Flying Too Close to the Sun by George Jehn (most inspirational books TXT) 📗

her checkbook. She instead decided to drive to the airport and have a cup of coffee with David, a baggage handler at Shuttle Air and also a part-time acting student studying at NYU. Although they had been sharing a bed since her latest divorce, she had doubts about any long-term relationship.

With her photo ID prominently displayed, she proceeded to the security checkpoint and after being wanded by a Transportation Security Administration woman who looked more like a terrorist than a cop, she took the staircase down under the building into the central baggage loading area. It was ironic that following 9/11 the Feds instituted strict security measures for the airlines but the remainder of the aviation industry, in particular privately owned jets, had none. One of Osama bin Laden’s top henchmen could be flying on one and the TSA wouldn’t have a clue.

Christina passed a large room where a number of federal workers were busy x-raying, opening and going through passengers’ checked luggage. They then re-secured and tagged them, placed them on a noisy conveyor belt for airline workers who placed them on one of the carts, all of which were then attached to a tug. A baggage worker like David would then load them into the cargo compartment of a flight. The entire area reeked of foul fumes and Christina’s eyes burned as if she were in a room full of cigar smokers. Through squinty eyes she could pick out a number of video cameras. Were there were also other hidden ones? David noticed her and flashed what resembled a toothpaste advertisement smile, removed his earplugs and facemask and shook hands. Christina had made it clear there were to be no public displays of affection between them because she was a captain and he was a ramp worker. David said he told any fellow workers who inquired, he and Captain Shepard as he always referred to her, were simply good friends. She didn’t know if what he said was true.

“You got time for a cup of coffee?” she hollered over the din. When combined with the low-pitched racket of the loading belt, speaking in normal tones was impossible as there was nothing on the bare concrete floor to quiet the racket.

“I’m due for a break. I’ll meet you in the coffee shop,” he shouted.

A stern-faced Christina went into the fluorescent-lit cafeteria and purchased two cups of cardboard-tasting coffee in Styrofoam cups from a clerk who sized her up with predatory eyes like a snake’s. She drank hers with milk and sugar, but put only milk in David’s because he didn’t consume carbohydrates. A moment later he slid into the seat alongside her. As they chatted Christina related the details of the engine problem and cockpit goings-on while sipping the bitter brew.

“That’s pretty scary shit. Maybe they’ll slip you a couple of days off with pay for the great job?”

“Today’s the only day and I had to practically beg for it,” she sighed. She steered the conversation back to the problem now constantly on her mind. “At this point I don’t know what I’m going to do about the medical shit, other than not telling anyone. My next required FAA physical isn’t for three more months.” She hesitated a moment, altering her train of thought. “To make things even worse that prick O’Brien,” pointing in the direction of the chief pilot’s office, “asked me to call him this morning. I figured he would want to know the Boston details, and he did. He thanked me but then wanted to pin the blame on someone.”

“I thought everything turned out fine?”

“It did, but you’ve got to understand his military thought process, fault must be assessed for everything. He believed the second officer should have seen oil leaking from the engine or some other such crap so the whole thing could have been avoided.”

“But you said it was the copilot—”

“He was the one who screwed up, but O’Brien’s apparently got it in for the new second officer. I told him to leave the kid alone and if he wants to do something, then go after Montgomery. But he didn’t want to hear that, so I might have to put something in writing?”

“All these management scumbags are nothing but selfish money-grubbers,” David replied. “Speaking of money, did you leave me a check for my next term’s tuition?”

“Like you requested I wrote a check for four grand and made it out to you, instead of the school. It’s in an envelope on the kitchen table.”

“Thanks. I also have my eye on a really nice Bose surround sound stereo system. It would look out of this world on the empty shelf in the living room and the TV would sound great,” a smiling David told her.

“Don’t you care about my career? What’s this latest stuff going to cost?”

“I don’t remember the exact amount, but not that much.”

“Just like the giant screen Sony television you bought over the internet on my credit card? Either you don’t understand or just refuse to accept it, but I need money to pay your bills and keep my head above water. I’ve got lots of other expenses and you pile on even more. And now with this epilepsy crap…” her voice grew faint.

“But you are an airline captain.”

“Don’t give me that. I’ve got child support and alimony payments. Plus, we Shuttle Air pilots haven’t had a raise in almost three years. It’s difficult to make ends meet and getting tougher each month. I need to come up with money, quickly and I don’t know how much time I have left if the FAA somehow finds out about the epilepsy? I only have a few months of sick time and then I’d go on disability, which is only half pay for a maximum of three years.”

After a moment a pensive David replied, “I have an idea on how we just might get out hands on some dough.”

“Do what?” Christina warily asked.

David paused, seemingly deep in thought, which Christina believed would be a