the first bag and reaches over to pluck Leanne’s suitcase off the belt. Will steps back, trying not to feel annoyed all over again.
It’s young men. Only lately, Will has been noticing how quickly they get on his nerves. The first time he remembers it happening was when he was doing his initial training on the 767. He was paired with a newbie, a young copilot named Warren Gliss. It was a few years back when things were getting strained at the airline: TWA had been through two financial reorganizations. They were employee-owned and bankrupt, and it wasn’t clear if they were going to make it. Everyone was tense, but it wasn’t just that: Warren Gliss was annoying in his own right.
“Can you carry this one, Dad?” Leanne asks, pushing the handle of the black bag toward Will. He nods and goes to pick it up.
“It has wheels,” Kit says. “That button releases the handle.”
“Got it,” Will says. He heads toward the door, dragging the bag behind him like a recalcitrant dog.
“Oh, Leanne, is that your dress? ” he hears Carol squeal. He quickens his pace, yanking the bag over the edge of the curb and humping along, separate from the others.
Warren Gliss started bugging him on their first day in the simulator, when Will got taken through his dead-stick landing. The instructor had been putting him through the wringer: hydraulic failure, loss of cabin pressure, two go-arounds, and an electrical fire that killed his right engine. He was thinking the instructor might let him land when the left went, too. He was calm. After twenty minutes without the right, this would be easier: the plane would no longer strain to the right like a stubborn horse angling for the barn. The first thing he did was drop the landing gear. He remembers Gliss making a noise to his right as he did, a little pop! of surprise. He thought Will had dropped the gear by mistake. Will checked the speed, did the calculation. Altitude times nine. He was under thirty miles from the simulator’s virtual Dulles—he’d make it just fine. He didn’t say a word to Gliss. He had no idea why they had paired him with a kid twenty-five years his junior. Will had thought of him as Kid Flyboy since the first day of training.
Fifteen minutes later, after he’d brought the simulated 767 down for a perfect landing, he felt better than he had the whole first week. That was flying, he thought. Not the poking-your-fingers-at-a-computer crap aviation had become. Kid Flyboy loved that part, zipping through computer screens like he was fragging video space aliens at the local arcade. Will liked it best when the computers failed, when the autopilot was off, when he could put his hand on the stick and fly.
“Nice” was all the instructor said as he cleared the control panel.
Some Delta guys were waiting, standing in a small cluster by the door as Will and the other two clumped down the metal steps. Desperate for cash, TWA was renting simulator time to other airlines. Delta pilots were said to make double the TWA salary. They nodded, giving off a little buzz of confidence as Will’s crew walked by. I chose TWA, he always told people, when Delta was still dusting crops along the bayou.
Then Kid Flyboy started his whining. “Hey,” he said, jogging a bit to catch up with the instructor. “When am I gonna get my engine failure?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be the same, would it?” the instructor said. Will couldn’t help laughing. He knew how to fly a plane. He knew the feel of it, the tug of a headwind over steel shoulders, the effortless glide of a machine in perfect trim. He didn’t need a computer second-guessing him, but if they wanted to install one, fine. In the end, he knew what he was doing. That was more than he could say for the Kid.
“What are you doing?” Carol demands. “Trying to run between the drops?” Will looks up from the back of the van, where he has been rearranging Carol’s grocery bags to make room for the luggage. He
It’s young men. Only lately, Will has been noticing how quickly they get on his nerves. The first time he remembers it happening was when he was doing his initial training on the 767. He was paired with a newbie, a young copilot named Warren Gliss. It was a few years back when things were getting strained at the airline: TWA had been through two financial reorganizations. They were employee-owned and bankrupt, and it wasn’t clear if they were going to make it. Everyone was tense, but it wasn’t just that: Warren Gliss was annoying in his own right.
“Can you carry this one, Dad?” Leanne asks, pushing the handle of the black bag toward Will. He nods and goes to pick it up.
“It has wheels,” Kit says. “That button releases the handle.”
“Got it,” Will says. He heads toward the door, dragging the bag behind him like a recalcitrant dog.
“Oh, Leanne, is that your dress? ” he hears Carol squeal. He quickens his pace, yanking the bag over the edge of the curb and humping along, separate from the others.
Warren Gliss started bugging him on their first day in the simulator, when Will got taken through his dead-stick landing. The instructor had been putting him through the wringer: hydraulic failure, loss of cabin pressure, two go-arounds, and an electrical fire that killed his right engine. He was thinking the instructor might let him land when the left went, too. He was calm. After twenty minutes without the right, this would be easier: the plane would no longer strain to the right like a stubborn horse angling for the barn. The first thing he did was drop the landing gear. He remembers Gliss making a noise to his right as he did, a little pop! of surprise. He thought Will had dropped the gear by mistake. Will checked the speed, did the calculation. Altitude times nine. He was under thirty miles from the simulator’s virtual Dulles—he’d make it just fine. He didn’t say a word to Gliss. He had no idea why they had paired him with a kid twenty-five years his junior. Will had thought of him as Kid Flyboy since the first day of training.
Fifteen minutes later, after he’d brought the simulated 767 down for a perfect landing, he felt better than he had the whole first week. That was flying, he thought. Not the poking-your-fingers-at-a-computer crap aviation had become. Kid Flyboy loved that part, zipping through computer screens like he was fragging video space aliens at the local arcade. Will liked it best when the computers failed, when the autopilot was off, when he could put his hand on the stick and fly.
“Nice” was all the instructor said as he cleared the control panel.
Some Delta guys were waiting, standing in a small cluster by the door as Will and the other two clumped down the metal steps. Desperate for cash, TWA was renting simulator time to other airlines. Delta pilots were said to make double the TWA salary. They nodded, giving off a little buzz of confidence as Will’s crew walked by. I chose TWA, he always told people, when Delta was still dusting crops along the bayou.
Then Kid Flyboy started his whining. “Hey,” he said, jogging a bit to catch up with the instructor. “When am I gonna get my engine failure?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be the same, would it?” the instructor said. Will couldn’t help laughing. He knew how to fly a plane. He knew the feel of it, the tug of a headwind over steel shoulders, the effortless glide of a machine in perfect trim. He didn’t need a computer second-guessing him, but if they wanted to install one, fine. In the end, he knew what he was doing. That was more than he could say for the Kid.
“What are you doing?” Carol demands. “Trying to run between the drops?” Will looks up from the back of the van, where he has been rearranging Carol’s grocery bags to make room for the luggage. He
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