CHAPTER 6

The career fair was otherwise uneventful. Dickie and I headed back to the tower. When we got there, a fire truck was hosing down a distant corner of the field. Ray was up there watching.

“Was Jennifer smoking weed again?”

“Funny, Norm. Nope, just a little brush fire.”

“Kind of a weird location.”

“Yeah, but it’s next to the road, so someone probably threw a cigarette out of their car window.”

Plausible. There are a few facts about the field. It is like a mini-wildlife refuge in the middle of the city. We’ve got coyotes, rabbits, squirrels, rattlesnakes; you name it. And with the arid climate, unless it is the rainy season, we are under fire warning. When we had El Nino a few years back, the hills were lush and green. Five years later, they were tinderboxes, brown and black from the lack of moisture. But for us to have a fire on the airport was extremely rare. It made me wonder about the state of the area.

Several years ago, the city secured a fire copter to combat any brush fires in the city. It was a wet year, and the number of fires never quite justified the expenditure. So the next year, the contract wasn’t renewed. Then, a really big fire started. Made the record books. And with no helicopter to assist the initial assault, the fire burned out of control in the places that were not accessible from the ground. The contract was reestablished, and kept up as part of the fire department’s necessary budget. I noticed they were still sitting at their base across the airport from us.

“Nobody called in the cavalry?” I surveyed the scene through the binoculars. The scorched weeds and scrub brush were quite a distance away from the street and the perimeter fence on the airport grounds. If anyone tossed out a cigarette, they’d have to have an arm like Nolan Ryan to get it that far infield.

“It wasn’t big enough to worry about.” Ray was peering through the binos, not even bothering to look at me while answering. The phone rang again, and Ray answered. A brief exchange, and he dropped the phone back into its cradle.

“Undetermined cause.” He was matter-of-fact.

“Could be anything then.” Dickie walked up the stairs into the tower cab.

“Sure, Dickie.” My sarcasm awoke. “When did you finish Arson Investigator’s school? Because I don’t remember you in the class.”

Dickie steps in it a lot. And I am usually the one to smear it all over him. In my police career, I wore a lot of hats, and one of them was arson investigator. I spent a couple of years looking into fires, and it was a great education. I knew the guys who were on the Arson Task Force, so I could call them and get the real story if I wanted. Something bothered me about this fire, but I could not figure out why.

Not a lot of people know that the Arson guys get called to nearly every fire. Grease fire get out of control in the kitchen? The arson guys are coming by. Between them and your insurance company, they want to make sure you’re not trying to burn down part of the house for a little windfall. The kitchen is the most expendable room. Nobody keeps any valuables there, except maybe grandma’s china. Plus, it is so easy to be distracted and leave a pan on the stove, and presto!  A new kitchen!

I knew that I’d be talking to an old friend of mine about it.

CHAPTER 5

I love my job, and I enjoy communicating that love to others interested in the profession. In spite of everything bad in the work environment, nothing compares to the rush that you get from working a busy push.

I do the career fairs because I want to be the spectral opposite of the glory hounds like Dickie. Dickie makes himself out to be a water-walker, mostly so he can try to nail some college-aged pussy. I’ve seen him ask for dates on these things, mostly creeping out the few young women who find interest in a ground-based career in aviation. Hell, if he was the face of the Agency, we’d be lucky to have any balance in ATC. As it is, the field is male-dominated. I am equal opportunity: if you can do the job, I don’t give a shit what your orientation is, what genitalia you have, your race, color, creed or religion. Do the job, and do it good, and I will happily embrace your presence. Not that I don’t appreciate nice people, but competence is king. Dickie was smarmy, and weak as a controller.

I approached the Agency kiosk at the college, and Dickie was nowhere to be found. At least he set it up. There were a great number of hopeful students lobbying with recruiters from some of the bigger companies, while the government service booths had sparse attendance. I sat down behind the table and took inventory of the various flyers designed to glorify the spectrum of careers offered. Dickie showed up and sat down next to me. I grunted a response to his cheery salutation.

I will say that Dickie has great fashion sense. He never came to work without wearing nice slacks, a pressed shirt, and shoes that came out of an Italian cobbler’s shop. I don’t think I saw him wear the same pair twice, but that is an exaggeration. He was a great image for the Agency, with the walnut-sized brain of a stegosaurus. I had a cat like him once: beautiful to look at, but brainless.

“You know, Norm, I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but I can’t get my head around why you dislike me so much?”

“Dickie, I hardly think this is the forum to resolve our family issues.”

“You see. It’s like that. Why do you keep calling me Dickie?”

