Getting Somewhere

Getting Flight

By Eric Hodges

Copyright 2016 Eric Hodges

Smashwords Edition

Other Titles by Author:

Getting Somewhere

ISBN 9781310348914

License Notes

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Table of Contents

Flight 1

Flight 2

Flight 3

Flight 4

Flight 5

Flight 6

Flight 7

Flight 8

Flight 9

Flight 10

Flight 11

Flight 12

Flight 13

Flight 14

Flight 15

Flight 16

Flight 17

Flight 18

Flight 19

Flight 20

Flight 21

Flight Epilog

About Eric Hodges

Contact the Author

Flight 1

Wheeler had been driving most of the night in the dark, deserted plains of Middle America, with only the whine of the tiny engine in the back of his VW to keep him company. The emptiness of the flatland on which he was driving, seemed to be helping. He felt alone, and wanted the solitude, to immerse himself in a bit of under stimulation.

He did feel the comfort of his aged VW bus, it was like an old friend. He rebuilt everything, and converted it into a tiny apartment, while he was still in the Navy. His old friend Emil, at his small engine repair shop in California, had provided the garage to do the work, and the moral support Wheeler needed. He was not so accommodating when it came to Wheeler's plans after leaving the Navy.

Wheeler, Emil told him.You good mechanic. You could be real competition for me. But you need more. You need somebody or something to protect.

Wheeler chuckled at Emil's fatherly instruction. Emil knew Wheeler better than he knew himself. They had known each other for years, and Emil was Wheeler's only contact to the real world. He had lost track of his family, and had never had the experience of a best friend, or even a long term friend. Emil had filled in the gaps. He missed Emil, and made a mental note to send him a post card.

The bend in the flat road he was on, drew Wheeler out of his reverie, because the headlights on the old VW didn't illuminate much. Even at the modest speeds he was traveling, he almost missed the bend on the unfamiliar road. His quiet solitude was smashed by the sputtering roar of an airplane, that erupted right over his head. The loud clamor sounded like the plane was landing on the roof of the VW. He jerked the steering wheel reflexively, as he heard the plane whoosh right over his head, and drop into the headlights, before disappearing in the gloom. Over the noise of the VW, Wheeler could hear the screech of the plane hitting the roadway, and he could see the ensuing fireball erupt on the road ahead.

From his Navy days, he knew that the chances of survival were slim. Helicopters that went down like that, usually killed the crew in the fireball. He slowed and drove toward it. The fireball extinguished itself immediately, and the rubble was unmistakable. He crunched through the bits of shattered plastic, making his way toward the bigger pieces. Odd, he mused, as he wondered if this could be a military plane, due to the construction. Then he thought, 'probably not, it was all white.' He got out of the VW and walked to the dying flames, reduced to smoldering. The fuel must have been expended.

Again, Wheeler thought, it was odd that the plane seemed to carry a minimum fuel load. It was probable that it was near empty, and possibly, that was the cause of the crash. It was out of fuel. He continued scanning the site, and he thought he noticed a bit of movement off the road, in the dirt. There was movement.

He rushed over to the prone form on the ground, and saw the blood running from a gash on the fellow's hairline.

Hey buddy, are you okay? Hey, Wheeler tried to wake him. The olive complexion of his face, was topped by dark, curly hair, that was matted in the blood. At least you're alive, I'll be right back.

He returned from the VW with a compress to staunch the flow of blood, and a flashlight. He shined his light over the rest of the body, that didn't look too bad. The pilot had the expected scrapes and torn clothes, but nothing significant, compared to the head wound.

Wheeler used the compress, a tee shirt, to hold back the bleeding from the head wound. The fellow was not really awake yet, but at least he was moving reflexively. Wheeler had nothing to tie off the head compress with, and was wondering how he could get the guy to a real hospital. They were miles from anything, and he had no idea where such a place might be found, nor any clue of which direction to go.

Wheeler was scanning the horizon for lights, when he saw the convoy. There was a line of headlights coming pretty fast from the direction that he was traveling. Wheeler hoped they would see his headlights, before they added his VW to the crash site. Fortunately, they slowed appropriately. A line of pickup trucks and two flatbeds, pulled to a stop.

A dark outline of a man emerged from the first truck and called back, into the glare of the headlights. Pull the flatbed alongside of the crash, he pointed off to the side of the road, and find Roberto!

They hadn't spotted Roberto and Wheeler yet, so Wheeler pointed his flashlight at the group of men coming through the rubble, and waved the beam. He was still holding Roberto's head with the compress, so there was little else he could do but wait. He did yell out, Over here!

A man walked over to Wheeler, and put down what was probably a medical case. He started his examination, and said, Thanks buddy, how's he doing? The medic leaned in to get a better look, and mostly ignored Wheeler.

I just got to the head wound, and didn't look much further, Wheeler responded. The rest of him doesn't look too bad.

The medic took over compress duties on Roberto's head, and peeked underneath. That's a heck of a gash he's got there, but at least his head isn't busted open. Here, hold this back down, so I can dig into my kit. Thanks for doing this, you might have saved his life. He opened up the kit box, and still didn't look at Wheeler, but he did stay focused on the first aid task that Roberto needed.

