The Future Is in the Air

(Revised 11/21/2022)

The work-from-home situation over the last ten months has made it difficult to get into the cockpit to fly anywhere. The gears started turning, yielding this story.

This story is very, very … well, it's

very

aviation-centric, so if that's not your cup of tea, you might not think too much of it. But to the pilots among us, keep on reading.

Finally, even though this tale stands on its own, you should read the prequel,

When Ordinary Isn't

, first. Yes, it's another novel. Focus on chapters three and five if you want only the basics of this story's protagonist's background.

Every single character in this story is more than eighteen years of age.

As always, please comment and vote!

We hope you enjoy:

The Future Is In the Air

April.

My new Cessna Skylane 182T made its maiden flight, other than test flights, of course, when I took delivery of it directly from the factory in Independence, Kansas, on a Saturday afternoon. The various folks there were willing to work a few weekend hours since they were closing a $600,000 transaction.

On that wonderfully comfortable spring day, my best friend, who is also a pilot, flew with me in my new bird to McKinney National Airport in Texas. It's a nicely outfitted airport located in the northeastern suburbs of the Dallas/Fort Worth metro area. At just over two hours, it was a fairly short flight to cover the 280-mile distance. After listening to the automated weather broadcast, I updated the altimeter and called in to the tower.

"McKinney tower, Skylane three four eight lima mike, eight miles north and inbound for a full stop. I have the ASOS."

It required a bit of concentration to say my new plane's tail number since my prior bird's was an ingrained habit.

"Skylane eight lima mike, ident," a voice responded mere seconds later.

"Eight lima mike will flash," I acknowledged, and pressed the appropriate button on the transponder's panel.

"Mike won't do that again," the controller replied with an audible chuckle.

The play on my unintended

entendre

made me laugh.

A few seconds later I heard, "Eight lima mike, ident observed. Continue straight-in approach runway one eight."

"Straight-in one eight, eight lima mike," I acknowledged.

"Mike will flash?" my right-seater said.

I grinned. "Yeah. She sounds like she's having a good day."

"How would you know?"

"I've been flying in and out of here for a few months now. She's in the tower a good chunk of the time. I guess our schedules line up, and I sorta can gauge her mood."

"You know her?"

"Well, no, not personally," I answered, "just her voice."

A couple of minutes later I heard, "Eight lima mike, winds now one six zero at seven. Runway one eight, cleared to land."

"Cleared to land one eight, eight lima mike," I responded.

I'd sold my previous plane. It had 1,700 hours on its Hobbs meter when I bought it, so, after the hundreds more I'd added, it was nearing its major overhaul.

I decided it'd be easier and faster to replace it versus waiting for its inside-out inspection plus an engine teardown and rebuild. Plus, it was a little too advanced for me, so I purchased a less complicated plane.

The new owner was willing to take care of the required maintenance considering I'd offered a significant price reduction as an incentive. A guy came in from the Houston area to ferry-fly it to the new owner in Jackson, Mississippi, three weeks before I took ownership of my new bird.

I began configuring the plane for landing. It was a different beast than the one I'd sold, and, considering old habits die hard, I reached to the wrong places a few times to do certain tasks. My right-seater would help me out since he'd owned a near twin of my new plane for almost eight years.

Three minutes later, the tires met the ground in a nice three-chirp cadence beginning with the left, then right, then nose.

"Eight lima mike, where are you parking?" the controller asked.

"Northwest hangars."

"Remain my frequency. Exit bravo three, cross bravo, right on alpha to the hangars. The Mooney on bravo will give way to you."

"Bravo three, cross bravo, right on alpha. I see the Mooney, thanks, eight lima mike," I echoed the instructions.

Readbacks are a regulatory requirement and an ingrained habit for seasoned pilots.

I let my new plane coast beyond bravo two before I braked for the turn off the 7,000-foot runway.

"Nice landing!" my friend praised.

I grinned. "That'll be a hard one to beat."

"The lady up there has a nice demeanor," he observed, pointing at the tower.

"Yeah. She does. I prefer female controllers because their voices generally cut through static better, but there's something about hers I can't put a finger on."

