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The Baron and the Bootlegger

HOLY Prolonged Periods of Procrastination Batman !! :bad-words:

I am mortified ! :oops: The first segment of this story was posted almost nine....MONTHS ago ! :bang

How could this HAPPEN ! Jeez guys. I am sooooo sorry. :-? I have let myself get preoccupied with Vol. III (not going too well, either :cry: ; but more on that shortly).

Also I have been expending considerable of my limited 20 or so "free" hours/week (what remains of my three non-flying days after sleep and the normal "chores" of life) working at various venues to promote books one and two.

So I guess I'd best DOOO something here to get this finished.

I really do apologize. :( I mean I know I like to take occasional "short hiatus(es)", but this has been far, far too long. I'll get back on this tamale, first thing after breakfast guys 'n gals.

Cloud(meaculpa)Dancer :anon
 
I’m up at the crack of noon the following day :morning: , having been swept out the back door of the Gaslight with the rest of the overindulged crowd into the 4:30 A.M. brilliant sunshine. 8) With my right arm wrapped around an absolutely adorable Tligkit Indian princess who had been draining bottled Budweisers :drinking: at the rate of four an hour (on my tab, of course) for the previous five hours, I’d had high hopes at that point.

Village people love live bands and dancing. So it had been drink for a song, dance the next almost continuously since we’d met. And luckily there had been a couple of slow songs during which both of us had...uh....felt.....um....made apparent our physical um.....approval of the other person’s....uh....physique! :p In addition to which I was able to confirm, (using the Braille method) in my mind at least, that there were no “panty-lines” to be seen...or FELT.

Hence, as we crowded the alley and back parking lot along with dozens of other “rise ‘n shine” drunks shouting and waving goodbyes to their friends, my confidence is high :up that soon the two of us will be engaged in a more thorough and detailed examination of each others physical attributes. :wink: It’s time. I’d been trying to gently nudge this girl toward the door since about 2:30A.M., only for her to repeatedly offer me a sexy smile full of promise and the same answer each time. “We can do THAT all day......let’s dance :bunny while we can!”

Now as we turn toward the hotel, I hear another female voice from behind us shriek my “dates’ name aloud. A sudden stop and she wheels us around to check out the source of the scream. Oh... HAPPY Day ! :x She leaps from my one armed grasp and runs at another girl who is running at her, arms open wide. The collide, hug, and dance and stumble in circles jabbering at each other simultaneously. “YouCOME.HowlongyoubeeninANChorage?Youwereinthere?HowcumI neverseeyou?Howyoubeen!?”

They both stop talking long enough to take a short breath as I come lurching over in hopes of reclaiming my date and returning the to of us to a course toward the hotel. At hearing my “Hey babe...” my Indian goddess with the oh so shapely caboose turns and says excitedly to her long lost cousin “Oh yeah. Bud! This is my friend ....um....” “CloudDancer”, I gently remind her.
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah. CloudDancer, and he’s a PILOT from Kotzebue.”

Turning again away they both start to launch into it again when I interrupt and (getting desperate now :Gpurplex: ) say “Hey. Why don’t we all go continue this over breakfast?” This is a VERY dangerous period in the “closing the deal process”. I MUST get this girl AWAY. And I am willing to spring for an extra breakfast if need be to do so. The cousin ain’t too bad looking either. So. Who knows? It could MAYBE actually work out to my benefit. :wink: But ONLY if I can close the deal now.

We are surrounded by sharks seeking the faintest scent of blood in the water :peeper Literally dozens of un”attached” males of all ages, ethnicity and income circle and mill about for the moment aimlessly. Their eyes dart left and right seeking....well...you KNOW what their seeking. The rare unattached female...or a “cripple”, weak and not keeping up with the herd. :snipersmile: Like vultures they bide their time. I fight momentary panic as the girls debate for a few moments whether or not they are hungry, and am about to suggest...

And then it happens. Another guy who knows the girls hollers the cousin’s name and both turn and look and wave hollering “Hi! :howdy Whatchu DO-ing cousin?” And the most devastating reply comes like a torpedo out of nowhere blowing a huge hole in my plans. :2gunfire: “Yeah. Hey ! We’re all going over to Billy’s and PARTY ! We got some GOOD weed! You girls wanna’ go with?” (Not unexpectedly I am NOT included in the invitation it seems.)

Now my Indian doll turns to me with genuine anguish in her eyes :-? , as she DOES consider me to possibly hold some promise? “C’mon Cloudy. Let’s go :pty: :drinking: :bunny some more, uh? All of us. We’ll have good time.” Knowing that the invite number 1.) Didn’t include me, and number 2.) I’ll be an unwelcome extra male going someplace...who KNOWS where with who knows WHO; I decided the risk is NOT worth the diminishing potential for payoff. :(

I make one last verbal effort to keep from sinking, :evil: and her only response is “Well. Maybe will you be back here tonight.....?” I then remember my upcoming rendevous with the Great Northern flight attendant. Just more left over for her I think as I turn on my heel saying back “Only if you’re reeeeeally lucky!”

Grandpa CloudDancer, a wise old man, once told me. Never....NEVER pass up the opportunity for a piec....um ......When....available...never pass up the opportunity to...uh....hell..get LAID! ‘Cause see. That’s just one less...uh....TIME you’ll get to...uh.... DO it in your life. You may get another chance with the same girl even. But you’ll never get the one you lost. It’s just one less time in life you get to have that feeling.

Damn! I wuz tha-a-a-a-t CLOSE!! :bang


CloudDancer :anon
 
Chapter 14 - Mike hammer, P.I.

By 12:45 the cab drops me ofF at Gwennie’s. As usual the plate is huge and the food so plentiful it falls oFf the sides. A pound of reindeer sausage along with two sourdough hotcakes, an order of biscuits and gravy, orange juice and a potful of coffee along with three or four smokes has me operating on all cylinders again 45 minutes later.

After paying the bill I park it at the pay phone in the kunnichuck (enclosed entrance to the restaurant) and fish in my right jeans pocket to come up with some change and the notepaper on which I’d written the phone number for my “flygirl”.

When she answers on the second ring I cheerily announce myself and ask “How’s it goin’ darlin’?” And in reply, a very slightly snippy voice comes back and sez “I thought you were going to call earlier, I almost LEFT.”

I apologize profusely and blame it on my own failure to leave a wakeup call, while silently thinking to myself “Jeez. Gimme’ a BREAK here will ya..” Instead I end with “So. Are we still good for tonight? How about we start with a nice dinner, and I’ll spend the rest of the night (suggestive now) making it up to you?” :luv2:

“Well.....okay. I’ll be ready about 5:30 and you can take me to Elevation 92.”