Did I fail to mention that he hated being called “Dickie?” Luckily, a couple of people came up to the kiosk, discussing as they walked towards us. One was an older guy. I recognized him as the Dean of Aviation Sciences, Pete Masucci. The young woman with him was clearly confident. Dressed impeccably---smart suit, subtle makeup---and her hair pulled back, but not tightly wound. She knew what she was doing, dressing to impress, and Dickie drew in his breath.

“Get a load of this one, Norm.” He hissed out of the corner of this mouth. The way he slipped the words out was almost at a whisper, and I realized that “snake” was a good analogy for him. Pete greeted me first as we rose.

“Norm! Great to see you.”

“You too, Pete. You’ve met Dickie McCallen here before?”

“Rich McCallen." Dickie shot me a nasty look as he corrected me. "I think we met at Norm’s last party.” I am an asshole, but not so much that I don’t invite Dickie out with us. Being away from work has a way of softening my rough edges. I can put aside that he’s an incompetent boob, have a drink and talk about the old days.

“I wanted you guys to meet Laurie Palmer. She’s one of the stars in our program. She’ll be graduating this May, and I understand she’s already been hired by your Agency.”

Dickie opened his mouth to say something condescending, I’m certain, so I cut him off. He’s kind of a lecherous, chauvanistic dickweed at times.

“Laurie? I’m Norm Higgs. Class of ’81.”

“PATCO? I get it.” She smiled and shook my extended hand. A firm grip for a woman.

“Rich McCallen.” Dickie interjected. I swear he grimaced when she squeezed his hand, and I think she had him pegged from the word “go.” Smart girl.

“As Mr. Masucci was explaining,” she took control of the conversation,” I’ve got a class date for Oklahoma City. I leave a couple of weeks after graduation.”

“Great.” I said. “So you’ve been through all the real fun. The mind games are next. Make it there, do well, and you’ll have your choice, I hope.”

“I already have my assignment.”

“Where?” I think Dickie was drooling.

“Right here. Metro Tower. I really got lucky.”

Dickie’s pulse jumped through the roof. I think he nearly swooned. There was a reason that Marci left him all those years ago. He liked the fairer sex way too much.

“Well, why don’t you drop by before you leave and grab a training packet? I’ve also got some off-the-books stuff that will help you once you get going. It’ll probably help you at the academy, too.” I kept old training manuals I’d gleaned from all the service ATC schools, here and there. When I was in flight school at Fort Fucker, it made sense to know what those guys on the other side were learning, too. I had no way of knowing that I’d need it myself.

“I’d like that, Mr. Higgs.”

“Call me Norm. My father is Mr. Higgs.” I was used to it by now, at my age.

“Thanks. Nice to meet you, too, Mr. McCallen.”

“I look forward to your first day, Laurie.” Dickie was probably ejaculating in his shorts now. Another lovely body for him to fantasize about at night.

CHAPTER 4

At seven, the next crew rolls in, and our chief, Donald Raymond  “Ray” Thomas arrives bearing news. He drinks his coffee from a cup that says, “I love the smell of jet fuel in the morning.” He was a flight engineer on 727s way back when, but then realized that being on the road every day of his life was no way to run a family.

“Norm, don’t forget about the career fair at State today. I hope you’ve got something prepared?”

I’ve known Ray a long time. He was a trainee of mine back in the day. At this moment, he was sporting a greyish-white beard and resembled a thinner Santa Claus on Key West. His face was rugged, but kind, and he always had a joke ready. When I knew him before, he had a head full of wavy black hair. 

He moved up and stayed on the job when the rest of us walked. I can’t blame him because he was at a very uncertain time in his life. He was in the middle of a divorce and needed a paycheck to keep up his alimony. He called me the night before, seeking some sort of absolution. I told him, he had to do what he had to do. Now, twenty some-odd years later, he’s my boss. Ironic? Yeah. But I can’t hold it against him.

“Dickie is already there.” He said. Now that, I could hold against him. My gaze said all I needed to say, and everything I was thinking. “I know, Norm, but I can’t get anyone else out.”

“That’s because he’s a third-rate hack. I don’t know how the hell he ever made it here. Or anywhere else for that matter.”

Dickie McCallen was a scab, a parasite. He crossed the line, but unlike Ray Thomas, who was in dire need, Dickie was an opportunist. He wasn’t even checked out yet. He had a few more hours to get under his belt before he’d get signed off, certified to work on his own. But then, the guys walked, and he saw his chance. He showed up, and they told him, “You’re close enough.” The powers that be gave him the blessing and, poof! He was a journeyman without finishing his apprenticeship. So they moved him up to a bigger tower, working jets. Big jets with people in them.  “Nevermind the close calls, we’ve got a job to do.” He thought he was God’s gift to ATC, and no one ever told him otherwise.