I'll take over now, he told Wheeler, as he reached over to lift the bloody tee shirt they had been using.

What's your name fella? the medic asked Wheeler, as he applied a real bandage.

Wheeler, he replied.

My name is Eric, Eric Csorba. I'm usually the flight line mechanic, but I'm the one that knows first aid. Eric chatted while he worked the compress, and started wrapping the head. I knew I would be wrapping this jerk one day. He's the one that keeps trying to push the limits, see how far he can go, and how fast these things can fly.

Eric was a chatty type of guy, and didn't stop his monologue. He didn't need prompting, and just kept going.

You seem to be pretty good at this first aid stuff, too. Are you some kind of medic? he asked Wheeler.

No, not a medic. I rode helicopters in the Navy, and saw my share of crashes, mostly worse than this one, Wheeler replied. Those were a mess.

Really? Eric continued. Did you ever fix them? The helicopters?

Well, yeah, Wheeler offered, reluctantly. I was a flight engineer. Mostly, I was the load master, but I did need to patch them up now and again, in flight.

Eric was finishing the wrap, and looked carefully at Wheeler, sizing him up as if measuring him for competency or butchering. Wheeler didn't know which, but he wasn't real keen on either choice. Eric grabbed a penlight from his shirt, and opened Roberto's eyelids, one at a time.

He has a bit of a concussion, Eric observed. We'll have to cart him into town. There's a glorified clinic there the boss has on retainer. It's open 24 hours.

Wheeler finally noticed that the dawn was breaking in a faint yellow glow on the horizon, outlining the distant hills. He greeted it with a yawn, as the fatigue of his all nighter, snuck up on him.

Roberto, Roberto! Eric was talking loudly right into Roberto's face, and patting him on the cheek. Roberto! Wake up!

Mumph. Waa? was Roberto's response.

Roberto! Wake up buddy, you crashed, Eric pressed. You've got to wake up, c'mon buddy. Eric kept patting him on the cheek until the eyes actually stayed open.

Wha happa? Roberto said, too groggy to make proper words.

Eric grabbed one of Roberto's hands, and said, Squeeze my hand. He did, and Eric moved through the other extremities, to ensure there was no more damage.

Okay, we're going to get you up, he said, as he grabbed an arm, and supported Roberto's head. Wheeler, get the other arm and let's lift him on to his feet.

Eric was equal to Wheeler's six-foot-one frame, but carried at least 25 more pounds. The two men had no difficulty gently lifting the smaller man, and they could easily carry him. The three of them just stood for a moment, to allow Roberto to get his wobble under control, but they didn't let go.

Let's' get him to the Suburban, Eric ordered. They started the short walk, and that was the first time Wheeler noticed the rest of the crew. There were about ten men picking up the shards that were once an airplane, and throwing them into one of the flatbeds. Eric hailed the man standing back, giving the orders.

Hey Karl, we're headed into town. Can you get one of the guys to bring Wheeler's VW to the ranch? Eric asked.

Sure, got the keys? Karl replied.

Wheeler's neck flushed at the ease with which Eric had just given his VW away, and glared at him. Before he could say anything, Eric noticed that Wheeler stiffened, and interrupted his building outrage.

I really need you to go with me to help stupid Roberto here stay awake, Wheeler. If he goes to sleep, he may not wake up. It will be okay, all the guys here are mechanics that know machinery. They won't hurt your VW.

Wheeler acquiesced grudgingly, but was troubled that he was now involved in this aircrew as much he was. All of his worldly possessions were in the bus, and he didn't know these men.

Wheeler turned to Karl, and said Okay, but you be careful with it. That is my whole life in that bus. The key's in it.

Don't you worry a bit, Karl said, with a big smile. We owe you big time for saving our guy."

The Suburban was the super deluxe model that had four captain's chairs, so Roberto was as comfortable as they could make him, in the back seat with Wheeler. They leaned him back a bit, so his head was supported, but he wasn't lying down.

You want some cards or something, Wheeler? Eric called from the front. You could probably beat him in that condition. Hey Roberto! Start counting bushes! Eric grinned from the front, as he got the Suburban going.

What's with the bushes? Wheeler asked, not knowing the significance.

We've made so many trips to town, we began measuring the distance in bushes. It's about 20 bushes per mile, 38 bushes to town, he grinned back at Wheeler, then added, Hey Roberto! You still awake?

Yeah, yeah, Roberto said. I'm awake.

So Eric, tell me what's with the plastic airplane? Wheeler asked, as they got underway.

There's some fancy investor who wants to resurrect the old BD-5 airplane. He's hired a bunch of aeronautical geniuses to fix all the problems, and make a killing, Eric said, looking to the back seat. He was ignoring the road for longer than Wheeler thought prudent.

What's a BD-5? Wheeler asked.

It was a small, one or two-person, toy airplane from the 1970's, that was incredibly fast. With only 75 horsepower it could cruise at over 200 knots, Eric responded. There was a small problem, it wasn't very stable.

