Flying Too Close to the Sun by George Jehn (novels for beginners .txt) 📕

her thirty-plus years kicked in. Although the ghastly diagnosis dictated accepting her fate, she would not relinquish control of her future. “I got his name from the phone book. He was kinda nerdy-looking, but nice. I used an alias and paid cash, meaning neither the airline nor the Federal Aviation Administration will find out and automatically ground me by revoking my Airline Transport Pilot license, which is mandatory when you have epilepsy. I’ll decide whether or not to stop flying.” Shaking her head she whispered, “Hell, it’s the only job I’ve ever known.” Further thoughts of this horrid illness and how it would alter her life caused more brackish-tasting tears to involuntarily migrate into the corners of her mouth. David reached over to hand her a napkin, but instead she used the tip of her tongue to capture them, silently vowing to do whatever was necessary to ensure she could live comfortably for the rest of her life. But the clock was ticking. It couldn’t be seen or heard but she could almost feel each reverberation in her bones. She had to do something, quickly.

CHAPTER TWO

Pressing the button on her digital watch, the soft glow confirmed it was past departure time. Although she was in command, no one had informed Captain Christina Shepard why the jet’s forward cargo door wasn’t secured and the pushback from the gate commenced for the evening’s final Boston to New York shuttle flight. They weren’t waiting for fuel, as she had seen the fueler detach the long snake-like black hose providing kerosene, the energy lifeline used by the three fuel-thirsty Pratt & Whitney fourteen thousand-pound thrust engines powering her Boeing 727. Nonetheless, she glanced over her right shoulder to double-check the three fuel quantity gauges located directly behind the copilot on the flight engineer’s panel. The two wing and one center fuel tank each showed eight thousand pounds, twenty-four thousand pounds total, just under four thousand gallons. A 727 or tri-jet as it was better known in airline lingo could hold up to forty-six thousand pounds. With that amount you could practically fly coast to coast, meaning they had more than enough for their approximate forty-minute flight, even on a night like this with lousy weather. She recalled the wise words of an old-timer she had flown with as a new copilot, seemingly a lifetime ago. “The only time you have too much fuel is when you’re on fire.” The cursory smile faded as she glanced out the electrically heated cockpit window to the wet asphalt tarmac, so shiny it looked like smoked glass. Nothing was moving.

The weather had returned to normal for this time of the year, meaning the torrid heat was gone. This was a usual northern New England early summer night, with a gloomy sky hanging low over the entire airport like a shadowy tarp, matching her mood due to her recent medical diagnosis. Everything from her hair to the plane’s controls felt like a cold, damp mop. Cuddling up under a blanket with a good book in her tiny rental home in Queens would be a welcome respite. She was about to ask the flight engineer to radio the company when an out-of-breath boarding agent burst into the cockpit. “Sorry Captain, but your flight’s gonna be a few more minutes late,” he gasped in a thick Boston accent while handing Christina a large, sealed envelope. “We’re waiting for a connecting passenger.”

“You mean late, again?” Christina sighed. The fidgety agent exhaled and shrugged his shoulders, while offering what he probably hoped was a seductive smile as she swiveled around to face him. The four blue-and-silver-striped shoulder epaulets underscored her deep blue water-colored eyes and anchored the shiny, shortish blond hair framing her alluring Nordic features. “This is the third time this week,” she added, ignoring the obvious come-on. “But thanks for letting me know.”

Shepard knew with so much at stake with each flight, nothing could be accepted at face value. Her definition of the words flight safety meant stacking the odds in her passengers favor as much as humanly possible and confirming everything was in order. After opening the envelope she read the official contents, which again stated they were waiting for an armed United States sky marshal. The requirement to notify the plane’s commander also specified no other crewmembers were to know the lawman was on board. Notification was a necessity because post-9/11 if a captain so desired and passed the required background security check and weapons training, a sidearm could be carried and no one wanted a shootout if a passenger was spotted with a gun. But the airlines’ agreement with the federal government also stipulated the flight couldn’t be delayed on account of the sky marshal program unless there was a known and immediate terrorist threat. There was nothing of that nature because yet another regulation also required notification, so she was puzzled.

The balding agent, with flecks of dandruff decorating the shoulders of his dark blue uniform shirt remained standing in the cockpit entrance, so Christina asked, “You know who’s responsible for these delays?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea, Captain,” he nervously blurted out. “I’m pretty low on the totem pole.” He quickly exited from the doorway with a forced smile on his now slightly reddened face.

“Whatever the reason, this must be important,” she muttered to her heavyset copilot, Howard Montgomery who went by the nickname, Woody. Montgomery had his feet propped up on the base of his instrument panel, nonchalantly scanning the evening edition of the Boston Globe. She had always been curious about his nickname but never quite had the guts to glance down there to see if it was the case. The recorded ATIS or Automated Terminal Information Service for Boston’s Logan airport providing recorded information such as the weather and which runways were in use was repeatedly blaring over the cockpit speaker. Besides ignoring her comment Montgomery seemed oblivious to the repetitive message. There were a couple of reasons why she didn’t