"She sounds calm and relaxed. I once had … well, I'll call it an unpleasant exchange with a Fort Worth Center controller. He was busy, and I had a heck of a time understanding his rushed calls. When I told him, he turned into a douche-nozzle. Since I was only twenty minutes from the ranch and in visual conditions, I canceled IFR so I wouldn't have to deal with him anymore."

"I know what you mean. Luckily you were in VMC."

"Right? I fly that route all the time, and a lot of controllers in the area know my tail number. He must have been a sub or reliever or something because I haven't heard him again," he said.

As I turned the nose around the corner toward my leased t-hangar, I saw someone leaning against its doors. The individual stood upright and walked to the opposite side of the alley on seeing our slow approach.

"We're ten minutes early and she still beat us here," my friend observed.

"You know, sometimes I think she has ESP," I said with a chuckle as I shut down the engine and the rest of the systems.

We both exited the airplane.

My friend walked directly to the tall blonde woman, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her softly. She smiled warmly at his affectionate greeting with her hands on his hips, then turned toward me.

"How's your baby? Is she everything you hoped?" she asked.

"She has that new plane smell," I answered with a broad grin. "It's going to take me a little more time to get used to the differences, but yeah, she's really easy to fly," I said. "How are you doing?"

"Tired. Y'all have worn me out." She laughed and drooped against my shoulder for effect. Taller than me by almost six inches, her visual was fairly dramatic and comical.

"Hey, buddy, you have to get your own," my friend said in a mock-scold, wrapping his arm around his wife of two years, pulling her away. It made her laugh again and earned him another smooch.

After we pushed the plane into the metal structure and locked everything up, the three of us began the quarter-mile walk to the parking lot as I recounted to Margaret "Peggy" Reiter, MD, the details of our decidedly uneventful flight from Kansas.

"I still don't get why you don't park your car in there when you're gone," Eric said.

"I don't ever want to go through that again," I answered, referring to a time when I'd parked in my Oklahoma City hangar for a couple of weeks on an extended trip. On my return, I discovered bees had made a home under the rear bumper. They swarmed when I opened the trunk. If I were allergic, I would've probably needed a couple of epinephrine injections because I was stung at least four times.

"That was funny," Eric said and laughed.

I

laughed when I heard him grunt because his wife elbowed him directly in his ribs for making fun of me.

We'd all traveled about five hundred miles over the previous twenty-four hours. The adventure began as Eric flew with Peggy in their own plane from Oklahoma City to my second home base at McKinney Airport to pick me up.

With me in the back seat, we flew from there to Independence, Kansas, then Peggy returned their plane by herself to their ranch near Nocona, Texas, that same day. Eric remained in Kansas with me.

The following day, he sat with me in a conference room at the Textron assembly plant while I reviewed and signed the sales contract, registration, and FAA documentation. They handed me the keys after I wire transferred the balance due. Peggy drove a one-way rental from Nocona and dropped the car at the outlet in McKinney two hours later. Uber brought her from there to the airport to meet us.

I drove us away from the airport to my house in Parker, Texas, where I'd lived off and on for barely four months.

As is said about North Texas, spring and fall are the two nicest weeks of the year. It was true that evening. It was a wonderfully comfortable seventy-three degrees with light breezes, so we opted to enjoy dinner outside.

Eric asked, "So, still settling into the new surroundings?"

"You know, I've lived in Oke City my entire life, and I, quite honestly, wasn't really expecting to like it here."

"And now?" Peggy asked.

"I'm not hating it," I confessed.

Both Eric and Peggy laughed easily.

"It's funny you said it like that. I lived more than a decade in Orlando until Eric and I met. It's beautiful there, which is why we haven't sold the estate, but … there's just something about this part of the country that appeals to me. Maybe it's the lower humidity, or the fact I spent a lot of my childhood nearby."

"I've been telling him that for a long time, honey," Eric said. "It's something you have to experience yourself. Like they say, 'I wasn't born in Texas, but I got here as quick as I could.' I still can't believe you agreed to the acquisition, dude."

"Are you kidding me? You were on the board of directors, man! You were in favor of it."

He laughed. "

TIGAP

jumped over the wall in a way no one could have ever imagined. You can't tell me you expected an offer of that magnitude."

"I didn't," I agreed, "but what really iced the cake was how they committed, in writing, to retain at least ninety percent of Reiter-Marlin's employees for three years."