Holy CRAP! :bang Multiple conflicting thoughts race through my brain simultaneously. Shit. I said a NICE dinner! Not the most ELEGANT (read expensive) place in town! :roll: Dinner for two at Elevation 92 (so named because of it’s altitude above sea level AFTER the big earthquake) is no LESS than a $100 affair minimum! I mean....the Cattle Company ..or...or....SEA Galley is O.K. but HOLY Pricey P....uh...enterTAINment Batman! :wink:

And again the hard learned wisdom passed onto me as a tyke sitting at GrandPa CloudDancer’s knees come to me. “CD always remember. There ain’t no sucha’ thing as a FREE pie...” uh yeah...free PIE. That’s what he said. He then carried on to explain that “It doesn’t matter whether you marry ‘em, jus’ shack up with ‘em, or how long or not you’ve been dating ‘em. The pie ain’t never free and you pay for every slice...one way or t’other. An’ some slices cost more than other slices too. Which accounts for why some guys don’t hardly have any pie any more and some other guys just go RENT their pie.”

Last’s night’s loss at the final buzzer haunts me as well and I agree that Elevation 92 will be a “swell” way to start off the evening. Thus reassured of my financial commitment to making her evening enjoyable my sky goddess now casually asks “So where did YOU wind up at last night. Did you ever make Koots (ChilKoots)?”

And for the next two minutes I detailed my mission and how I’d spent my evening. I then carried on as to the mission status and how I was going to have to spend a few intervening hours trying to find my quarry. The last thing I wanted to do tonight was be distracted from devoting my full attention to her. And then a dead silence on the line for a few seconds.

“You still THERE?” I asked. “Ummm-hmmmm” she responded. And as I was about to ask if there was something wrong she found her vocal chords. “So. You hang out with...the NATES?”

“I BEG your pardon.” I responded not believing my ears. And she repeated as a statement this time. “You hang out with the natives and go to their bars.” My response of “Well, yeah, but I didn’t....” Was interrupted by her “I don’t think you and I need to go out ANYwhere together, and I SURE as hell don’t go to nate joints. Good BYE!” and the receiver clicked dead in my ear.

I held the offending receiver away from my face a couple of inches and GLARED at is as my fury rose. :evil: Jamming my hand back into my right front jeans pocket I fished out 17 cents. “Damn!” I am gonna’ call this snooty bitch back and give her a piece of my mind! :bad-words: But I need a quarter, and there’s a line at the cash register. I decide she’s not worth spending the extra two bits on, she probably will hang up when she hears my voice anyway, and then I’ll just be madder AND I don’t even know where she lives.

But. I DO know some of her bosses who OWN a piece of the company she works for. And some of THEM are “NATES”. I understand that some of her flights became a little uncomfortable after that when she was called into the cockpit. She quit shortly thereafter.

So now I could devote my full attention to finding Jim. I jumped in another cab and headed once again for 4th Avenue.

More tamale my good peeps...

CloudDancer :anon
 
Chapter Fourteen - cont'd

Starting this time at the west end of the street I bailed out in front of the Pioneer for a “morning eye-opener”. With only a half dozen customers in the joint I could’ve easily skipped the two rum ‘n cokes, having ascertained walking in the place that Jim was no where to be seen. Howsumever, that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t stroll in for one while I was parked there. And after all, I was starting to work up a powerful thirst.

Next came the Gaslight (empty) and the 515 Club which was half-filled to capacity, with many friends and acquaintances among the patrons. A thorough search of the premises, conducted whilst downing another three glasses of liquid nourishment, produced a warm midday buzz, but still no Jim. A couple of friends though reported he had been there earlier, before noon. He was said to have departed heading eastward with a couple of lower Yukon girlfriends, one on each arm. Ahh- HAH Now we’re getting somewhere.

I knew Jim’s favorite hangout was down on the east end of 4th Avenue. Relatively small and seedy, even by 1970's 4th Avenue standards, it’s name escapes me now. But I remember it was right across from the Holiday Inn. I’d poked my nose in there a couple of times the previous evening with no luck. Maybe it was time for a return visit.

Unlike 12 hours earlier, when literally a couple a’ thousand drunks, flooded the three blocks of this alcoholic wonderland; at 3 in the afternoon only two or three hundred now wandered from bar to bar. Individually and in groups of two or three people mill about, and stand on street corners, searching for friends, bumming a smoke, a trying to decide which establishment to stagger to next. With a relatively much clearer head I stand a chance of actually spotting Jim on the street as I work my way westward. Last night, being one of the confused masses myself, I might have walked right by him once or twice in the human sea of revelers.

For good measure I stop in each and every bar along the way in my relentless search for our missing aviator. I even check all the toilets, you know, just in case. I mean, people...not me, of course, have been known to take a short nap whilst.......oh...you know what I mean.

And at every bar I inquire as to whether or not Jim had been seen there lately. Maintaining the warm glow inside requires a “fresh one” at every other bar stop or so. I sit with an eye out the window on the sidewalk should Jim just happen by. Finally two hours and ten or so drinks into today’s search efforts I arrive at Jim’s favorite hole-in-the-wall oasis.

I’d bet the place is certified for no more than a maximum occupancy of 40 by the Anchorage Fire Department, it is that small. There is a wall to wall bar to the right as you enter and a jukebox and a small pool table to the left. A dozen or so long past their prime barstools stand in a ragged line along the bar. Not one has it’s vinyl seat unmarred by numerous rips or tears exposing the spongy foam insides. In some cases there’s more foam than vinyl to be seen. I note that only two of the stools actually have all their lower cross supports intact. Scarred and showing deep cuts, it is not hard to envision the stools airborne briefly, as I’m sure they had been in many a brawl in this room.

Two booths against the left wall and a half dozen tables with a couple of chairs apiece fill the rest of the small room. I pick one of the two mostly intact barstools and park my keister atop it. To the bartender, who has his back turned to the room, I toss off a “Whaddaya’ say to a Bacardi and Coke there partner?”

Turning halfway around to peer at me, the hulk of a man exposes an upper arm coming out of his T-shirt sleeve. It is the size of my thigh and stretches the fabric of the shirt sleeve so thin that the portion of his Grim Reaper tattoo covered by the sleeve is still dimly visible through it.

