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Hazy View - Short Story


Kynedath

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Hey, I wrote a thing for school, and I just handed it in, but I wanted to know what you guys thought of it. A bit of background, I'm a pilot, this is an exaggerated story about something that happened to me, and this is based on last summer where I was accepted onto a $50,000 scholarship to get my private pilot's license in seven weeks through the air cadet program in Canada.

Without further ado, here is Hazy View.

Spoiler

The dim sun stared through a smoky sky at the young man as he replaced the gas cap on the top of the wing, giving it one last turn to lock it in place. He could still smell the remaining 100LL fuel of the plane’s gas tanks.The dipstick had read 15 gallons, easily surpassing the minimum limit for the planned flight.

Stepping off the strut of Cessna-172 C-GGAD and walking around to the pilot’s door, the 17 year old pilot in training assessed the weather conditions. Smoke was abundant, but the visibility was still within the limits of visual flight regulations. The winds were reasonable, there was no precipitation in the area, cloud bases were higher than the planned flight exercises, the weather was predominantly exceptional.

After replacing the dipstick in the pouch on the back of the pilot’s seat, he closed the door and headed inside the flight school to meet his instructor. The door swung open as he was approaching it, and Eastwood strolled out, as confident as his namesake in Hang ‘Em High. His ridiculously oversized belt buckle reflected the dull sunlight onto the tarmac.

“Going out for your cross-country East?”

“Nah, I still got a few more solos to practice my approach and landing. Trashcan thinks that I still need some work there.”

“Ah, too bad dude. But you’ll get there. My bet is you’ll be good for it tomorrow.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for. Oh hey, can I use your jerry can?”

“Sure, it’s right beside GADdy.”

“Thanks Phantom! Good luck out there!”

With that, Phantom turned his back to Eastwood and continued inside. The aircraft’s logbook was sitting in a cupboard to the right of the doorway, so on his way past, he casually swung the door open and snatched the large leather binder from it’s perch. As he checked the time until next inspection in the document book, his instructor Bells was walking up to the reception counter after his debrief with Razer.

“Hey student! You ready for your flight?”

The young man pushed his worries to the side. He had done this plenty before. His instructor trusted him to go solo and he knew what to do if something went south. That was what he was training for after all. Besides, he loved flying! He had put countless hours of effort into getting this scholarship. His nerves could shove off.

“Of course! Visibility is down somewhat, but other than that, it looks perfect for practice precautionaries. I have plenty of fuel, logs are up to date, I’ve got my maps, I’m good to go!”

“Perfect, but I still need to brief you on the mission. Let’s head into the kitchen for a couple minutes shall we?

As the pair wandered into the kitchen ten feet away, Phantom caught a glimpse of five other students taking practice Transport Canada exams through an open doorway. He had passed his just two days ago with a mark that was nothing to scoff at.

The ground school had been intense and fast-paced, but with only 7 weeks to complete an entire pilot’s license, that was a necessity. Bells was a civilian instructor and had taken two entire years to complete his license.

Nevertheless, the tension in the practice exam room was palpable, and he could even tell that Buttercup was stressing over the navigation portion. Her head was in her hands staring at a large visual navigation chart, assumably searching frantically for some location to complete her calculations.

He passed the room in an instant, moving through the doorway to his right into the kitchen. Bells opened the fridge and grabbed a coke from the door, cracking it open as the door swung closed. “Take a seat.” Bells said while grabbing one for himself.

Phantom sat at the table across from Bells and looked up at the instructor. damnation, the man was tall! He towered over Phantom even when sitting down. He was a published science fiction author, and had thousands of hours in planes that Phantom hadn’t even heard of. All in all, it was fairly intimidating considering that Bells was only 26. But his easy-going demeanor made up for it and set Phantom as ease quickly.

“So I take it you already know what you’re going to be doing this flight, but I want to remind you that even though you’re going to be getting pretty low with your precautionary landings, you still have minimum altitudes to maintain. Plus, with that smoke coming in from the west, your visibility is going to be a lot lower than you’re used to. But you’re generally pretty good with those types of things. I have no doubt you’ll get back safe!”

There was a miniscule voice in the back of Phantom’s head that told Bells not to be so sure, but the voice was swiftly and violently squashed by logical thinking. Phantom had flown in worse weather before, and he knew the minimums. Plus, with his experience flying sailplanes the summer previous, he had plenty of skill to back up his claims. There was hardly anyone else on the scholarship with his level of stick and rudder control.

