The Icarus Effect Page 6

  “Hi, yourself. Lucas told me your dad’s service was today. You get enough time to be there?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Harvey said. “It was, um, it was nice.”

  Cesar’s face was full of compassion. “Well, I appreciate you being willing to make the flight today, in spite of everything. My condolences, son.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Condolences?” Chad blurted. “Somebody die?”

  Harvey turned slowly and looked at Chad like he was something you’d rather not step in. Cesar saved him from responding. “His father. Show some respect.”

  “Oh,” Chad mumbled. “Sorry.”

  Cesar turned back to Harvey. “You good?”

  “I’m good, thanks,” Harvey assured him. “Ready to go.”

  “Good man,” Cesar said. He inclined his head toward the ramp outside the window, where the big plane had rolled to a stop. The propellers on the left side were slowly spooling down, while the right side engines kept turning. Now Harvey could see the words U.S AIR FORCE in block letters along the side of the plane, just aft of the cockpit windows.

  “Well, that’s your ride,” Cesar said. “Wait here for the crew chief to come get you. Then you follow his instructions exactly, and enjoy the ride, all right?”

  “All right. What happens after fire school?” Harvey asked. “Do we come back here?”

  Cesar nodded. “I’ll arrange a ride for both of you back here, as long as they don’t decide to ship you straight to a crew someplace. There’s only a few fires burning so far in this region, but as dry as it’s been, anything could happen. I’ll give you a call the day before you finish class and let you know. Fair enough?”

  “Works for me,” Chad said, his bluster back in full bloom. “They gonna put us up in a fancy hotel while we’re there?”

  Cesar shook his head. “Sorry. The hotel you’re staying at is nothing fancy. You’ll get your meals at the fire center at the airport, which is also where you’ll do most of your training. You don’t have to worry about any basic needs while you’re there, but don’t go expecting to be staying at the Ritz. You’re on the government’s dime, and it doesn’t have many of those to spare for the Forest Service.” He looked from one to the other. “Anything else?” They both shook their heads. “Good enough, then,” Cesar said. “I gotta get back to work. I’ll talk to you boys in a few days.” He shook Chad’s hand, slapped Harvey on the shoulder, and walked out the door toward the parking lot.

  A man in an Air Force jump suit came in from the flight line as Cesar left, the open flight line door letting in the unfiltered roar of the two still-running engines on the big aircraft outside. He walked quickly over to them. His name tag read Davis.

  “You the fellas headed to fire school up in Boise?”

  “In the flesh,” Chad said with a big, toothy smile. “Permission to come aboard, Colonel?”

  The man gave Chad a barely concealed look of strained tolerance. “I’m a Staff Sergeant,” he said. “Crew Chief. The Colonel flies the plane. And you only ask ‘permission to come aboard’ if you’re getting on a boat. This ain’t the Navy.”

  “I knew that,” Chad lied. “Just testing ya, is all.”

  “Uh-huh,” Davis grunted. “Come on, then. Stay directly behind me. I’ll walk you to the port-side door just forward of the wing there. Once you’re on board, just turn right and sit down in one of the web seats along the bulkhead. We’ll be getting underway as soon as we get you both strapped in.”

  Davis turned and headed for the door, not giving Chad a chance to say anything stupider than he already had. Harvey followed behind. As they exited the terminal, the engine noise from the C130 was almost deafening. Harvey could smell the fumes from the jet fuel, and the tarmac was blistering hot under his shoes as he walked. The plane was even bigger close up, with four engines slung under a high wing, a massive tail that looked to be almost four stories tall, and a nose made up of a patchwork of wraparound windows that gave it an air of something out of a steampunk novel.

  Harvey followed both men up the steps and turned right as Sergeant Davis had instructed. Davis was standing just inside the door, and waved Harvey past into the cargo bay as he pulled the entry stairs closed behind him. Chad was already sitting down in a webbed seat slung from one side of the fuselage. Harvey sat down several seats away from him.

  As Davis closed the door, the engines started spooling up. He came aft to where Harvey and Chad were sitting and handed them each a pair of soft foam earplugs. “Gets pretty loud in here,” he shouted.