“I AIN’T yer’ partner” he snarls, and finishes with “three and-a-half to you bub” as he reaches
for the Bacardi bottle located on the ledge to his left. He continues his left turn to now face the bar grabbing a bucket glass and dunking into the ice bin before firmly setting it atop the ubiquitous brown rubber slip guard on his side of the bar. An admittedly quite generous amount of Bacadi flows into the glass before the fat grease encrusted thumb on his right hand depresses the tiny button on the cola serving “gun”. The Bacardi continues to flow into the tumbler for the whole two seconds the Coke syrup mixed with soda also splashes into the remaining room in the glass.

With barely a 1/4 inch of “freeboard” left the drink is barely dark overall. MY kinda’ barkeep and I flip him a five dollar bill as I read the faded lettering across his T-Shirt. “Earl’s Gym, Buffalo N.Y” I read as I say “Keep the change.” With a grunt he briefly peers at me with dark brown eyes from under a pair of coal black bushy eyebrows that could’ve passed for wire brushes. Then another about face to ring up the drink and drop his tip in a huge tumbler full of mostly quarters it appears with only one or two other dollar bills.

“I used to spend quite a bit of time around Buffalo when I was younger myself. You from there?” I ask. And as he turns back he stares at me only for a moment before stating “Never been there.” O-o-oh-KAY I think to myself as I watch him move to the far end of the bar where he picks up a newspaper.

This guy scares me a little I admit. With a chest like a wooden beer keg, pecs the size of small skillets, and huge arms, I really DON’T want to piss this guy off. But I am empty handed in my search for Jim and, well, this IS supposed to be his favorite place.

I drain the glass quickly and in less than five minutes I shake the glass, now drained of liquid yet still 3/4s full of ice. It has the desired effect of prying the hulk’s attention away from the sports section to glance my way. Holding it mid-air I say “You make a right fine blend there, how ‘bout we do ‘er again?” Putting the paper down the bartender wordlessly aims for the Bacardi bottle again. And again we make our exchange in silence.

Now as he goes to turn away, having hopefully “primed the pump” with $3 bucks in 5 minutes I announce “Say. I’m looking for a friend of mine from Aniak. Jim Vandergriff. You know him by chance?” Stopping, he leans back against the coolers behind him and regards me as one might regard a housefly buzzing around a small room. Should I waste the time and effort to swat and kill the damn thing or just open the door and see if it flies out on it’s own.

I note the bulging veins in his forearms as he crosses them. “Never heard of the guy.” Then a silent stare. “Oh. Well....I jus...” And then I stop speaking as he turns and brings two Olympia beers out of the cooler for a customer that has come up from one of the tables. I wait patiently until the clink of his 50 cent tip hitting the pile in the glass dies out before continuing. “Well. I guess you’ve only been around a shot while, huh.” With another grunt he says “Yeah. JUST twelve years.” Well. Now I KNOW I’ve got him.

“Hmmmm. Well. I’d sure think you’d know Jim then. He says this is his favorite hole-in-the-wall and talks about it all the time back home.” and I watch his eyes as I say it. I can see HE knows I know, but also I can see he’s getting mad (Uh-oh) as he now leans forward off the coolers. Before he can speak I say “Hey friend, I’m not a cop. I’m not a narc or anything. I fly with Jim in Kotzebue man. Our boss just sent me to try and get Jim to come home or at least get the airplane back.”

Now eyeing me with his hands on his hips, I see the gears turning behind the eyes. “So. You’re a pilot.” And when I reply in the affirmative he says “Prove it”. As I watch him turn my license over and over in his meaty paw I ask. “So how about it?” And as he tosses it back in front of me he responds “How about WHAT?” “”Jim” I say gently. “Now do you know Jim Vandergriff?” And he looks at me impassively for a good long five seconds before uttering the words “Well. Maybe I do. Maybe I DON’T”.

Jeez. I’m in a scene from a Mickey Spillane detective novel I lean back and reach for my wallet again. I dig inside and come out with a ten-spot which I throw down on the counter as I say “Maybe that’ll HELP your memory.” The huge hand slides the Franklin offa’ the bar and bypasses the tip tumbler to shove the bill out of sight in his right front Levis pocket. “Yeah, well I think mebbe he DOES come around here from time to time.” “And when do you think I most likely might run INto him here” I continue politely. Yet another 10 bucks disappears into his pocket and he sez to me. “Finish your drink.” before turning away to head to the end of the bar.

Reaching underneath the bar his hand fishes out the receiver portion of a black Princess phone. It appears in his hand as a small toy, and I watch as he punches in only four digits before turning his back and leaning down on the counter at the far end. A brief and very quiet conversation ensues before the big man hangs up the phone and turns to walk back to me.

He stops directly in front of me and with the barest HINT of a smile creasing his lips tells me to “BE here at 4:30 SHARP.” Okay. It’s just 3:15. I’ve got over an hour to go. A quick glance around the room confirms that there is no reason to hang out here. I bid the barkeep a nice afternoon as I dismount the stool and turn for the door. The drinks are the same price at the 515 Club and it’s only a five minute walk back up the street. There are likely a dozen or more available females there, and none here. I’ll be back.

That's it 'til Monday nite folks. OFF in a couple of hours for the Big Village on the Cook Inlet !! WHHEEEE! Reindeer sausage and flapjacks at Gwennie's tamale...

CloudDancer :anon
 
thanks for the story, CloudDancer.

I saw a story that you had posted on FlightStory.net, and followed it here. I'm not really a pilot - I just have a few hours in simulators, but this has been totally captivating. I should have been working here at my desk for the last hour and a half, but instead I was totally engrossed in this story (enough to actually register an account just to post and tell you how much I liked it :) Looking forward to the conclusion!
 
well on the plus side i just discovered this story section yesterday, so i had a lot of good reading. On the down side it looks like im stuck waiting with everyone else now for the next installment.
Keep up the good work!
 
Yeah, WTF Cloudy. I know airline jobs tend to make us all lazy, but this is rediculus. We might have to have in intervention or something, Like MEL'ing your autopilots or something. But I doubt that would work, you guys probally do like us. Sh t rolls down hill, all the way to the right seat.


Scott
 
Hiya Scott - :howdy

Yeah. Major feelings of guilt over here. You're a liddle late with "the intervention" offer though bub. They already done "intervened" me friend.

Yep. This is CloudDancer's 83rd consenati....conspecular.....consecrat...

This is my 83rd SOBER day in a row! Who'da THUNK it! There's a whole nuther WORLD out there I didn't even reMEMber!