Bells took a swig of his coke.

“Remember that you have one hour out there. And bring the plane back safely okay? And take notes on what you did well and what you need to improve on!”

“You got it boss! I’ll be back before dinner!”

“Hah!” Bells snorted “You just had lunch ya goon, be back in an hour or else Terry ‘ll kill us both!”

It was probably an exaggeration, but just to be safe, Phantom decided to believe Bells in that regard. Terry was the Chief Flight instructor for Super-T Aviation, and man alive did she ever have a temper when one of her pilots screws up!

With that, Phantom got up and left the table. Walking back past the classroom, he noticed that Buttercup was still hunched over the same map, though whether she was looking for the same place or another was anyone’s guess.

Phantom grabbed his kneeboard from the coffee table in the foyer and started for the door to the tarmac. As he opened the door like he had dozens of times before, the shrouded sun hit his face and revealed the grin he bore. Flying was his passion, and fly he would.

 

Even though the sunlight was subdued, the summer heat was sweltering enough to make Phantom miserable in the cockpit of the small airplane. Beads of sweat sluggishly rolled down his brow under his white Cessna ballcap. He had taken off his flight suit earlier in the day to prevent heat exhaustion. The days were only getting hotter and more agonizing as the summer went on. But it was all worth it once he was in the air. At that point the airflow would cool down the cabin enough to be quite refreshing.

Before him lay a complex entanglement of instruments, all used for various purposes throughout his flights. Dials were rotating slowly, images were displayed on instruments like the artificial horizon, the heading indicator matched the reading from the magnetic compass, the engine instruments were all in the green arc. On the right side of the control panel was the radio equipment and the transponder, below everything else were the throttle and mixture controls.

The engine emitted a dull droning near idle on the ground. At the current power setting, the RPM was sitting just over 800 on his Tachometer. Perfectly normal. He was sitting on the run-up ramp facing the runway across a swath of field. The southern Alberta landscape perfectly flat. That was to be expected this close to the saskatchewan border.

Phantom had just completed the engine checks on the ground and was listening to the radio chatter in the Medicine Hat area. Once he found an opening, he would contact the tower in order to let them know of his intentions. Until then, he tried to make a mental map of where all of the other planes in the area were. It was a practice Bells had taught him on their third flight, and a crucial ability to have as a pilot, commercial or otherwise.

Finally there was a pause in the radio activity. Phantom jumped on the opportunity to communicate with the tower. He pressed the red Push-To-Talk (PTT) button on the control yoke in front of him, jabbing his thumb on the stiff nub of plastic.

“Medicine Hat Radio, Cessna 172 Golf Golf Alpha Delta”

Within seconds, he could hear the advisory’s calm voice through his headset. It sounded like David was at the radio today. He had plenty of experience with student pilots, so this would be a relaxing conversation.

“Cessna 172 Golf Golf Alpha Delta, Medicine Hat Radio, Good Afternoon.”

“Medicine Hat Radio, Run-up complete with information Mike, intending taxi Alpha for take-off runway 21 for the North-East practice area.”

“Golf Alpha Delta, for the North-East practice area, your winds are currently 200 at 8 knots, transponder code 1-1-7-6, taxi at your discretion, request you hold short 21.”

“Squawking 1-1-7-6, taxiing alpha to hold short 21.”

The exchange had become routine for Phantom, the words becoming a mantra that he could recite by memory. He felt pride at how far he had progressed since the beginning of the summer, when he was awkwardly stumbling through his lines while staring at his radio guide. He felt powerful, he thought he sounded like Maverick from Top Gun.

Phantom reached down to his right to the throttle, inching it forward until the plane started to crawl forward on the taxiway. He stopped his progression of the throttle and pressed his left foot forwards, forcing the left rudder pedal that his foot was resting on to move as well. The rudder on the tail of the plane moved in synchronization with his control inputs, and the deflection of air caused the nose of the plane to turn. It was almost like driving, except you steer with your feet and use the throttle with your hand.

The blue lights on the side of the taxiway began to whiz by faster than generally considered appropriate, so Phantom eased the throttle back a smidge. He reached over and set his transponder to 1176 as requested by the tower. It was their way of keeping track of him. Each transponder is given a code at the beginning of a flight, and throughout the flight, they send out a ping with their code to the radar in the tower, allowing the advisors to keep track of the locations of all aircraft in their airspace.