  Chad tried to decline. “I never use ‘em,” he bragged. “You know - ‘Jet Noise: the Sound of Freedom’! Am I right?”

  Davis leaned in close. “Two things, bud,” he shouted over the increasing roar of the engines. “One, you see those big propeller-looking things on the engines outside? Those are propellers! Which means this is not a jet! And two, if you don’t stuff these into your ears right now and leave ‘em there for the rest of the flight, I’m gonna kick your sorry butt offa my aircraft. Do I make myself clear?” He thrust the earplugs at Chad again.

  Chad muttered something that was drowned out by the engine noise, but he took the earplugs and fitted them into his ears. Davis reached down and found the straps for Chad’s lap belt and buckled him roughly into his seat. “Now stay there, unless I or another member of the crew tells you to move. Got it?” Chad nodded, and Davis turned his attention to Harvey, strapping him in with quick, efficient hands. Then he went forward to the cockpit.

  A couple of seconds later, the aircraft shifted slightly, then started pivoting on its left side wheels, turning away from the terminal. An annoying, constant squeak emanated from somewhere in the undercarriage, wheels groaning under the weight of the big plane as it lumbered toward the runway. Harvey found himself wishing he’d sat closer to the door - there was a tiny porthole in it that he might have been able to see through. Sitting in the darkness of the cargo hold, unable to see out on his first airplane ride was frustrating.

  Davis came back aft and sat down in a separate web seat, next to the companionway to the cockpit. He glanced at Harvey as the aircraft turned onto the runway and powered up. Harvey was looking around the cargo bay, examining everything, clearly excited. When the pilot released the brakes and the big plane started rolling, the smile on Harvey’s face grew wide.

  Chad was another story altogether. When the nose of the plane came up and they got airborne, Davis could almost see the young man’s stomach do a double-take. The color drained out of his face and he looked like he distinctly wished he was someplace else. Davis grinned. He waited for the plane to gradually level off at their cruising altitude, then quickly unbuckled and walked back. He pulled a folded white paper bag out of a mesh bag on the bulkhead and handed it to Chad.

  “You puke, you do it in this, get it? You chuck it up, you clean it up.”

  Chad couldn’t speak, but he managed a weak nod and took the bag, fumbling with it to get it unfolded. He stuck the open end over his mouth and nose and held it there, the bag inflating and deflating as he breathed in and out rapidly. Davis turned back forward, stopping next to Harvey.

  “First time?”

  “Yeah,” Harvey shouted back. “This is pretty cool!”

  “You want to come up to the cockpit? The view is amazing from there.”

  Harvey’s grin got wider. “Can I do that?”

  “You bet,” Davis said. “Wait here, and I’ll let the pilot know. Be right back.”

  Harvey was thrilled. He looked over at Chad, thinking he might want to come too, but saw that he was deeply engaged trying to keep his insides from stepping outside. He had the sick bag clamped to his face like a scuba diver fighting to keep a leaky mask from drowning him. Harvey couldn’t resist. He leaned over and shouted at Chad.

  “So, just how much flying time did you say you had?”

  Chad swiveled a bloodshot eye at him over the top of the sick bag, but didn’t say anything. Harvey just grinned.

 
; He looked up as Davis came back. “Go ahead and unbuckle,” Davis said. “There’s a jump seat in the rear of the cockpit where you can sit. Pilot said you can ride up there for the rest of the flight if you like.”

  “Wow,” Harvey said, scrambling to unbuckle his seat belt. “Thanks a lot! I really appreciate this.”

  “No worries,” Davis said. He waited for Harvey to walk past him, then fell in behind. “Just don’t touch anything. Your seat’s there,” he said, extending an arm over Harvey’s shoulder and folding a web seat down from the wall. Get yourself strapped in.”

  Harvey dropped into the seat and fastened the buckle. He looked up to see the view from the front windows and was amazed at how far away the horizon was.

  The man in the left seat twisted around and looked at him a broad smile on his face. “Who’s this, Sergeant Davis?”

  Davis looked down at Harvey. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Harvey Bennett,” he said, then quickly added, “but I… uh, I go by Ben.”

