well now, after twenty years in this business, I’ve learned how to read people by their body language, behavior, and especially their eyes. A person’s eyes reveal their soul. That sweet girl has the most honest green eyes I’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s nice, but do you have anything more concrete?”

  “Most people give me a dirty look when they see a cigar in my mouth, even though it’s unlit. You know I gave up smoking years ago, but I still like the taste. In the elevator with me, she smiled and said my cigar brought back fond memories of her Uncle Bob, who taught her how to ride horses on his ranch.”

  Mark rolled his eyes. “Is there anyone in this hotel who isn’t charmed by Tracie Scott?”

  He grinned at his nephew. “Well now, I don’t know. How about you?”

  “Aw, Uncle Harry, give me a break. You’re always trying to play matchmaker for me.” He held his palms up. “I admit she’s beautiful, but I’ll know when the right girl comes along. I plan to pick her out myself.”

  “Point taken. Please keep me informed on Tracie’s condition. The hotel staff will want to know as well.” He reinserted his cigar and drifted off into the lobby.

  Mark paid his tab and left. He lamented it might be days before he could talk to Tracie, if she survived. His only lead was her whispers about Manny’s Smoke Shop. He drove around the block, found the shop, and parked in the alley behind it.

 
; “Bingo.” He found a large handbag wedged behind the dumpster and looked inside. No wallet. Just lipstick, a brush, a notepad, and a business card with Tracie’s name, address, and phone number.

  He shook his head. How did she know her handbag was behind the dumpster? She was losing consciousness and couldn’t have seen her assailant throw it there.

  Mark drove to the hospital to check on Tracie’s condition before notifying her family. She was still in surgery, so he settled into the waiting room.

  Twenty minutes later, a surgeon strode into the room.

  “Anyone here for Tracie Scott?”

  “Detective Mark Evans.” He flashed his badge. “Is she going to be all right? I need to notify her family.”

  The surgeon nodded. “The wound was deep, but she’ll pull through. She lost a lot of blood and needed transfusions. She’s in recovery, but she’ll be unconscious for a good while. I suggest you come back tomorrow. We’ll keep a close watch on her. You can tell the family her prognosis is good, barring infection.”

  Mark called his Uncle Harry with the good news and asked him to direct a hotel maid to pack Tracie’s suitcase. Harry could store it in his office after closing out her room.

  The next morning, Mark visited Tracie and flashed his badge. “Hello, I’m Detective Mark Evans. How’re you feeling?”

  “Weak and sore but happy to be alive.” She forced a smile.

  “Do you mind answering a few questions?”

  “No, I just hope you can find the Prada handbag. It belongs to my friend, Brittany. She’s a fashion diva and insisted I borrow her purse. She thought it would impress the editor.” Concern clouded her green eyes.