Wheeler knew a bit about aircraft, and said, Wow, that is fast! There must be a market for that kind of performance. Is there any military interest?

Naw, it's all commercial. It's built out of plastic because of the weight savings, and we've had some strength problems, Eric explained, finally looking at the road. And it's not actually plastic. It's structural carbon fiber, with some exotic polymers and fiberglass thrown in. How's Roberto doing?

Roberto's fine, Roberto answered, recovering nicely. I did verify the stress load problem has been fixed. I could get ten G's out of the planes, if the old man would let me. Without the damn GPS tracker on it, I would have tried it anyway.

Well Wheeler, I think our boy has awakened. Look into his eyes and tell me what you see, Eric asked, handing Wheeler his pen light.

Wheeler leaned over to get a close look, and said, I only see pissed off, I think he's okay. How much further to town?

That's it, right up ahead, Eric replied, pointing at the buildings on the horizon.

Wheeler probed further, trying to get a better read on the operation. What's a big time aircraft operation doing out here in the boonies? You'll never get much publicity out here.

That's why it's out here, Eric answered. The original BD had such a bad name, the boss wanted to get away from prying eyes to do the development. It's easier out here, to avoid the smear of the old reputation, while we fix all of the problems. There were, ahem, growing pains?

Wheeler caught the inference. Those growing pains weren't crashes, were they? He recalled, the efficient cleanup crew collecting parts of Roberto's plane, like they had done it before.

No comment, Eric replied. And that reminds me, hey Roberto!! What did happen up there, and this better be good. The boss has been known to cut off body parts for stupid mistakes.

Roberto just looked glum, and said, It wasn't my fault, completely. He paused to collect himself, or make up a good story, Wheeler thought. The rudder cable broke again, just when I made the turn to head back to the ranch, he paused, just as I ran out of gas. I couldn't make it back, so I used this guy’s headlights to find the road and land. Then I got a little cross breeze and couldn't correct it with the frozen rudder.

Eric burst out laughing, and poked at Roberto. If the boss didn't need your sorry-ass to fly these things, he'd cut off a leg for that one. It took quite a few moments for Eric to stop laughing at his own joke, but he did finally recover.

Are you going to tell him? Eric asked.

Of course. If I didn't, you would, so what would be the point? Roberto replied.

Exactly, Eric grinned broadly.

~~***~~

Wheeler and Eric dropped Roberto at the clinic, made their way to the Golden Diner. It was just down the street from the hospital, and they slipped in for a bit of breakfast.

I thought you said we were going to a clinic. What gives? That was a real hospital, Wheeler observed

Yeah, I'm from Atlanta, Eric said. They have a real hospital there, and I think this one treats horses on the side. All they’re going to do is keep Roberto under observation for a few hours, to make sure he doesn't change into a zombie or something worse. We have time for breakfast.

They ordered coffee with egg and bacon breakfasts, and watched the city come alive from the window. Eric started in, between bites, not waiting for an invitation.

"So tell me Wheeler, where are you headed?'

I was just going north, to get out to some open country. I've had enough of cities and populations for a while.

You have found your perfect place. We are in Rock Springs, Wyoming, that's a hundred and fifty miles from Salt Lake City, and a million miles from everything else, Eric grinned. In case you haven't noticed, the only things out here, are ranches and flatland, and it's mostly empty.

Eric looked critically at Wheeler, and asked, Are you running away from the law?

No, nothing like that. I grew up in the Navy, and almost retired from it. I've never been outside for long, and I wanted to see how real people live. The structure of the military finally got to me, and I had to get out. I've been traveling ever since.

It must be nice to be independently wealthy.

Well, it's not really like that. I take on odd jobs along the way, to keep myself going, and I don't need much. The VW is my only dependent, and the YMCA is very accommodating for showers and clean up.

Oh yeah, the VW. What's up with that anyway? You know it's fifty years old, and they have made much better cars over the years.

I know, but I like it. I've had it for years, and every bolt on the thing has my fingerprints on it. I've grown fond of it, and it's my only stability. It's my home on wheels.

I think Mike is going to want to talk to you when we get back, Eric said, with a smirk.

~~***~~

They collected Roberto for the ride back to the ranch. It was only about a half an hour away from town, down the road on which the plane crashed. Eric turned off beyond the crash site, onto a smaller road, that led to the driveway, that announced the Singles Ranch, on a broad sign hanging between two telephone poles. The faded paint on the gray boards and fence posts, hinted that the glory days of the ranch had passed.

Wheeler noted that the main house on the right looked occupied, sporting flower boxes colorfully filled, and a trimmed lawn surrounding the house. Eric drove on past what was a fenced horse exercise areas, that contained only tall weeds. The horses that should have pounded them flat, were absent. The fences opened up into a cluster of larger buildings, that was the ranch proper. Eric parked the suburban next to Wheeler's VW, in front of the office.

Wheeler, Roberto, and Eric got out of the truck, and were greeted by a well-dressed cowboy, sporting a plaid shirt, pressed jeans, and shiny cowboy boots. Wheeler thought the guy had come out of central casting, but he didn't