As Phantom taxied to the hold-short line, he completed the rest of his pre take-off checks. Time recorded, flaps set, mixture full lean, lights on, HOBBEs recording. Everything was in order by the time he stopped just short of the double solid yellow line before the runway proper.

“Medicine Hat Radio, Golf Alpha Delta holding short runway 21 for the backtrack.”

The PTT was starting to hurt his thumb as he pressed it.

“Golf Alpha Delta, there is another Cessna 172 on a four mile final, if you can expedite your backtrack, that would be ideal, if not, then we request you continue holding short.”

Four miles was plenty of time if the other Cessna was going the proper 90 knots, so the decision wasn’t too hard for the young pilot.

“Medicine Hat Radio, Golf Alpha Delta expediting backtrack, will advise when rolling on 21.”

“Medicine Hat Radio checks.”

Phantom pushed the throttle in and gave the airplane a bit of gas to get going. Once he had made the turn to begin backtracking the runway, he pushed it in a little bit more to get the plane going faster than standard on the runway.

The engine began to sputter and lose power for a split second, causing a barely noticeable drop in RPM and ground speed. Nothing out of the ordinary, these planes were old and maintenance hadn’t been done for almost 40 flight hours, so a couple hiccups were to be expected. It had happened before and Bells had told him to just ignore it.

After a rapid turn around to face the runway again, Phantom checked his compass, transponder and flaps one last time. A smile cracked his face as he pushed the throttle all the way forward and the plane gathered steam. “Punch it Chewie!” he said through his grin.

“Medicine Hat Radio, Golf Alpha Delta rolling 21.”

“Golf Alpha Delta, Medicine Hat Radio checks, have a nice flight.”

At 50 knots, he began to pull back on the control yoke, lifting the nose of the aircraft off the ground. At 60, the rear wheels lifted off. At 70, he began to pull back even more to maintain his current airspeed and continue climbing. 100 feet. 200 feet.

Near 240 feet, the engine sputtered again, this time lasting a fraction of a second longer than previous. When the situation rectified itself, Phantom was already checking his flaps, not worried about the performance issue. He told himself that he would keep an eye on it, just to keep that small voice in the back of his head satiated, but not once did it again show any signs of anomalous behaviour.

 

“And I think it’s gonna be a long long time ‘till touchdown brings me around again to find I’m not the man they think I am at home OH no no no, I’m a rocket maaaaan . . .”

The tune of Elton John’s Rocket man wrang through the plane’s headset, audible only to the teenager in the pilot’s seat. Singing in the plane when there was no instructor to overhear had become a ritual. Phantom had watched a third of the movie The Martian last night, so Rocket Man seemed an appropriate selection for the day.

Below the Cessna, yellow fields scrolled past on the windscreen, occasionally broken up by green circles where irrigation kept the crop alive. The sight was familiar to Phantom. Approximately 28 miles to the north-east of Medicine Hat, Phantom was scanning the landscape below him, looking for an ideal field to practice precautionary landings. Attributes like a long rectangle of packed brown dirt drew him to what seemed to be a cropduster’s airstrip in the middle of the practice area.

“Mars ain’t the place to raise your kids, in fact it’s cold as hell! And there’s noone there to raise them if you did.”

As Phantom was involved with adjusting the power setting, the oil temperature needle was creeping towards the end of the green arc. Simultaneously, the oil pressure needle lept to the bottom of the gauge. The engine’s whine climbed in pitch until it pierced the suppressive blanket of noise cancellation provided by the aircraft’s headset.

Phantom’s head whipped back from his scan of the ground to the engine instruments.

“Ah rust!”

Carb heat off, throttle back, magnetos off, shut off ignition, unclip fire extinguisher. Phantom’s hands shook vigorously as his fingers frantically flew from the knobs, levers, and buttons, desperately going through the emergency checklist. Oil leak. No oil means no lubrication, no cooling, overheating the engine, pre-ignition of fuel, misfiring, total engine failure. Better to shut off the engine and glide to the ground while he was set up for the crop duster’s airstrip.

“Oh god oh god oh god oh GOD!”

This exact ordeal is what the flight school had taught him to deal with. “The difference between a pilot and a man flying a plane is how they deal with risk.” Those were Terry’s words. Before going solo, he had to prove he knew how to react in this situation. So why was he freaking out like this?