"Exactly. Since we both promised each other we'd never let our people go down in flames again if a buy-out was offered, I figured the time was right. That's why I voted in favor."

"So, what are your plans for tomorrow?" I asked the married couple.

"You're going to fly us back home in your new bird in the morning."

"Uh … no, I'm not. I've got to go into the office. I told you we'd leave after dinner."

Eric grinned. "Just kidding. Peggy and I want to explore downtown. You're here this week, back in OKC next week, right?"

I nodded.

As the prospect of the acquisition of the company began to come into focus, I spent two months living out of a hotel room in Plano, Texas, while negotiating the deal with our corporate attorneys at the prospective buyer's headquarters.

After it was finalized, I time-shared myself. I alternated weeks in Oklahoma City where our former HQ was located, and where hundreds of people were still gainfully employed. The other weeks I spent in my office at the parent company's main campus in Richardson. I was in the middle of the pattern when my new airplane was readied for delivery.

Eric Reiter cofounded the company but stepped aside right before the initial public offering which netted us both quite a chunk of personal capital. It happened three years earlier. If he hadn't, it's very likely he'd never have met Dr. Foreman, the woman he'd marry a year later.

I'll admit it. I wanted to freaking kick the crap out of him when he introduced her to me. I wanted to knock him flat on his ass!

It was neither because I thought he was making a mistake, nor because I thought Dr. Foreman was wrong for him. In fact, it was the opposite.

I wanted to kick his ass because she was perfect for him, and he for her. It made me jealous how quickly they realized they were each other's matches. It was a matter of weeks between when they first met to when he proposed to her.

Eric and I spent the prior fifteen years enjoying the life of bachelors. Well, I imagine he enjoyed it more than I did since he never had trouble finding lady friends.

I'd known him since we were in the fourth grade. We were even roommates in college. He enjoyed the lifestyle until he decided he was ready to find a "keeper."

Thinking he was at the end of his search, a woman to whom he was planning to propose emotionally destroyed him. The devastation damn-near ruined him. He was hollowed out and buried himself in work almost to the exclusion of everything else. Luckily, after a while, he managed to pull himself out of the pit, but ceased his search.

Then, he met his angel in an incredibly coincidental encounter in Florida.

I would never have thought it possible.

His wife, a talented and experienced surgeon, was selected to head a new research unit at a hospital in Oklahoma City. He, an equally gifted engineer and scientist, was the benefactor who granted the massive endowment which began the center. He was also the cofounder of several of our businesses before Reiter-Marlin.

Peggy and Eric couldn't have been more different, yet they were perfect for each other.

Long before he left our company, he'd already begun to invest in his dream of breeding champion thoroughbreds, longhorn cattle, and dreaming up philanthropic projects. It was by sheer and amazing coincidence a small portion of Peggy's parents' Texas ranch was the land Eric bought to begin exploring his aspirations years before he ever met her.

The realization that there is somehow, somewhere, a made-to-match person kicked me in the head.

I guess it was during that time I realized I wanted to "settle down," too. I witnessed how Peggy and Eric's relationship transformed each of them, and I craved the same for myself.

For me, dating had always come in fits and starts. I suppose the closer one gets to forty years old, the more difficult it becomes, especially when I wasn't too terribly successful to begin with.

For the same reasons Eric had experienced, I knew I had to be careful, because the last thing I wanted in a long-term relationship was someone who was only interested in a long-term commitment to my net worth.

My frequent stayovers in Texas were an opportunity to start over in territory where my history wasn't as likely to follow.

I digress.

Peggy and Eric made use of one of my spacious guestrooms, then managed to entertain themselves in the area the next day visiting the Dallas Museum of Art and the World Aquarium while I sat in my slightly up-sized "Senior Vice President of Innovation" office in the headquarters of the corporation which acquired Reiter-Marlin.

That evening, the three of us enjoyed a sushi dinner at one of those places where small plates of freshly prepared delights pass by the patrons on conveyors. One takes what they want off the belt, and deposits empties into a slot at the table where they're automatically counted to tabulate the bill, which was about $100 for the three of us.