On the down side I understand Puerto Rico has applied to the World Bank for economic assistance for their now devasted national economy. :cry: And apparently the Puerto Rican Governor is appealing to rum distilleries throughout the island nation to make every effort to mitigate layoffs and plant closures.

Be all that as it may....your scathing rebuke :down has finally hit the spot. You may now continue reading. :wink:

Actually. There is no WAY I'm gonna' show up in FAI to speak publicly to a buncha' SuperCubbers next week with the story still unfinished. Maybe cut down on summa' the :onfire: :splat: :bad-words: while I'm up there trying to be "entertaining"??

Cloud(flexin'mytypin'fangers)Dancer :anon
 
Chapter Fifteen - A Done Deal

Precisely at 4:30 I return from the 515 Club, and saunter through the front door of the gin mill where I am supposed to meet Jim. To my complete lack of surprise :-? , his face is not to been found among the now half dozen or so patrons of the establishment. Jim is “village people”. And village people are not known for strict adherence to schedules or timepieces, particularly in the summer. But I expect he will show sometime before long, as I imagine the earlier phone call had been his “wakeup” call. Soon he would no doubt be hungry or thirsty or both.

As I mount the same stool I dimly hear the sounds of an ice scoop being put to use in the storeroom behind the bar. I am pleasantly surprised to see a quite buxom platinum haired blonde shove her way through the swinging saloon type doors that partition the two rooms at the far end of the bar.

Seeing me she hollers “Be right with ya’ sweetheart.” I respond “No worries doll. I’m not on a tight schedule.” I study her as she pours the five gallon pail of small 3/4 inch square ice cubes into the bin with a crash. Dropping the bucket to the floor, she looks up at me with a broad smile and, as her right foot kicks the bucket under the sinks, she says “So. What’s your poison darlin’??”

She proceeds to mix the magic elixir with the same degree of generosity (or more) than had her predecessor, as I continue my analysis. She’s mid-to-late thirties. Bawdy. A doll when she was my age no doubt. Once a real thoroughbred, a triple crown winner in her day, now more resembling a sturdy and dependable workhorse. Not an old nag, just one that’s been ridden hard and put away wet more than a few times.

The lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes are starting to deepen. I expect it is as much the result of lots of hearty laughter over the years as age. For her smile is genuine as she looks in my eyes while sliding my drink across the bar and saying “All of three-hundred‘n fifty cents for you there kiddo”.

I peel another five-spot offa’ my roll and, sliding it across the bar, retort with “ Tell you what there cupcake” as our hands meet at the five dollar bill and our eyes lock on each others, “since I’m liable to be here fer’ a spell why don’t you gimme’ back three quarters for the jukebox, tell me what your name is, and give me the number of your favorite song on there.” “You think so, huh?” she remarks. She pulls the fiver from beneath my fingers without taking her dark green eyes from mine. And with a quick spin she turns to face the cash register, giving me a short glimpse of here backside over the counter. A very little extra there. Keeping herself in pretty good shape. Either that is one tight pair of Levis, or the cute well-rounded (if very slightly plump) posterior is still pretty firm.

The jingle of change hitting her almost empty glass tumbler tip “bucket” registers just a moment before another quick pirouette on her boot heels has her facing me again. Her right hand, nails a shiny bright red and manicured to perfection, slaps the bar momentarily. She lifts it to reveal four quarters instead and says “Ya’ get an extra song for a buck. Gimme B3 and C7 and the name’s Rhonda.” I take her now offered hand in mine, and get a firm but feminine handshake as I say “You got it Rhonda.” Dropping my hand to the countertop I pick up the four quarters before turning to head for the jukebox.

And from behind, Rhonda throws out “Well. What’s your name cowboy?” Turning half-around as I walk, I tell her “Name’s CloudDancer. But you can jus’ call me Cloudy. All my friends do.” Just as I turn back toward the juke box I hear her say “CloudDancer. Izzat some kinda’ Indian name?” Stopping, I turn and again stare into her eyes. “No. It’s nOT. You got something against Indians??” Laughing she replied “What would I be doing working here? Cloudy it is then !”

Now, at 4:37, as I drop the last of the quarters into the coin slot on the Whirlitzer, I being to hear female laughter and then voices in the distance, growing louder, as if approaching. To the right of the jukebox, along the back wall, there is a narrow, dark wood door with a partially corroded brass handle. I realize that the noise(s) are coming from behind there and now I hear footsteps clomping down a stairway from behind the door as well.

The door practically flies open and out skips two raven-tressed eskimo girls looking remarkably similar not just in dress but in facial features as well. An irregular clump-clumping sound from behind the door indicates yet another party is following. As one of the girls turns and hollers at the opened door, “Come ON already! I’m thirsty!” The second one eyes me up and down and says “Who’s your name?”

But before I can open my mouth to respond, Jim emerges and sees me.

“Uuuuh-HUH! Captain Vandergriff. This must be your tire-changing crew I’d guess.” This of course, I utter with a s**t-eating grin on my face. To which Jim responds sheepishly “Good ta’ see ya’ Cloudy. How ya’ been?” Extending his right hand, he covers the three paces between us in his usual hobbling gait, a result of one leg being a half inch shorter than the other thanks to a childhood bout with polio.

“Ooooh. That's him, uh?” That coming from the first of the two girls who now regain my visual attention as I pump Jim’s hand up and down for a few strokes while looking past and over his shoulder. As Jim pulls his hand from my grip and places up on my right should I hear him say “Down young CloudDancer. Those are my sister’s girls from Holy Cross, and I am obliged to protect the young maidens from sleazy pilot-types such as yourself.”

As he’s saying this the girls walk past and head for the bar. Early twenties and delectable, I watch them take up two corner seats at the bar before one of the girls calls out “C’mon Uncle. Time to PARTY!” And Jim looks from them up to my face (he’s a good three or four inches shorter than I) and asks “You got time for one or two or are you skeedadlin’ tonight?”

I tell him I’ve still got another thirty-six hour before I have to fly and my drink is on the bar already. He clumps off after I assure him I’ll join the party upon finishing my song selections. And over the next hour (and three or four rounds of drinks, all but one paid for by Jim) he and I get caught up on all that had transpired in the three to four weeks since we’d seen each other last.

He admits that he feels rotten about screwing with Rod in one way. Yet, since Rod had only paid him fifty per cent for the last two weeks, and was taking advantage of their long friendship, and he needed his dough too, well.....fair is fair. He even admitted that he volunteered for the pay cut, initially thinking things would, or at least might turn around. Of course, that hadn’t happened.