  He wasn’t quite sure why he gave that name - it just came out. But as he shook the pilot’s hand, he had the odd idea that he’d done the right thing. He was starting a new life, after all. Might as well do it with a new name. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it.

  My name is Ben.

  “Good to meet you, Ben,” the pilot was saying. “I’m Colonel Bill Enright. You’ve already met Sergeant Davis, and this is our co-pilot, Captain Dave Ormsby.”

  Ben shook the co-pilot’s hand. “Thanks for letting me come up here,” he said. “I’ve never been on an airplane at all before today, so getting to sit in the cockpit is huge!” He found he could barely contain his excitement.

  “Not a problem,” Enright said. “I’ve been doing this for twenty-two years and still, it never gets old.”

  “I believe that,” Ben said, his eyes roaming over the mass of switches and dials on the control panel.

  “Sergeant Davis said your buddy back there isn’t quite as enthusiastic as you.”

  “Oh, he’s not my buddy,” Ben said. “I only met him a few minutes before you guys landed.”

  Davis chuckled. “There’s a point in your favor,” he said. “I might have to think less of you if you were hanging around somebody like that on purpose.” He turned to leave the cramped cockpit. “I better go make sure he hasn’t puked all over the cargo bay.”

  Ben leaned forward so he could talk with the pilots without them needing to turn so far around. “So, how long did you have to train to learn to fly?” he asked.

  Enright fiddled with some instruments as he answered. “Fly in general, or fly this plane specifically?”

  “I, ah, I dunno,” Ben said. He hadn’t realized there was a difference. “In general, I guess.”

  “Well, for a private rating, you have to go through a ground school first. That’s all the basic rules and book studies you need. Then you have to do forty hours of actual training in the air - twenty of that with an instructor - to get your license.”

  “Forty hours? That’s it?”

  Enright laughed. “That’s it - but that’s just for a civilian license, and it only certifies you for flying in good weather. And that’s just the minimum. Most people take longer than forty hours before they’re ready.”

  “But once you’re done with that, you not ready to fly something like this, are you?”

  “No, every time you start in a new type, like a multi-engine, jet aircraft, float plane or whatever, you have to spend time getting certified on that type. There are also certifications for instructors, flying in bad weather, carrying paying passengers, you name it. But for the basic pilot’s license, yeah, the minimum is forty hours plus ground school.”

  “I bet that’s expensive.”

  “That sort of depends on where you get your training. Different schools charge differently depending on local fuel costs and how much they pay their instructor pilots.” He glanced back at Ben. “You’re going to fire school?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, I bet if you’re careful and save your paychecks, you could just about cover it with one season’s earnings. You probably won’t have much left over, but I think you could do it.”

  “One season?” Ben was stunned. He’d never even considered flying as a possible career choice. Now he was sitting in the cockpit of a huge military aircraft, watching the world pass below him and talking about taking flying lessons with an actual pilot. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he had a direction to go, a goal to reach for. It felt good.

  “Tell you what,” Enright was saying. “When we get on the ground in Boise, I’ll give you my phone number and email address. You have any questions, or need some encouragement, you can get in touch and I’ll help you out if I can. Sound good?”

  “Sounds great,” Ben said, grinning wide. “I really appreciate that!”

  “Not a problem,” Enright said, returning the smile. “I had a fella sort of mentor me when I was starting out. I like to pass that along any time I get the chance.”

  Ben stayed in the cockpit all the way to Boise, which to his surprise, took less than twenty minutes. It seemed like it was over almost before it had started. Enright and Ormsby, following instructions from the control tower, turned north off the runway and taxied to a large ramp east of the main passenger terminal. There were two other planes like theirs already parked there, only instead of Air Force grey, these were both painted white with broad red stripes on the tails and wings. The ramp itself was stained with a reddish orange substance, which was also splattered on the underbellies of the two civilian C130s. Several smaller planes were parked nearby, along with two helicopters.

  Enright brought the plane to a stop in a spot behind the other two tankers, and went through a shutdown checklist with Ormsby. When they’d finished, Enright fished a business card out of a pocket on his flight suit and handed it to Ben.

