|
Accompaniment
He was about to fasten his seat belt when he said, “I forgot something.” He lifted the shoulder harness over his head, unlocked the door and opened it. By the time she’d absorbed what he’d said, he had stepped out into the dimly lit hanger. From the co-pilot seat she turned around to the passengers and said in Expranco, “we will be leaving in just a minute.” She tried not to stare in frustration at the pilot’s back, and hoped the passengers were not staring in frustration at her. It had been hard enough to get everyone in the plane at the same time, now she feared some would get out again to take another picture. He walked stiffly towards the back of the hanger, his hands thrust into the pockets of his old jeans. The floor was cracked concrete, stained and polished with oil. Along the wall parallel to the airplane was a row of workbenches in dark wood, covered with a spray of wrenches, bolts, cutters, measuring instruments, engine parts and gauges. Shelves above the benches held grease-stained manuals, bins of screws and myriad other small items. Near the back corner of the hanger there was a wooden door leading to a storage room. He pushed the door open and went into an even darker space. A few feet wide, it was full of boxes. A propeller was propped against the back wall. He didn’t turn on the bare hanging bulb, the faint illumination from the main hanger was enough. He knew this storeroom, it was his bedroom. Near the back, on the sidewall was a thin mattress from a cot lying on a plywood sheet stretched over several parts bins. He approached his bed, kneeled down in front of it, bowed his head and prayed, five times quickly, “Lord Jesus come to my aid, O God make haste to help me.” He did the sign of the cross, and rose pushing himself up with his hands, wincing at the pain in his knees. He went back to the plane, walking slowly, limping a bit, looking at the ground. * From the trip journal of William Synder I admit I was a little nervous about flying on some crazy plane, what sort of maintenance would they have done, and probably not much training either. But, we were standing around just before take off getting a briefing from the guide. She was explaining really complicated things like, “don’t take flash pictures of military,” – are people that stupid? Yea, probably so. Anyway, I was looking around at our plane, I’d heard about these DF500s, that some were still flying here, and there it was. I’d always hoped I’d get a chance to fly on one, they are so classic. I saw this guy, obviously the pilot, doing his walk around. I started watching him. He was being so slow, taking his time, looking at everything. He held each propeller blade like it was solid gold. He touched everything. I just knew he knew every weld of that airplane, every wire. He opened up all these access panels, looked inside, closed them up so carefully, patted them after he’d closed them. I figured we were safe. * The pilot and the guide ran through the checklist for engine start, their hands playing a duet on the controls, their voices making rhythm as they ran down the items. She was not a pilot but he had insisted she learn to work the checklists with him. She’d seen him take off by himself, or do the whole procedure when someone else had been sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, but he claimed he needed her to do this with him. Just before he was to hit the engine start button, he looked out of the windshield, caught the eye of the kid standing by the closed hanger door and pointed at him, smiling solemnly. The kid sprang into action, bending his back against the heavy, metal door. He pushed like his life depended on it and slowly the heavy door scraped along its dirt-filled track and groaned open. The pilot hit the start button and engine number one whined to life. He looked to his left and watched the propeller blades slowly turn, the turbine catch and the engine run up to idle. They clicked quickly through the rest of the checklist and she waited for him to start number two. For some reason he liked to wait a bit, watching the first one they had started. He glanced down at the center panel where the engine controls were, and saw that number one was showing nominal. “Engine start checklist, number two.” They ran through the rest of the checklist. Once number two had started to turn, but before it was delivering power, he released the brakes, and steered the aircraft with power from the first engine out of the hanger onto the tarmac. The night was almost full, with just a glow from the west coming over the hangers. They swiveled around and headed for the southern end of the airport. This had once been Kansas City’s main airport, before the building of a new one north of the metro area. After the rebellion, the military took over the commercial airport. Major airlines could still use it under tight control. Flights like this one found it less burdensome to launch themselves from a taxiway of the older airport. All the runways had been built over or dug up. The airport was deserted except for the three or four resistance members who’d come to see them off, showing their thanks for the visitors. Standing by the hanger door, they waved at the passengers and crew. The flight was neither prohibited nor allowed. If challenged, they’d say they were only going 120 miles to Manhattan. By the time they reached the end of the runway, both engines had warmed up. On the taxi there, the pilot had tested all the controls to the commands of the co-pilot. They got to the end of the runway just as they finished. She’d get out the maps after they were airborne. Anyway, he knew the route by heart. He nodded at her. She turned around, reminded the passengers once again about seatbelts and not to move around until she said it was OK. She turned back, settled in her seat and cinched her belt and shoulder harness down tight. For a second or two they hung there, absolutely silent, the pilot staring at the end of the runway. She tried not to be impatient. “Takeoff,” he called. He pushed the two throttle levers to 25% power, held them there for a second to verify both engines were accelerating and then pushed the levers forward to 85%. The turbines whined up as the aircraft started to move forward. Her heart sank. 85%? Another slow roll. Last time he’d only set 80% and they had staggered into the air, gaining altitude slowly, wallowing far too close to the buildings for her. Why so slow? she’d demanded after they landed. “It has more dignity,” he’d shrugged. “A crash has no dignity,” she’d responded. She’d had to think about his answer for a couple of days before she’d figured out what he meant. He