To Jim it seemed quite evident that the Great Northern Electras had spelled the end to Rod’s noble airline experiment. And even if that wasn’t obvious to Rod, the early A.M. repossession of the Beech 99 should have convinced him to pull the plug. Instead Rod continued to dispatch Jim daily in the Baron to Anchorage. Last (partial) payday had been the last straw for Jim.

Once again he had been sent to Anchorage with four “credit” passengers after he watched Rod count out the last of the cash from the downstairs “convenience store’s” till to fill the 100 octane bulk tank. As has been noted previously in other CloudDancer stories, at that point Jim realized it was just a matter of a couple of weeks, if not days, before we’d be parking airplanes and missing trips for no gas or parts.

Thus, when the unexpected flat tire presented an opportunity, Jim decided to take some time off in the big village, as he too had been flying incredible numbers of hours in recent weeks. All single pilot IMC since the 99 had disappeared. And, unbeknownst to Rod or myself, he had determined a way to solve his own financial problems and call it “even” with Rod. Which bought us to our current situation.

Leaning back on the barstool next to me, Jim fFishes in the pocket of his Levis and extracts the Baron’s magneto key as he states “I know Rod needs the plane back. And you’re gonna’ fly ‘er home right?”

“Well...” I responded truthfully”Rod didn’t say you couldn’t co...” At which point Jim interrupted with ‘No. I just want to go back home to Aniak. You’re gonna’ take her back for me.” This he says as he places the keychain on the counter and slides it sideways. It “clinks” to a stop against the base of my rum ‘n coke as he continues “But you gotta’ do me a favor kid.” And I answer “What’s that Jim?”

Jim tells me he’s got a full load in the Baron that needs to get to Bethel. He was going to take it himself “a couple of days ago, but the weather was too bad.” I allowed as how I knew all about the “bad weather in Anchorage” a few days ago, as Rod had gotten a phone call from center about “the bad weather”, and that he had relayed it to me. This produces a very slightly frustrated look for only a moment, before it drops off Jim’s face and he turns to look at me with the innocence of a child and says, “Whatever.”

“Nonetheless” he continues “I made a deal to help a friend of mine move a planeload of....uh....household goods back home so he could save a buncha’ dough. He’s got a lot of stuff and Wien just charges too much so he’s paying me to move it. I was going to drop it off on the way back to Kotzebue. Now you’ll have to.”

“We-e-ell” I begin. “I don’t know Ji...” and cease talking as his left hand flashes out quickly to beat mine to the key. “C’mon Jim” I continue. “You know Rod isn’t real big on me flying...” And Jim interrupts, his voice taking on a grumpy edge. “Look Cloudy. I know you’re kinda’ caught in the middle here. But that’s the deal. You either gimme’ your word you drop the load off in Bethel on the way home, or I’m keepin’ the key and Rod’ll gets his Baron back after I take the load myself! That’s the only way you get this key tonight.”

Now, strongly suspecting that Jim’s previous attempt at taking the Baron to Bethel was done at least severely hungover, if not in worse shape; and not wishing to even remotely be a party to a repeat attempt, I agree to Jim’s terms. “Okay Jim. You got my word. I’ll drop your load off on my way home Monday morning. Now gimme’ the key.”

This time the key disappears in my pocket as Jim grabs a bar napkin and unbuttons the snap on his shirt pocket. His hand reaches in and emerges with a pen, which he uses to scrawl on the napkin. He slides it over to me and I read the name Hank and a seven digit phone number.

“Call this guy from the airport here in Anchorage right before you leave and give him your Bethel e.t.a, and he’ll meet you. It’s his ...uh....stuff, and he’s been waiting for it. I’ll call him tomorrow and tell him you’ll be there...uh, when on Monday morning anyway Cloudy?”

“Well, I promised Rod I’d be home by noon, so we’d better figure me landing in Bethel by oh....say...eight-forty-five should do it.” I replied. “All right” Jim answered. “It’s a done deal then, right?” “Yeah” I sighed. “A done deal.”

“Great then! What say we go find some dinner somewhere! My Treat! Then we’ll take these girls out dancing!”


CloudDancer :anon
 
So I'm two-thirds of the way through volume 2, and by my reading rate I should be done with volume 3 within a month (give me a break...I'm a pilot and CloudDancer didn't give us any pictures). I figure I will be in Cloudy-withdrawl by the end of May. Any chance we find out what happens to young CloudDancer, the Baron, and his Bethel connection before then?
 
Chapter Sixteen - You Always Remember Your First Time

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Chap 16 - cont'd


I opened my wallet and counted my remaining cash. Fifty-two bucks. And a cab to the airport in those days ran about 15 including a decent tip. I had enough to go out and back today and out again in the morning. This being Anchorage, unlike Kotzebue, I couldn’t just walk in anyplace and cash a check for some dough. And whoever was going to invent ATM’s hadn’t done so yet, so when the dough ran out, I was outta’ dough. Maybe if I was lucky, I could bum a ride back into town from somebody at the airport.

One way or another, I wanted to go find 66 Mike this afternoon and get all my prep work for the trip done tonight. The pre-flight of the aircraft along with at least some REAL preflight planning, such as I hadn’t done since my first few weeks in the arctic four years earlier. You know. Maps, forecast winds and projected groundspeeds and fuel burns. All the stuff I’d been doing in my head for the last almost four years for the Kobuk Valley took on the old significance of when I was a neophyte. I had never been any closer to Bethel than Stebbins-St. Mike’s or Anchorage. It was virgin territory to me, and I figured I’d better be on the ball.

I cast my eyes up and down 4th Avenue. Nary a cab in sight when you want one. Damn. I walked into the Holiday Inn bar and asked the babe behind the bar :wink:to call me a cab and in less than five minutes I was headed off 4th Avenue for the first time since my arrival.

Jim told me he had left 966M parked on the Anchorage Aircraft Sales ramp. With the cab driver being relatively new to town (looking for his personal pipeline “pot ‘ gold” job, as were so many others), I had to direct him through the labyrinth of combination joint-use taxiway/roads that meandered through the vast “non-airline” ramp portion of the combination Lake Hood and Anchorage International Airport acreage.

As the cab pulls away I mount the right wing and kneel to unlock the Baron’s door surprised to note that not only the passenger door curtain, but all the right side curtains are drawn horizontally closed on this side. The door, as always, slides effortlessly open, it’s lower slide-bar locking arm clicking into place as it reaches full extension. Immediately I note that both seats are slid almost all the way forward, and the upper seatbacks are each resting against what appears to be a floor to ceiling and sidewall to sidewall tightly packed load of boxes. I am immediately impressed with the fact that each and every box is tightly wrapped in a sturdy brown wrapping paper and well taped it appears.