  “All my contact information is right there.” He shook Ben’s hand. “You need anything, or have a question, don’t hesitate to ask. I think you’ll love flying, son. Best of luck to you.”

  “Thanks,” Ben said. “To be honest with you, I only took this job because I really needed something fast. Didn’t think I’d find something else like this out of it.”

  “Sometimes good things happen when you least expect ‘em,” Enright said. “Work hard fighting fires over the summer, then if you’re still interested, I hope you give flying a shot.”

  Ben smiled and held up the card. “No reason not to, now. Thanks again. Are you gonna be in Boise for a while?”

  Enright shook his head. “Couple of days, tops. We’re just here getting the MAFFS system loaded so we’ll be ready for when fire season really gets into full swing. Once we do that, we’re heading back to Colorado Springs.”

  “MAFFS?” Ben asked. “What’s that?”

  Enright chuckled. “That’s right - you probably haven’t gotten used to having to learn acronyms for everything yet. MAFFS stands for Modular Airborne Fire Fighting System. It’s a self-contained tanker and dispersal unit they can load into the back of military C-130s like this, so they can perform just like a fire tanker. The Air Force details a good number of C-130s to the Forest Service every summer to help out with fires around the country, and the MAFFS units make that possible. Once we get our unit loaded, they’ll put a big orange number ten on the tail, and that’ll be our radio callsign for the duration of the fire season - ‘MAFFS10’.”

  Harvey shook his head, amazed at the scope of a world he hadn’t known existed until a couple of days earlier. He wanted to learn as much as he could. The possibility of using his salary from his new job to fund flight training got him even more excited. For the first time since he’d graduated from high school the year before, he felt like his life was finding some direction.

  He thanked both men again, shook their hands, then turned and stepped into the companionway leading to the cargo bay. He stopped at the door, where a shaky-
looking Chad was contemplating the four steps down to the tarmac. Chad looked up as Ben approached. He still looked a little green.

  “Must have been something I ate,” he said, stifling a burp. “I wasn’t airsick, or anything.”

  Ben glanced past him at Sergeant Davis, who mimed clamping a hand over his mouth while hunching his shoulders. Ben struggled not to laugh out loud.

  “That must have been it,” Ben said. “I knew somebody with as much experience as you would never get airsick.”

  Chad nodded cautiously, then hobbled down the steps. He looked around, confused, until a ground crewman motioned for him and Ben to follow him inside one of the buildings. The structure had a strange rectangular tower extending up from the main building, with a huge, twenty foot diameter badge emblazoned on it. The badge was a a red and orange flame on a black field with white lettering around the perimeter that read ‘NATIONAL INTERAGENCY FIRE CENTER, BOISE IDAHO’.

  “Welcome to NIFC,” the crewman shouted over his shoulder as they entered the double doors beneath the badge. He pronounced the acronym Niff-see.

  “What’s a NIFC?” Chad asked.

  The crewman turned and looked first at Chad, then Ben. “He serious?” he asked, jerking a thumb at Chad.

  “I dunno,” Ben said. “I only met him an hour ago. He spent most of that time puking, so we haven’t really had a chance to connect.”

  “I wasn’t puking,” Chad protested. “At least, not the whole time.”

  The crewman grinned. “My name’s Terry,” he said. “I’m on the Hotshot crew that’s based here for now. I drew the short straw, so I get to give you guys the grand tour.”

  “What’s a Hotshot?” Ben asked.

  Chad butted in. “‘What’s a Hotshot’,” he scoffed. “It’s only the dudes that parachute out of airplanes onto forest fires. Don’t you know anything?” He grinned at Terry as if they were sharing an inside joke.

  Terry looked at Chad, his eyebrows knotted together. “Better to know what you don’t know, than pretend you know it all.” He turned back to Ben. “Hotshots are sort of the special forces of wildland firefighters. We’re trained more extensively, we have more experience, and they put us on the tougher fires than the majority of fire crews because of that.” He glanced back at Chad. “Smoke jumpers are the guys who parachute into remote locations to fight fires. That’s another type of training altogether. There are a lot more Hotshots than there are smoke jumpers, but essentially they’re different tools used for different jobs. Make sense?”