After dinner, the flight to return them to their ranch required barely an hour. Even though the distance between McKinney National and the Reiter Ranch is only eighty miles as the crow flies, the requirement to stay clear of the DFW airspace adds about another twenty miles. It was dusk when they deplaned on the asphalt airstrip. They unloaded their overnight bags from the tail, and loaded them into the ATV which Dalton, their assistant ranch foreman, had brought to pick them up.

I said my goodbyes, backtaxied to the approach end of the strip, and flew right back to McKinney.

I love flying at night. It's my favorite time to fly, for a lot of reasons. First, north Texas has flat terrain. So, on clear evenings, one barely has to climb a few hundred feet in altitude before the massive sheet of Dallas/Fort Worth's city lights pours into view. Second, there's seldom any turbulence. Third, it's quiet.

The weather that night was "severe clear," so I enjoyed all three on the flight back.

I monitored the tower frequency from fifty miles away, and heard very little traffic in the area, though it did sound like a few planes were doing stop-and-goes for practice or night currency.

I enjoyed the familiar voice I heard on the radio, then called when I was nearing.

"McKinney tower, Skylane three four eight lima mike, passing Aero Country at 3,500, inbound, full-stop," naming a charted airpark within a small fly-in residential area in the northern fringes of the metroplex.

"Skylane eight lima mike, McKinney tower. Winds one seven zero at four. Altimeter two niner eight seven. I have three planes in the pattern. Cross the numbers of runway three six at or above two thousand five hundred. That will be your crosswind. Report four miles out."

"Two niner eight seven, cross numbers three six at or above twenty-five hundred. Call you back at four, eight lima mike," I acknowledged.

It took a few more minutes to get there and I called again, receiving a repeat of the specifics to enter the pattern.

"Eight lima mike, you can start your descent. I'll call your downwind."

"Descending on my crosswind, eight lima mike."

After about thirty seconds, she said, "Eight lima mike, turn left downwind. The aircraft ahead and below will be exiting the pattern to the north, no factor."

Tower controllers in Class Delta airspace aren't required to provide separation for airplanes on VFR flights, but the folks at that airport excelled in doing it anyway, providing additional safety whenever they could.

I saw the blinking strobes of the other airplane. One disadvantage of night flying, at least for me, is because it's more difficult to judge the distance between planes when the only reference you see are their lights.

"Are you sure? She seems kind of close," I said, using the feminine pronoun because I'd heard the voice of the pilot.

"Don't worry, you won't beat her."

I chuckled when I replied, "I'd never hit a lady."

Without missing a beat, she responded, "I wouldn't think so."

Two minutes later: "Skylane eight lima mike, runway one eight,

cleared to land

!"

I loved the light lilt she used at the end of her clearance. It was almost musical.

"Cleared to land one eight, eight lima mike."

It was 9:45pm, and, three minutes later, I was taxiing to my hangar. At nearly ten o'clock, I walked onto the parking lot.

"Hey!" I heard from a distance.

I stopped walking and looked around.

"Up here," I heard the voice again.

I turned back and observed someone standing on the six-story-high catwalk of the control tower about thirty yards away. The figure was in the shadows, but I could see a silhouette.

"Oh! Hello!"

"You're eight lima mike, right?"

"No, I'm Lance. Eight lima mike is my Cessna," I answered, walking closer.

"

Hardy-har

," she said with humorous sarcasm. "Nice flying tonight."

"Thanks. And, um … nice towering?" I offered.

She laughed.

"You just close up shop?" I asked.

"Yep, ten o'clock on the dot. Need to sign the duty logs, then I'm outta here."

"Excellent."

"Anyway, it's always nice to put a face to a tail, Eight Lima Mike."

I laughed out loud. "Face to a tail? You've got a bit of a naughty streak, don't you!"

"Who, me?

Nooo

," she scoffed humorously.

I grinned. "Well, I'm heading home, too. It's been a long day. Take care."

"You, too, Eight Lima Mike. Drive carefully."

"Do you ever turn off the radio-speak?"

She laughed lightly. "Affirmative."

I was still smiling as she went back inside the cab of the tower.

I drove home and hit the sack.

What followed was a boring week of work. The CEO at the new HQ hadn't figured out what to do with me or even given me a job description. I think all he wanted from me was to sit back and barf up money-making ideas every day. I was happy when Friday came so I could fly to Oklahoma and see familiar faces and surroundings the following week.