At the same time I wonder how this guy Hank, whoever he is, is going to know where everything goes when he gets it home, as not one of the visible portions of any box I can see has any markings on it. Oh well, not my problem. My job is just to deliver the stuff.

I crawl across and barely wedge my eight inch taller frame into the left seat so obviously comfortably positioned for Jim’s use. Wrapping my hands against the glareshield and pushing aft with all my strength does not budge the boxes one iota, in my effort to get the near vertical backrest portion of the seat to recline another inch or two. I resolve to shift at least some of the load slightly aftward accessing it through the double cargo doors on the left side of the airplane after I am dome with my preflight.

Leaning across the right seat I release the door locking arm and gently grab the armrest mounted on it’s interior to close it, holding inward pressure against the resistance of the heavy black rubber doorseals as it shuts. After securing it from the inside, I again sat back in the CAPTAIN’S seat reveling at the feel of the soft leather in comparison to the spartan comforts of a sled cockpit. The Baron even had retractable leather covered armrests fer’ crissake. I mean we are talking classy here! :up:up

Surrounded by the cream colored leather appointments, it was like heaven to rest my feet on the plush evergreen carpeting instead of the ubiquitous 1/8th inch thick, cheap sandpaper textured, processed plastic sheet “flooring” of the Cessna single line. Slowly I ran my eyes over one of the most beautiful instrument panels I had ever seen. The faux wood paneling in mixtures of browns and speckles of ebony instead of the light tan cheap plastic facing of a Cessna panel only added to the illusion of sheer luxury.

Whereas a sled can be viewed as a faithful, hard-working but somewhat dowdy farm girl; this baby was a rockstar/super model combo but for speed and excitment! I caressed the hefty control wheel now with my left hand just as softly as, only hours earlier, I had lightly drug my fingertips up and down Celia’s soft brown thighs. And as I did I felt yet again an almost identical feeling of slowly building passion, and I knew then that tomorrow morning would bring thrills and excitement that up ‘til now I had only dreamt of.

I so desperately wanted to take her out for a spin right then and there. Right now! But much as there should always be coy flirtations :Glips:and at least a brief “get acquainted” period, today I would limit myself to just a preflight and a couple of hours with the operator’s manual in my room before bed.

I flipped on the master switch and noted her almost full tanks before lowering full flaps and shutting the switch back off. Exiting the plane I started my preflight, working my way around clockwise until reaching the aft double doors on the left side. Noting again that all the curtains were pulled closed I opened the rear door only to find that there was no room for so much as a cookie baking sheet that I could see. Whoever loaded this baby had done it well, with the complete aft portion of the cabin crammed full of folded unneeded passenger seat, the load of boxes jammed hard against them. Hence I resigned myself to just having to be slightly less than completely comfortable for the ride over to Bethel. Just a wee small price to pay to dance about the Alaskan skies with such a lovely creature for so long

Flagging down a passing fuel truck, after ascertaining that they did indeed accept Diner’s Club, I replaced the 22 gallons Jim had burned out of the full fuel tanks. One never leaves Anchorage or Fairbanks without all tanks full of comparatively cheap 100.130, regardless of the cabin load; as we all know planes will fly just fine overgross, but not so well without gas. You know. The old “Ya’ ain’t got too much gas...lessen yer’ on fire!” theory of fuel management.

So with the Baron manual and some low altitude IFR charts along with the Alaska Supplement and the appropriate WAC’s I wandered into the office to inquire as to what, if any, tie-down or parking fees were owed.

Happily I found out that Rod had a charge account there for parts and Jim had arranged for the charges to just be added to the bill, which apparently was not too far in arrears yet. And I was also pleasantly surprised that when I asked them if I might use their phone to call a cab, I was offered a ride back to town by a mechanic, just off for the day and headed to the city for errands.


(To be continued)

(no...REALLY. I mean it!)

CloudDancer:anon
 
Great story sofar.. But the suspense is killing me! After reading Vol 1-3, back to back, hardly able to put them down & sacrificing sleep to finish 1 more chapter... Na, just ONE more... I'm die'n to know how it ends!

2 weeks marks the 3 year anniversary of this thread, & while it would be nice to wrap up, don't leave anything out man!

-your loyal reader. Jeff
(hoping for Vol IV soon)
 
Howdy Jeff!:howdy

Bless ya' and all the rest of the loyal CloudDancer followers.

On the road tonight. (Hot and muggy DCA 10:30 PM lcl at a standup internet kiosk in the lobby)

Expect more Monday night. (Remember I don't have a laptop....)

Volume IV should be out in October! More hilarity!

CloudDancer:anon
 
Chapter 17 (Damn! This is a LOOONG story!) - Now We're STYLIN' Baby!

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Chap. 17 - Cont'd “Baron niner-six-six Mike, Anchorage tower. Winds zero-one-zero at twelve. Cleared for takeoff runway Six Left” came suddenly through the overhead speaker, interrupting my internal self-adoration festival. Time to concentrate now. “Roger Anchorage” I reply in my super-coolest imitation-Chuck Yeager-folksy-yet-authoritative voice. “Niner-six-six Mike is rolling on Six Left.” Then replacing the microphone I grasp the rounded black knobs at the end of the long dual throttles and push them up and forward.

Even fully loaded as she was, the Beechcraft was spritely, accelerating at a healthy clip.
Now a pilot will tell you, any takeoff is a kind of a “rush”. But putting what it feels like into words is difficult. So when non-pilots ask me, as they often do, “What’s takeoff like? Is it scary?” I most often compare it to common physical or emotional feelings we can all relate to. Take the overloaded Cessna 207 takeoff going to Candle earlier in this story. You know what it feels like when you got the flu, and you just ache all over, but you still have to go to work? So you draaaaag yer’ miserable self outta’ bed, and fight your way through the normal morning routine, heading out the front door with your legs weighing a half-ton apiece. Eventually you get the job done, but there was a real notable lack of enthusiasm. That’s what that one felt like.

Now, even heavily loaded in my Baron, this takeoff was more like a toned and skilled athlete sprinting down the track and leaping across hurdles with ease. Foooorty knots. Si-i-ixty knots. Eighty knots. 100 Knots! And clearing the last hurdle, our man breaks the tape (LIFTOFF!) with elation on his face, winning the race! Trust me. I’ve had SEX that wasn’t this exciting!