For a few years, Dickie got by on his wing and a prayer, but he was sloppy and inattentive. And that’s how the first guy died. Dickie never was much for book learning, but there’s a lot of reading to be done in this job, things like emergency procedures and notifying people when there are overdue aircraft. So when the guy didn’t call back and tell Dickie he landed, Dickie should have called the cops to go and have a look around. It took the guy hours to bleed to death. If Dickie had called after half an hour, by the book, that young guy flying boxes around at midnight might have gotten that dream job at the airlines. Instead, he got a free flight six feet underground. Up periscope; continue taxi. Poor bastard.

Dickie got off easy on the next one. There was a glitch in the tracking software and the computer-generated track dropped and never reacquired. The pilot never knew he was lost to the radar controller, and probably never knew what hit him, or rather, what he hit. “Controlled flight into terrain” was the ruling by the NTSB, but Dickie was probably yapping away at someone in the control room, not watching his scope.

So what do you do with a killer? Make him a supervisor, of course, before he does in three more planes for the Ace ranking.

“Well, I better get over there before he does any more damage.”

“C’mon Norm. Be nice.” Ray knew I was the nicest asshole in the world.

“He’s a scab, Ray. And a killer.”

“I’m a scab.”

“You knew what you were doing. Moreover, you didn’t have to kill anyone to get where you are.”

Ray frowned. He knew I was right, but Ray was a nice guy who didn’t like to criticize anyone, if it could be avoided. As for me, well, my greatest asset (and curse) is my ability to be brutally honest, though I do show some discretion.

As I was walking down the stairs, the phone rang, and I could hear Ray fielding a call from some concerned citizen about some low-flying aircraft or noise. As I walked out the door, the door failed to close, again. Lowest bidder.

CHAPTER 3

I unlocked the door, and noticed the automatic closer failed to latch behind me. I pulled it completely shut, and made a mental note to tell the chief about it. I started up the six flights of stairs, pausing on the fourth floor to check on the recording equipment and make sure all was good. In our job, every word you say on the radio, on the landlines, or on the telephone is recorded. You might make some off-hand remark thinking you’re being funny, only to find yourself in the chief’s office a few weeks later explaining exactly what you meant calling your supervisor an “incompetent boob.”

I unlocked the break room door and traversed the floor to the electronically locked door leading to the tower cab. I heard the door open behind me, and Perry Hill walked in tossing his lunch into the fridge.

“Norm.”

“Perry.”

Perry came in after the strike. He’d been a fuel specialist in the Air Force, but reenlisted to be an Air Traffic Controller. He spent a few years in the USAF before he got a job working as a civilian controller at Grissom AFB. A couple of years later, he ended up sliding out to California on a great job offer. He and his wife, Kaite, had just brought one daughter into the world, and he took the chance on making it through here at Metro Tower. We’d been crewmates for years, and we knew how to work together.

We punched in the code and climbed the remaining 16 steps to the tower cab.

At that time of the morning, before dawn, nothing is really flying. When we open at six, we’re lucky to talk to one airplane before the box and check haulers show up from their rounds the night before.

Perry has the watch as Controller-in-Charge until our useless Supervisor Dickie shows up. While he takes care of the administrative side of things, I turn on the radar scopes and set up the airfield lighting. I make a few calls to adjacent facilities and ready the ATIS (Automated Terminal Information System), which tells pilots all about what is going on at the airport. It includes the runways in use, the approaches, and airport conditions, like when a runway or taxiway is closed. It is a time saver for us, because we’d have to tell every airplane all of this information otherwise, and waste huge amounts of time. Time that might be better spent making sure you don’t land on top of someone else.

I’ve got three strips of concrete laid out in front of me. Looking northwest, I have 23 Left and Right, and the opposite ends: 5 Left and Right. Then we have a crossing runway, 29/11. Ninety percent of the time, we are on the parallels, like we are this morning.

At six, I announce on my radio frequencies that we are open, and we wait for the first aircraft to call us.

CHAPTER 2

In August of 1981, I got fired from a great job with lousy working conditions. Me and about 10,000 other colleagues walked off the job as a protest to the failures of the FAA. For our efforts, several of us were jailed, and we were all fired. I collected unemployment for a few weeks, but I’ve worked since I was a kid, first on our farm in Colorado, then in the Army. I went back to work as a dispatcher for the sheriff’s office, and then when I wanted to be a part of what I kept hearing, I went to the Academy and became a Deputy Sheriff. For about sixteen years, I wore a badge and gun to work every day, working my way up to Detective.

In the mid-90s, a Federal Court overturned the illegal order banning fired Controllers from working in ATC, and a lucky few of us went back to work. I took an early retirement from the Sheriff’s Department and returned to the job I loved. That’s why I was where I was at 5:15AM when I got pulled over.