Panic was taking over his higher functioning. Twenty thousand pounds of aluminum and fuel were going to be on the ground in less than two minutes and he couldn’t do anything to stop it. The proper procedures were evacuating his mind, leaving it more and more blank every passing second.

“What do I do? I can’t handle this! I’ve only simulated an engine failure before, I can’t do this! I don’t want to die, I don’t want to leave!”

Everything froze. The plane wasn’t falling anymore, the cars on the ground stopped in place, the clouds and smoke all around the aircraft ceased swirling altogether. Thoughts flashed through Phantom’s head at the speed of light, not fully formed, only concepts, feelings. Fear.

Fear for his life. Fear that he would let down his family. Fear that he would never get to experience the pure joys of life he so desperately yearned for. Fear that he would never fall in love, never travel, never find his biological family. Fear that he would never fly again.

Wait, why would I ever want to fly again? Flying is what got me into this in the first place.

The moment was still. His thoughts stopped racing as the realization hit him. His dream since the young age of seven was to fly, to be a pilot and sail the skies, floating like a bird in the light blue heavens. Now he knew how. After spending years and years getting to this point, he finally knew how to fly.

All at once, the manic hysteria assaulted his mind once more. The wind began to rush past the cockpit, and the world returned to motion. Filled to the brim with newfound determination to live his life as he had always wanted, Phantom pushed the chaos in his brain aside, forcing himself to take stock of the situation again. 1800 feet above the ground, 100 knots airspeed, wind from the west, airstrip to his left. Without an engine, the plane was essentially a glider.

First order of business is to bring the airspeed down. The best lift to drag ratio of the Cessna was 50 knots, meaning he would have the most leeway with that airspeed when it comes down to circuit management. Without the engine, the airspeed was controlled by pitch attitude. Phantom eased the control column back to bring the nose of the plane up to cover the horizon out front.

Priority was then given to setting up for approach. Better high than low, so the sooner he turned, the more he could do to get back down to the ground safely. The air strip was behind him now, almost too far away to make, but Phantom initiated a steep turn to get onto the base leg of the circuit, keeping himself within landing distance.

The vertical speed indicator was reading lower than what Phantom expected, so with the increase in downward vertical movement, he would have to angle into the base to stay on target and not use flaps until late on approach.

Under normal circumstances, a Mayday radio call would be made on the current radio frequency in use, then on the emergency broadcast channel. However Phantom had wasted much of his available time as he was coming down. His priority right now was to fly the airplane safely. Aviate. If he could spare the attention, then he would make note of where he was so he could let the retrieval team know of his whereabouts. Navigate. If he had the time and energy to spare, only then would he communicate to those around him what was happening. Communicate.

Aviate, navigate, communicate. The mantra was almost as natural at this point as the radio calls were when he was talking to Medicine Hat Radio. It was muscle memory.

One more turn to the final leg of the circuit. The plane jolted upwards momentarily, indicating convection pushing the plane upwards, back into the smoky sky. Luck at last, he had found a pocket of lift!

With the extra altitude, Phantom knew that the Cessna-turned-glider would be able to make the field. Flaps extended to 10o, airspeed set to 60 knots to make up for the wind. The airstrip wasn’t quite facing directly into the wind, so the crosswind blew the Cessna off center. Phantom had dealt with this before, so a small side-slip corrected his course over the ground.

At 10 feet above the ground, Phantom began to pull back on the control yoke even more, initiating the flare. The pilot never landed the plane, the plane landed when it wanted to, the pilot just guided it down. Even after the rear wheels touched the ground, Phantom kept the back pressure to keep the front wheel elevated. Standard procedure on a non-prepared runway surface. Soft-field landings were a favorite of Phantom’s.

As the plane’s wings lost lift, the nose slowly lowered to the ground, even with full aft control input. At the touchdown point, Phantom gingerly applied brake pressure. The airstrip had plenty of property for the landing roll, and the Cessna came to a stop halfway down the runway.

Phantom breathed for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. Looking off to his right, he saw a cow, lazily chewing on a tuft of grass, dully staring at metal machine that had just appeared in it’s field.

“Mark my words, you damned cow, I’m gonna be a pilot!”

 

The superior pilot uses their superior judgement to keep themselves out of situations where they must use their superior skill to save the plane.

 

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