So off and upward we soar into a sky so clear, beautiful, and sun-soaked that I can only imagine that the Good Lord made it especially for me to enjoy this day. The whine of the landing gear electric motor and the thump-thump-thumps marking the completion of the retraction cycle are barely audible over the tower controller’s instructions coming over the radio. “Beech Baron niner-six-six Mike, contact Anchorage departure control on one-one-niner point eight. Good morning.”


Twenty-two minutes later I reached my cruising altitude of 12,000 feet which was the MEA (minimum enroute altitude) for Victor 508 between the Anchorage and Sparrevohn VORs. And of course, being still young and quite healthy in 1977 I disdained the use of supplemental oxygen at what a considered to still be a relatively low altitude.
Not that I couldn’t have flown lower had I wanted to. For the extreme southwestern portion of the Great Land was, in addition to being clear of clouds, blessed with great visibility as a general southwesterly flow aloft was keeping it fairly smoke free.

But I had put my BIG-BOY pilot shoes on this morning upon arising! I was operating part 91 with a current instrument ticket in my pocket and a super fully-equipped instrument panel with which to enjoy the privilege. So today, I have an extremely rare opportunity to engage in something I almost never get to do otherwise. I will operate a real, start-to-finish instrument flying procedures flight. And legal too! Assuming of course, that I am under legal maximum gross weight. I do have a vague memory of Jim reassuring me about this when the question arose, somewhere in the middle of our dancing and dining evening two nights earlier.

Hence I will take full advantage of “the system” this morning on the first leg to Bethel. I am in radar contact. I’m hangin’ out on the enroute center frequency with the “big boys”. I even make a couple of extra radio inquiries of the center controllers as to my groundspeed and requesting any Bethel weather updates. You know. Just in case anybody I know is out there to hear me. Being…cool!

Crossing over Sparrevohn I roll slightly left into a twelve degree bank. Fifteeen seconds pass as the nose swings further to the southwest. I level the wings centered on Victor 319 and then, knowing that I will soon disappear off the Anchorage Center radar screens, I call and ask for a current groundspeed readout. “Six-six Mike, Anchorage Center here. I’ll loose you most likely in another sweep or two, but for right now I’m showing you at a steady one-hundred eighty knots across the tundra.” Came the reply. And before I could even hit my push-to-talk switch to thank the man he continued “Oh yeah. There you went. Say your estimate for Bethel six-six Mike.”

Glancing again at the clock, with just a royal red hair short of one-hundred eighty miles yet to go, I added 58 minutes, called it good, and requested a descent to 10,000 feet along with giving him the ETA time. After acknowledging my Bethel estimate and granting my request to descend, he ended with “Baron niner-six-six Mike, radar contact lost. Contact Anchorage Center on one-three-three decimal three eight zero miles east northeast of Bethel.” I repeated his instructions verbatim before thanking him and wishing him a good day.

Forty-five minutes later a different Anchorage Center controller had descended me from my cruising altitude and cleared me for a visual approach to the Bethel airport. He then turned me over to Bethel Flight Service for airport advisories with a friendly reminder to be sure and advise Bethel radio when I had touched down, so that he could close out my IFR flight plan, as well as have use of the non-radar monitored Bethel Control Zone airspace for another plane. As the slowly vertically white painted digits behind the little piece of clear plastic that was the readout “window” of the King DME changed from twenty-one to twenty, I stubbed out my last cigarette and picked up the microphone.

“Bethel Radio, this is Beech Baron niner-six-six Mike. We’re twenty to the east northeast descending through thirty-two hundred feet. We’ve been cleared for a visual approach to the Bethel airport. Advisories please.” I stated. Quickly the ATC Specialist-on-duty responded. He gave me all the appropriate info about the airport, known traffic, active runway and the winds and altimeter before ending his transmission with the reminder as well to “…report down and clear this frequency please.” I “roger-wilcoed” in response, and then he added this little gem. “Also be advised six-six Mike. Company called from Kotzebue about fifteen minutes ago. You are requested to call company immediately upon arriving Bethel, over.”

Oooooh crap!

I was not really surprised to hear it. I kinda’ expected that Rod would be checking up on my progress. But now here I was confronted with my “sin of omission”, so to speak. No doubt he was gonna’ be re-e-e-ally P.O.d over this deal. I could only hope that when I told him the truth, he would calm down and understand why I did what I felt was the best thing. At least I hoped he would cool down in the intervening two-and-a-half hours that would elapse before I rolled into our ramp returning his mistress to him.

But for now, I just put all the unpleasant thoughts out of my head. Now only ten out and angling for a left base to the south runway, it was time to concentrate on bringing this baby back to earth gently.

CloudDancer:anon
 
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Hiya emptyB! -:howdy

Holy COWS! Not only a post from Yemen! But your FIRST post and it's on CloudDancer's Alaskan Chronicles! How COOL is THAT guys!!:up

Welcome to the GREATEST aviation site on the WorldWideWeb! And THANK YOU for your very kind words!

CloudDancer:anon
 
Chapter 19 - The Long Arm of the Law

Leaving Hank’s serfs to hump the Baron’s load of cargo swiftly into the bed of the Datsun, I strolled the hundred yards across the ramp toward the building housing Bethel’s F.A.A. Flight Service station and the National Weather Service office.

The federal government must’ve gotten a hell of a good deal on the pale-mustard colored paint from the Sherman-Williams folks. For, just like every other combo Flight Service and National Weather Service outpost I’d come across in my short four year Alaskan flying career; this one was of wooden construction and painted identical to the units I’d visited thus far in Kotzebue, Bettles, Tanana and Northway. They were very functional, but just short of butt-ugly as far as outward appearances go. The paint only added to the drab impression.


In the bush, only the Nome facilities could boast of being unique. Their operation was, for the time and place, almost ultra modern by comparison. They were set up on the second floor of an attractive brick and mortar structure built much more recently. It provided a commanding view of not only the entire Nome Airport, but also the “satellite airport” in the thriving metropolis, City Field.

Clumpclumpclumpclump went my dingo boots on the two-by-four, dark brown painted wooden steps, as I made my way into the ramp entrance of the operation.

Once inside though, a strange reversal of esthetics takes place. All the old and outwardly unappealing facilities became warmly comforting once you entered them. They were slightly darker and somewhat muted when compared to Nome’s place of business. The Nome Flight Service would remind you of a modern office. It was all harsh white-neon bright lights and polished, light-colored linoleum tile floors. They contrasted starkly with the gun-metal grey cabinets and consoles that housed all the technology that made their little world (and helped ours) go around. Always reminded me of some sort of techno-lab where you expected to see everyone in white lab coats.

