parallel taxiway, came into view. Pate counted nine.
The weather was already backing up departures. It would be a long taxi.
“Taxi checklist,” Boyd ordered.
In the rear of 555’s cabin, Lori Hawkinson, the third flight attendant, was reading the emergency procedures briefing while
Christy Jacobson and Mariella Ponti demonstrated how the seatbelts buckled and the procedure for putting on oxygen masks.
When they’d finished, Ponti made sure the compartments were all latched and her eight passengers belted in. She remembered
Mrs. Howard’s blanket, and looked for one in the first compartment, certain that she’d seen one stowed there, but all she
found was Emil Pate’s bag. There were no blankets in the other first class compartments either. She would have to walk to
the back. There was still plenty of time, though. She looked out and saw the number of planes on the taxiway.
Christy was right: coach was packed. A full coach was normal, though, ever since the summer’s price wars. Everybody flew now.
Luckily, winter travelers were far better than summer. Not nearly so many first-time flyers who’d done all their previous
traveling by bus. You name it, the “Clampetts” as some flight attendants called them, tried to bring it aboard as carry-on
luggage. They weren’t really all hillbillies, but they could be pretty rustic. Ponti had once opened an overhead to find a
bag swarming with ants, and inside the bag, fermenting peaches. She’d heard stories much worse, involving live animals—everything
from collies stuffed into garment bags to snakes smuggled under coats.
These people all looked fairly normal, however. Moms, dads, kids. Happy people mostly, looking forward to a trip to a warm,
sunny place. As she moved downthe aisle, out of habit, Ponti checked the passengers to make sure their seat backs were in
the full-upright position and that their belts were fastened. She also looked for those who weren’t typical—like the old guy
in 12A, with a head like an inverted tea kettle, and the very pretty little girl in row 14, who said, “I’m excited already,”
to the woman next to her as Ponti passed. In row 17 was a whole family of Asians—sarongs, turbans, the works—and in 20 was
a dark, handsome man with a ring in his ear. She stopped to check two young kids, who looked to be brother and sister, traveling
alone. “We’re going to play checkers,” the girl told her proudly, showing her the miniature board.
Ponti stopped again at row 24. The aisle seat was empty, but in the window seat was a young man, sandy-haired, dressed in
crisp slacks, a white shirt, and tie, his nose buried in a magazine. He looked more than familiar. She’d seen him recently.
“Don’t I know you?” she said, leaning over.
He looked up, startled. Then he smiled shyly. “I’m one of your new pilots. We flew together about a month ago.”
“That was it.”
He extended his hand. “David Crane.”
“Mariella Ponti. You a commuter?” Many of the airline’s crew members didn’t live where they were based, and commuted, sometimes
thousands of miles, to their jobs.
“No,” Crane said. “Just going to visit someone.”
“Ah! Girlfriend?” Ponti winked.
He nodded, a little embarrassed. “She’s in Phoenix. We’re engaged. I was at Williams—that’s how we met. I’m just out of the
air Force.”
“So when’s the wedding?”
This time he blushed. “May. She’s a teacher and can’t quit till then.”
“Bet you don’t care much for this long-distance relationship.”
“You can say that again.”
Captain Boyd’s departure announcement crackled over the PA system.
“Well, you have a good time,” Ponti said. “Nice to see you again.”
In the cockpit, Pate copied 555’s load figures onto the weight card as New World’s agent read them over the company radio.
His mind was clean now, the business of flying demanding his attention. And yet the thousands of
The weather was already backing up departures. It would be a long taxi.
“Taxi checklist,” Boyd ordered.
In the rear of 555’s cabin, Lori Hawkinson, the third flight attendant, was reading the emergency procedures briefing while
Christy Jacobson and Mariella Ponti demonstrated how the seatbelts buckled and the procedure for putting on oxygen masks.
When they’d finished, Ponti made sure the compartments were all latched and her eight passengers belted in. She remembered
Mrs. Howard’s blanket, and looked for one in the first compartment, certain that she’d seen one stowed there, but all she
found was Emil Pate’s bag. There were no blankets in the other first class compartments either. She would have to walk to
the back. There was still plenty of time, though. She looked out and saw the number of planes on the taxiway.
Christy was right: coach was packed. A full coach was normal, though, ever since the summer’s price wars. Everybody flew now.
Luckily, winter travelers were far better than summer. Not nearly so many first-time flyers who’d done all their previous
traveling by bus. You name it, the “Clampetts” as some flight attendants called them, tried to bring it aboard as carry-on
luggage. They weren’t really all hillbillies, but they could be pretty rustic. Ponti had once opened an overhead to find a
bag swarming with ants, and inside the bag, fermenting peaches. She’d heard stories much worse, involving live animals—everything
from collies stuffed into garment bags to snakes smuggled under coats.
These people all looked fairly normal, however. Moms, dads, kids. Happy people mostly, looking forward to a trip to a warm,
sunny place. As she moved downthe aisle, out of habit, Ponti checked the passengers to make sure their seat backs were in
the full-upright position and that their belts were fastened. She also looked for those who weren’t typical—like the old guy
in 12A, with a head like an inverted tea kettle, and the very pretty little girl in row 14, who said, “I’m excited already,”
to the woman next to her as Ponti passed. In row 17 was a whole family of Asians—sarongs, turbans, the works—and in 20 was
a dark, handsome man with a ring in his ear. She stopped to check two young kids, who looked to be brother and sister, traveling
alone. “We’re going to play checkers,” the girl told her proudly, showing her the miniature board.
Ponti stopped again at row 24. The aisle seat was empty, but in the window seat was a young man, sandy-haired, dressed in
crisp slacks, a white shirt, and tie, his nose buried in a magazine. He looked more than familiar. She’d seen him recently.
“Don’t I know you?” she said, leaning over.
He looked up, startled. Then he smiled shyly. “I’m one of your new pilots. We flew together about a month ago.”
“That was it.”
He extended his hand. “David Crane.”
“Mariella Ponti. You a commuter?” Many of the airline’s crew members didn’t live where they were based, and commuted, sometimes
thousands of miles, to their jobs.
“No,” Crane said. “Just going to visit someone.”
“Ah! Girlfriend?” Ponti winked.
He nodded, a little embarrassed. “She’s in Phoenix. We’re engaged. I was at Williams—that’s how we met. I’m just out of the
air Force.”
“So when’s the wedding?”
This time he blushed. “May. She’s a teacher and can’t quit till then.”
“Bet you don’t care much for this long-distance relationship.”
“You can say that again.”
Captain Boyd’s departure announcement crackled over the PA system.
“Well, you have a good time,” Ponti said. “Nice to see you again.”
In the cockpit, Pate copied 555’s load figures onto the weight card as New World’s agent read them over the company radio.
His mind was clean now, the business of flying demanding his attention. And yet the thousands of
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