was slow, dignified. He walked slow, he talked slow. His face moved slowly. He flew their little plane like it was the greatest of jetliners, hardly ever making it dance and swoop across the sky like it was capable of, preferring stately turns and elaborately lined up approaches. Another had commented on this, teasing the pilot for a swelled head, thinking he was captain of the president’s plane. She knew that was not his reason at all. She had been relieved back in the hanger when he’d told her a rotation speed five knots faster than last time. They’d have more speed before committing to the air. Bouncing down the uneven taxiway, they reached the critical speed. “Vee Rrr” she called out. He pulled the control yoke back and the nose rotated upward and they rose into the air with more dignity than last time, she thought. At fifty feet off the ground he began a slow, very slow, turn to the west. At five hundred feet she got out the maps and navigation card, but they’d set the radios on the ground. At fifteen hundred feet over the western suburbs he began to level off and set cruise power. He’d merge them into the skyway. Their aircraft ran with the transponder turned off and the recognition lights intentionally dimmed. With all their electronics and lights dimmed, they would avoid having them register on the air traffic control radar, or attract the attention of other flights, or so they hoped. They took the responsibility to stay out of the way of anyone else. She assisted him on a sweep of the horizon. Once fully into the skyway, though at an altitude under other potential traffic, he nodded at her. She turned around and began talking to the passengers. “You can unbuckle your seatbelts now, but we really recommend you keep them on. As you know, we will go to Manhattan to refuel. We have enough to make it into the mountains without refueling, but this will give us more reserve and it will help our story if we are seen to land, and we sign in there.” Nine eager faces were leaning forward in their seats, straining to listen to her over the engine noise. “We’re flying west, you’ll see the Kansas River below us. We’ll go just north of Lawrence. Lawrence was founded by people opposed to slavery. You know how in the first war for freedom fought on this land that it was burned by the forces of repression. The Resistance honors it as one of the places of martyrdom and inspiration for the second struggle for freedom.” She turned back around, always wondering what these speeches meant to their passengers. The pilot could bury himself with the technical things; she had to deal with a dozen passengers. Each trip was completely different. So far this one was going well, no one had really panicked so far. She sighed; she should remember the sacrifice that people were making to come here. * From the trip journal of Efantua Smith When I saw the plane I just about freaked! It was so tiny, and the walls were so thin. And that pilot! He looked about a million years old. I just about quit. But Jane and Kelly and I decided that if we died together it would just be so romantic. We were talking about our funeral and how everyone would say nice things. Then we just started giggling, and I felt better. I really want to see the children, that’s what I came for. Those stories we heard were just so tragic. I can’t believe what the government does here. Oops, I shouldn’t say that, we were told not to put too much politics in our trip journals. I’m really tired out. First the flight here went on forever and they didn’t tell us much. Then all that spookiness about getting to the airport. Have to leave our hotel at night, dodge all over the city, have a cover story. I don’t really think we’re likely to get stopped. God, I don’t know what I’d say. I’d never make it as a spy! Our guide, Jananta, just seems so heroic. She tells us about all this stuff, and it doesn’t bother her. Says this is her ninth time taking people on an accompaniment trip. Can you believe it?! I had to screw up my courage for months to do this. Some of the previous trips have actually gotten to walk with refugees as they go back to their homes in the little villages near Georgetown. That would just be awesome! Of course, the one that got zapped by one of the Guardians wasn’t so cool. They claim they’re more careful now. Anyway, we’ll get to see some villages, meet the people, hear their stories. That will be good too. I hear these revolutionary villages are just amazing. * Juanta and the pilot exchanged a few comments as the flight progressed westward. She impatient to get past Manhattan. It was the most risky part of the trip, but also the most peaceful. She posted the navigation cards and he nodded acknowledgement. She had persuaded him they should do a scan early in the trip. The movement unnerved some of their passengers, and she wanted them used to it before they went on the long jump and their lives depended on her doing a good scan. He couldn’t see the reason for it, no Guardian came this far east, but he gave into her. “Scan?” she said into her headphone, and he nodded. She unbuckled and slid her feet up onto the seat, pushing up with her arms. Awkwardly she turned around, half standing on her seat. Everyone was looking at her. “I’m going to scan the horizon, part of our precautions. I’ll do this several times during the trip.” She turned around again, facing front, reached out with one foot and put it on the arm rest of the pilot’s seat. He always moved his arm away from her when she did this. Grabbing for handholds, she stood up. Above the center of the cockpit was a shallow bubble of plastic that Resistance mechanics had added to the plane. Standing with one foot on his armrest and one on her's, she was tall enough for her head and shoulders to extend into the bubble. Once there, she raised her arms and tugged on a cord and a cloth snugged around her torso, blocking what little light came from below. A pair of headphones was plugged in up here and she put them on to communicate with the pilot if needed. A small pair of binoculars was clipped to the side and she pulled them out as well. Up here was like being in another world. The bubble allowed her an unobstructed view of the starry expanse of the night sky. Up here there was no politics, no group to lead, no problems. She looked overhead for a long moment, just to see the stars. Then, using the binoculars she looked carefully around in all directions, seeing no aircraft at all. She did a second scan. She never wanted to come back down. But she had to. Slowly she unhooked and stowed her gear and climbed down, got her self seated again, and told the pilot they were clear. He nodded. |