All the other, less “modern” bush stations I’d been in were…homier. Easier on the eyes. While they housed the identical technology in the identical cabinets and consoles, the rest of the décor was subdued and comforting. Carpeted floors. Dark, soft woods, used to construct the briefing counters and interior walls.


There was always a huge corkboard on the wall in every Flight Service station. But whereas the one in Nome would be plastered with all sorts of F.A.A. “officialese” (bulletins, NOTAMS and whatnot); in other bush locations, the majority of the corkboard would be taken up with pictures of airplanes and pilots that had visited, along with flyers announcing the latest really important stuff. You know. Like the Lion’s Club anniversary dance or the hand-written flyer announcing the scheduled Mass and confessions when the traveling priest was coming through town. Even the coffee aroma smelled better.


But one thing they all had in common was incredibly wonderful and helpful government employees. And there were no friendlier folks in the A.T.C. system. I’ll swear by that.
From the smallest outposts, like Farewell and Northway, to the bigger towns of Bethel and Nome as well, the men and women working those jobs couldn’t have been more welcoming and kind. For no matter where you’d come from, especially if it were the big villages on the Cook Inlet or the Chena River (Anchorage and Fairbanks), you must have something good to share. It may just be a first-hand account of a big city traffic jam, or the latest international news, or even a current Time or Newsweek or even today’s paper. And they were all starved for it in those pre-internet and satellite communication days.

I don’t think there was one time in my entire life; where I ever just walked in and got a weather briefing and exited without having a cuppa’ free coffee and spending at least a few extra minutes jaw-boning. Just wouldn’t have been proper.
And so it was this morning that, after getting the most current info on St. Mary’s, Unalakleet, Nome and Kotzebue weather from the nice fella’, I began to look around for the coffee pot, expecting to fulfill this ubiquitous rite of bush flying.

Unfortunately, it was not to be, as the specialist on duty pointed out the pay phone on the wall.
He said “You might want to give your office a call first. Some fella’ by the name’a Rod just called here as you were walking over for the third time. I told him I’d have you call as soon as you walked in.” I turned to look at the phone, and with a heavy sigh as I turned away responded “Okay. Yeah. I’d better do that. He’s probably jumping outta’ his skin by now.”

CloudDancer:anon
 
Chap. 19 cont'd -



I cover the 100 yard or so distance from the porch steps to the right wingtip in what had to be record time. I continue and sprint quickly around the tailfeathers and slam the aft cargo doors shut, taking only two extra seconds to assure that the locking pins for the aft (rearward opening) door are extra secure. I sure as heck don’t want those things coming open no matter what!

Three more seconds gets me back around to the port side of the airplane. And one long-legged Air Jordan leap takes me from a point halfway between the leading edge of the right horizontal stab, and the trailing edge of the right inboard flap, to a squatting landing in the center of the right wing alongside the cabin entry door. Jerking the slim external door handle outward I rise as the door swings open and from my heightened vantage point take a glance down the long road leading to town.


Oh Holy Mary! Mother of GOD! Immediately I note in the distance a speeding dark blue Chevy suburban with the rotating red flashers on top! They can’t be more than two miles away and coming FAST! Damn! Damn! Damn!


Quickly I duck down into the interior of the Baron slamming the door behind me. I less than another second both the main lock and the overhead latch are secured and I slide hurriedly sideways into the left seat flipping master and magneto switches as I do.


My hands are flying. First to the seat belt, then to the mixture knobs. Jamming them both forward with my right hand I simultaneously punch the starter button for the # 1 engine. But in my anxiety and barely controlled sense of panic, my habit pattern or instincts took over.


I had forgotten that these engines, being turbocharged, behaved somewhat different that their non-turbocharged brothers that I normally operated all day every day. Particularly when hot and just recently shut down.


Unlike my comfortable 185, 206, and Cessna 207 dashboard mounted controls and switches, which I could operate in my sleep at this point, I wound up floundering for unfamiliar fuel boost pump switches when the engine initially burst into life. And being turboed, the initial burst was very brief and the propeller had practically stopped completely before the raw gas reached the cylinders. Damn! Too late.

Punching the starter again, I listened to the engine crank methodically as I looked up out the windscreen. The cops were now within a mile! Ohcrapohcrapo-o-ohCRAP!


Okay! Stop! Think! What did Rod tell me to DO when these things are HOT!? I gotta’ get an engine running!


Oh yeah. Okay. Mixture (# 2 now)..full RICH! Boost pump on for a three count! I whisper softly to myself as I watch the skinny white needle swing to the top of it’s arc. “one-one-thousand (pause) two-one-thousand (pause) three-one-thousand OFF! A glance out the windshied and the racing police vehicle is disappearing from view behind the Flight Service station now. They have to slow now, and still drive all the way around the terminal to get to the ramp access gate on the far side of the ramp yet. If I can just get this engine running!


Mixture. Idle cut off! And my finger mashes down on the start button for number two.

The blades snap sharply clockwise. One blade - two bla...BLAM! And I shove the mixture forward and this time I don’t fumble for the high boost. This time I know where it is and give it a couple of short, quarter-second toggles. The engines bursts smoothly into the sweetest song I’ve ever heard.

The same procedure repeated on the number one engine fails to get the same results and I am getting frantic. I need to move man!


Releasing the brakes I shove the right throttle up while mashing down on the right rudder pedal and 66 Mike attempts to respond to the counterproductive commands. The perpendicular taxiway leading from the ramp to the runway is actually behind my right shoulder now. I need to go RIGHT dammit!


Much like a drunken sailor staggering and lurching down the sidewalk having been well over-served on liberty, the Baron appears spastic. I mash on the right brake and the nosewheel tries to respond to two opposing forces. Increasing thrust on the right side, commanding it to caster left, and my size twelve clodhopper mashing on the rudder pedal telling it to do the opposite. So of course, I waste precious seconds essentially going straight ahead in fits and spasms.

Meanwhile the copmobile is passing off my left shoulder.
Thank GOD for the eight foot tall, concertina wire topped fence around the immediate airport operations area. Had that not been there, my goose woulda’ been cooked.


CloudDancer:anon
 
Some MORE of Chap. 19 -

(ya' gotta' start to wonder...is there ever an end to this story!?):Ggurn:


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I have a feeling that the conclusion to the story may not come until May... Its possible the statute of limitations on the alledged crime is 35 years & hes pacing himself to avoid charges :)

Great story, loving it.
 
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