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.