I rolled onto a side street, zipped up to the gate, punched in the security code and went up the short driveway to the tower.

Metro Airport was one of the first airports in the area. Originally a private airport, the city bought it through an “imminent domain” maneuver. When the owners fought them over it, they were given a 100-year lease for a portion of the airport land at one-dollar per year, plus an option for another 100 years at the termination.

Most of the airplanes that come and go are what we call “dinks,” after the noise they make when they hit the ground, or “flibbs,” which is an acronym of “fucking little itty-bitty bastards.” We get biz-jets in and out, but most of our traffic consists of the numerous students from flight schools and local private pilots. I used to work in the radar room, back in the day, but I found the tower a little more fun simply because there was only one rule: keep the runway clear.

Let me clear up a few misconceptions about Air Traffic Control. First of all, every single airplane in the sky is not talking to the tower. There are three distinct entities in ATC: Tower, Approach, and En-Route. An airplane may be talking to one of these facilities at any given time, or none of them.

Towers control the area in the immediate vicinity of the airport, normally. Their real responsibility is the runway, or runways, at the airport. Yes, there are other responsibilities, but their primary role is to keep the runway clear so someone can take off or land. Just because an airplane is in the air does not mean the tower is talking to it. So many people call us from who-knows-where to complain about a low-flying aircraft, and want to know if we’re talking to it. Well, unless it is within five miles of my airport, it is highly doubtful. And even then, if you did not get the color or tail number off the plane, I can’t really help you. I will give you the number to the noise abatement office, or to the local Flight Standards District Office.

Approach (or Departure) Control are the guys who take an airplane, normally operating under Instrument Flight Rules (IFR), who leaves an airport and help them transition to high altitude, or watch and guide him at the lower altitudes (also known as Tower En-Route). These are the people who primarily use radar to monitor the flights. They are also the ones who help the airplanes to descend from high altitude into an airport, either via some sort of electronic instrument procedure, or via a Visual Approach, which means the pilot sees the airport, or the preceding airplane to follow. These are the people who make the nice lines you see going into your major airports.

En-Route, or Center controllers, are primarily talking to high and medium altitude airplanes. When you are screaming along in those shiny metal tubes with wings at five hundred miles an hour, these are the controllers who are guiding you. Things happen really fast in the Center, and those controllers have to be on their toes, just like the guys and gals in the towers and approach controls.

It is a stress-filled environment, kind of like being in the medical profession. Each day is filled with mundane and routine stuff, but then, something goes awry for whatever reason---weather, aircraft malfunctions, pilot gets lost and scared---and you realize that now, your heart is in your throat and the only thing that stands between someone dying is literally a wing and a prayer. Code Blue in the hospital means one person is in mortal danger; in ATC, it may mean several dozen, if not hundreds of people are in mortal danger. And every day, any controller working airliners has around 10,000 people’s lives in their hands. I’d like to meet the doctor or nurse who can take care of as many souls in the same time span. Controllers may work over a million patients in their careers.

Any small wonder why the average lifespan of an Air Traffic Controller is sixty-four years?

CHAPTER 1

I’ve always admired the efficiency of the Highway Patrol. They know just where to be when you think it’s safe to blaze on down the freeway.

The officer who stopped me was younger, female, and clearly very well indoctrinated to the effective ways to approach a vehicle with her safety in mind. I could easily imagine exactly where her mind was as she came around the passenger side. I lowered the window and kept my hands visible.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening, officer.”

“Could I see your license and registration, please?”

I fished in the glove box for the registration and insurance card, handing them to her.

“Your license, sir?”

“It’s in my wallet.”

“And where is your wallet?”

“In the briefcase.” I pointed to the worn leather bag I’d been hauling around for years and years.

“Would you like to take it out, please?” I could hear her voice wavering a little.

“I’d rather not. It’s in there with my gun and badge.” I heard her unsnap the holster where her right hand was resting.  She called for back-up.

“And what does the badge say?”

“It says ‘Deputy Sheriff, Retired.’” She didn’t relax after I told her this. “Feel free to have a look.”

“I will, in just a minute.”

I watched the other Crown Vic pull up behind us, and when the other officer was in position, she took the briefcase out of the seat slowly and retired to the hood of her car. As I watched her through the mirror, she examined my wallet, badge, and the Sig P230 I kept as a back-up piece when I was on patrol. She made a couple of radio calls, and then brought my briefcase back to the car.

“Sorry for the wait, Deputy Higgs, but you know the drill.” She smiled. “A little slower next time, huh?”

I smiled back. “Yes, m’am. Be safe out there.”

“I will.”

I pulled back into traffic and continued my trip to work.