David Robbins: Cincinnati Run

The copilot gazed out of the cockpit window at the thousands of people gathered near the terminal and gulped. “If we crash, I’ll be so embarrassed.”

“You won’t be the only one,” the captain muttered.

“I didn’t realize President Toland planned to invite everyone in the Civilized Zone to witness our takeoff,” the copilot said.

The captain laughed. “Sure looks like he did, doesn’t it? There must be four thousand out there, but most are from Denver.”

“What if we blow it, Skip?”

“We won’t, Bob.”

“I wish I had your confidence.”

They both tensed as a voice crackled in their headsets.

“Captain Orton, this is your friendly controller in the tower speaking.

Do you copy or are you peeing your pants?”

The captain grinned. “I copy, Max. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to see if you’re still awake,” Max responded.

“We’re raring to go,” Captain Orton said.

“Between you and me, Skip, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes,” Max commented.

“I wouldn’t want you in my shoes either,” Captain Orton quipped.

“Your feet stink.”

“Seriously, Skip. How’s it going?”

“Everything checks out A-Okay,” Captain Orton stated. “We’ve been through the preflight list twice, and all systems are go.”

“President Toland is about to give his address to the crowd,” Max mentioned. “Do you want me to pipe it into you guys?”

“Must we?” the copilot asked.

“Behave yourself. Bob,” Captain Orton said. “We wouldn’t be flying this bird if Toland hadn’t pressed for the service. Let’s hear what the man has to say.”

“You’re the boss,” Bob replied, grinning.

“Let’s hear the speech, Max,” Captain Orton told the controller.

“You’ve got it,” Max said.

A moment later their headsets hissed and sputtered, and the dulcet tones of President Toland reached their ears.

“…for coming here today,” the Chief Executive was saying. “This is truly a momentous occasion. Some might rightfully call this an historic occasion.”

“I can see him,” Bob remarked, craning his neck. “He’s about twenty feet from our nose.”

Captain Orton glanced down the nose of the 757 and spotted the familiar figure of the Civilized Zone’s duly elected leader attired in a dark blue suit. “I see him too.” President Toland’s back was to the aircraft, but there was no mistaking those square shoulders or his neatly clipped black hair and his straight-as-an-arrow posture.

“And it is historic,” Toland declared, talking into a microphone held in his right hand. “Think of it! This is the very first airline flight since World War Three, at least between members of the Freedom Federation. Once this flight has been successfully completed, we can expand our schedule to include other Federation members. California was selected this time because the L.A. Airport is fully operational.” He paused for effect. “The word has gone out to the Flathead Indians in Montana, to the rugged frontiersmen and women who control the Dakota Territory, to the Moles in their underground city in northern Minnesota, to the Clan in northwestern Minnesota, and to the Family. They appreciate the importance of this flight. Restoring regular air service is but another rung on the ladder we must climb to return our respective societies to some semblance of our prewar greatness…”

“Why do all politicians sound the same?” the copilot asked sarcastically.

“Hush,” Captain Orton said.

“We have worked diligently and expended countless hours of hard effort, not to mention the cost in monetary terms, to rehabilitate the 757 you see behind me. We have salvaged parts from the aircraft abandoned in hangars here at Stapleton, and we have fabricated new parts where necessary. Two of our top officers, Captain Skip Orton and Lieutenant Bob Gunther, spent a year in California learning to fly the single-engine, twin-engine, and jet aircraft utilized by that sovereign State.” He glanced over his right shoulder at the cockpit and smiled. “We can rest assured that our investment is in excellent hands.”

“Then why are mine sweating?” Gunther quipped.

“Thanks for reminding me,” Captain Orton responded.

“About what?” Lieutenant Gunther queried.

“I forgot to bring your diapers,” Captain Orton said with a smile.

“Maybe we can delay our takeoff while one of the stewardesses fetches extra towels.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you have a nasty streak?” Gunther questioned.

“Sweet, innocent me?” Orton said.

They both shifted their attention to the President’s speech.

“…plans are already on the drawing board to expand our airline fleet to four airliners,” Toland disclosed to his fidgety audience. “Within two years, if all goes well, we hope to establish weekly flights to each Federation faction. Fuel is our primary concern. California refines enough to barely meet its needs, and we produce a limited supply. Unfortunately, the days of our ancestors, the days of unlimited reserves of gas and oil, are long gone. Oh, it’s not that the crude isn’t out there, waiting to be brought to the surface. We know, for instance, that Wyoming alone could provide our needs for the immediate future, if we possessed more of the equipment needed to bring the crude to the surface. Our shortage of equipment and competent personnel is critical, and we hope to alleviate both in the next five years…”

“He’s putting me to sleep,” Lieutenant Gunther remarked.

“He has a captive audience,” Captain Orton commented. “We could be parked here an hour from now.”

“But I can see that you’re eager for the main event to begin,” President Toland declared, and the crowd vented enthusiastic cheers. “But before I conclude, there’s one crucial point which must be stressed.”

“God deliver us from mutants, famine, and politicians,” Lieutenant Gunther cracked.

“Amen,” Captain Orton added.

“None of this would be possible without your cooperation. As citizens of the Civilized Zone, you have a right to feel proud of our achievement. The 757 would not get off the ground without your support.”

“Without their tax dollars, he means,” Gunther said.

“I should have brought a book,” Orton observed.

“…hold your heads up in more ways than one as this big bird takes to the air.”

“Will that be this year?” someone in the throng shouted.

President Toland hesitated, surveying his restless constituents. “I can take a hint,” he joked.

A ripple of laughter greeted his stab at humor.

“So let’s get on with the show!” Toland stated, and walked toward the front of the assemblage, mingling with a row of other dignitaries; representatives from every Federation faction, members of Toland’s administration, city officials from Denver and a dozen lesser municipalities, members of the media, and military bigwigs.

Orton and Gunther’s headsets imitated frying bacon for several seconds.

“You heard the man, kiddies,” Max the controller declared. “Time for the main event.”

“What’s the latest on the weather?” Captain Orton asked.

“Unlimited ceiling and unrestricted visibility,” Max said. “The temperature is seventy-three. Just another gorgeous, sunny, September day in Colorado.”

“Say, Max?” Lieutenant Gunther said.

“What, Bob?”

“Are you sure you know how to work the radar unit?”

Max snorted. “Are you maligning my professional integrity? I studied for eighteen months in California, and spent an entire year at the Los Angeles Airport. True, they don’t have any birds this size flying out of L.A., but I learned everything there is to know about keeping track of your inept butts when you’re in the air.”