John Nance: 16 Souls

“I wondered where you were,” Marty said, trying to keep his tone friendly, “Then I remembered, they sell scones in the terminal.”

“You ever lose track of me, that’s where to look. I love these things.”

Marty suppressed the word “obviously.”

Twice he’d flown with Borkowsky. He could be engaging and funny and he was obviously a competent airman, but what rubbed Marty the wrong way was his disengaged attitude, as if he was just going through the motions. Far too blasé.

The thought of their Orlando layover hotel entered Marty’s head and he wondered if he’d be able to drag himself to the 24-hour hotel gym once they got there. After a tense evening like this he’d need a workout.

The ancient 24 pin printer positioned for the pilots behind the gate podium was chattering again, and Marty waited for it to stop before ripping off the latest opus: a hardcopy of the weather report. Buried in the verbiage was the news that many of the airports in a four hundred mile radius of Denver were closing because of the storm. Salt Lake had been overwhelmed much earlier in the day. Colorado Springs had just closed, their last runway hopelessly behind the snow removal abilities of their exhausted crews, and the storm was marching like a ravenous beast on everything to the east. All the private fields, and even Buckley, the Air National Guard base nearby, were closed, their runways now drifting dangerously with accumulated snow. Denver International itself was down to two operating runways, and if the dispatcher was wrong, they could end up with only one in operation before the evening rush was done. Inbound flights were stacking up in holding patterns in four directions and the disruption to Regal Airlines’ intricate schedule was beginning to get serious.

The gate agent stepped toward him. “You ready to board ‘em, Captain?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes, I guess we are. About time to get out of your hair.”

The copilot was watching her approvingly as the agent turned and left to open the jetway door.

“So, I guess it’s time for me to go out in the blizzard and do my Eskimo impression,” Ryan said.

“What?” Marty managed, trying to fit the words with realistic meaning.

“You know. Put on a parka and kick some tires,” Borkowsky said as he slurped down the last of his mocha and made an unsuccessful attempt to arc the wadded up scone wrapper into the nearest trash can.

Marty turned away, working to generate his own smile at the passengers as he picked up his brain bag and headed for the jetway. This was no evening for apathy, or a lackadaisical first officer. He made a mental note to double-check everything Borkowsky did.

Seven Months before — January 21st

Mountaineer 2612

At the same moment Captain Mitchell was settling into the left seat of Regal Flight 12, the captain of Mountaineer Airlines Flight 2612 stood crammed into Mountaineer’s tiny operations office two concourses distant, wondering why the Durango, Colorado, airport wasn’t on the list of snowed-in airfields. Apparently, the huge storm was moving more to the north and east than to the south, but the blizzard was so all encompassing it was hard to imagine anywhere in the western U.S. being spared the rapidly developing snowdrifts.

Michelle Whittier finished studying her paperwork and signed the release form. If they could actually get out of Denver, there was no reason they couldn’t get their passengers to Durango — and God knew the struggling little regional airline she flew for needed every dollar that each of those passengers represented.

Not that many of those dollars were going to Mountaineer’s pilots. Then again, she appreciated the fact that she was still employed and sitting in the captain’s seat. Too many captains — even those with major airlines like Delta and American — had watched their salaries slashed in massive give-backs or otherwise been forced over the years by layoffs to return to the copilot ranks flying for half their previous paychecks. The airline industry seemed determined to destroy itself insidiously by giving away its product in an endless, lemming-like march to lower and lower fares, while killing off any remaining passenger loyalty with nickel-and-dime charges for bags, food, and soon probably even seat belts and emergency oxygen masks.

In fact, Michelle thought, she was plain lucky little Mountaineer was still in business. Too many regionals weren’t, and too many regional airline copilots were making less than twenty-five thousand a year — some getting by with food stamps. More than a few regional pilots were moonlighting at other jobs just to make ends meet, and even though the long-predicted pilot shortage was already upon them, the owners of too many regional carriers were still paying their pilots the lowest wages they could get by with while trying to stay profitable flying as surrogates for major airlines that were very accomplished at playing one regional off against another.

In the pilot ranks, it was a shared agony, and there was a stoic tendency to adopt workarounds in support of each other, workarounds borne of sympathy for exhausted moonlighters when they showed up all but brain dead and the other pilot quietly flew solo in order to let the fatigued airman doze most of the way to destination.

Tonight, Michelle had a green copilot still on probation, but the young man was wide awake, sharp and enthusiastic. That was a relief! They were going to need all the coordination and alertness they could manage.

“Michelle, good to see you,” one of the ramp guys said, brushing past her to move behind the counter. She waved and was jostled again as another ramp agent came through the door tromping snow from his shoes and complaining with a big smile. The copilot, whose name she had momentarily forgotten, was already outside in the teeth of the storm preflighting the small twin engine turboprop. Michelle checked the paperwork to locate his name, embarrassed she couldn’t retain it for five minutes.

Luke! Luke Marshall. Okay.

She had to greet him by name when he reached the cockpit. That was important. There was nothing worse than forgetting a crewmember’s name if you wanted to form a real team.

The desire for coffee suggested itself, but the thought of pushing through the crowded and anxious energy of the concourse again to reach Starbucks squelched the idea. Better to get to the aircraft and get ready. Provided her little airline could afford another round of deicing fluid and get the attention of the contractor who took care of their deicing needs at the gate, she had a chance of getting out on time.

Seven Months before — January 21 st

Air Traffic Control Tower, Denver International Airport

“Regal Twelve, Denver Ground. Runway Two-Six is now closed. You’re cleared to Runway Two-Five via Taxiway Golf. Caution, snow removal men and equipment off to the east of Golf.”

“Roger,” the unseen pilot reported, his tone slightly more cheerful than the situation justified. “Regal Twelve is cleared to Runway Two-Five via Golf.”

The shift supervisor in Denver International’s control tower had been pulled into the ground control position when two of his controllers couldn’t get to the airport. Now it was getting irritating with the airport progressively losing control of the blizzard’s assault. The last straw was hearing one of his controllers replace the approach control tie line and announce that one of the regional flights was coming back.

“Who?” Jimmy Toulon asked, a bit too sharply. Too much time in the office and too little in a control position meant his temper was unduly short.