David L. Robbins - Endworld 19 - Cincinnati Run

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Cincinnati Run

#19 in the Endworld series

David L. Robbins

Prologue

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."

Gunther laughed and looked at Captain Orton. "I wonder if the

air-traffic controllers in California are so sensitive?"

Orton was busy studying the instrument panel. "Let's get serious," he

stated somberly. "We both know what's at stake on this flight. We've both

flown the 757 on a dozen practice jaunts. Like Max, we've received the best

training available. The Federation leaders consider this flight important

for Federation morale. They see the airline service as a means of bringing

the factions closer together. You heard President Toland." He paused and

grinned. "Let's give the man his money's worth."

"Fine by me," Gunther said.

"Stapleton Tower, we're firing our engines," Captain Orton announced

formally.

"Roger, Flight 1 A," Max replied in kind. "You are cleared to use

Taxiway Nine to Runway Eighteen."

"Thank you," Captain Orton said, and proceeded to start the engines.

A swell of excitement undulated through the crowd as the huge aircraft

thundered to life, and many applauded. A collective, hearty shout arose

when the jet lumbered slowly to the left and headed along Taxi way Nine.

Captain Orton looked at his copilot. "Flaps?"

"They're down," Lieutenant Gunther confirmed.

"We wouldn't want to make a basic blunder now," Captain Orton

remarked.

"I wonder how our passengers are doing?" Gunther mentioned.

Captain Orton flicked a switch. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your

captain speaking. We will be taking off shortly. Please insure your seat

belts are fastened. Once we are airborne, we will circle Stapleton Airport

once, then climb to an elevation of twenty thousand feet. I will address you

again when we're at cruising altitude. If you have any questions, just ask a

stewardess. We hope you enjoy your trip, and trust you will fly Federation

Airlines in the future." He clicked off.

"How many do we have on board, anyway?" Gunther inquired,

scanning the array of instruments before him.

"Toland finally decided to allow forty to take the flight," Orton

answered.

"Is that all?"

"I know we can carry almost four times that number, but forty

passengers was all Toland would allow," Captain Orton said.

"And every passenger won their seat in the lottery?"

Orton nodded while scrutinizing Runway 18. "A lottery was the fairest

method of picking the first passengers. Otherwise, only those with

connections, the rich and the powerful, would get a seat."

The 757's engines whined as the aircraft rolled onto the runway.

"It's hard to believe this bird was built over one hundred and five years

ago," Gunther commented.

"The 757's were put into service in the decade prior to the war,"

Captain Orton casually noted, checking the rudders.

"The airline industry was in a shambles, and the passenger traffic had

fallen off drastically. So many of the aircraft were past their prime and on

the verge of obsolescence that there were incidents where the jets simply

fell apart in midair. Several major crashes were blamed on structural

stress from old age. The cost of jet fuel was at a premium, and the larger

birds, the 747's and such, became financially impractical to fly. The

airlines were losing money hand over fist."

"An that's the reason they manufactured the 757's?"

"Yep. The 757's were the last of the new breed of aircraft, smaller,

sleeker, and more fuel efficient. About fifty were put into service before the

war."

"I hope this one holds together."

"Worrywart. The engineers and mechanics have gone over this bird

with a fine-tooth comb. We've already flown fourteen hundred miles on

our practice drills. She'll hold together," Captain Orton asserted.

"I'm ready when you are," Gunther said.

"Stapleton Tower, this is Federation Airlines Flight 1A. We are ready

for takeoff," Orton announced.

Max responded immediately. "Flight 1A, you are cleared for takeoff on

Runway 18. Happy flying."

Captain Orton directed the 757 into the wind and opened the throttle,

grinning as the aircraft hurtled forward. In 15 seconds the wheels lifted

gently off the smooth surface and the 757 climbed into the air. He

retracted the landing gear and pulled up the flaps.

"All systems appear normal," Lieutenant Gunther stated.

The recently renovated buildings of Stapleton Airport appeared below

them as they banked.

"You're on your way!" Max declared happily.

"Roger, Tower," Orton said smiling. He continued to ascend, executing

a wide circle for the benefit of the passengers and the thousands on the

ground now far below.

"I can't get over how small everything is from up here," Gunther

observed. "The people look like ants."

Captain Orton grinned, starting to relax, his gaze on the Rocky

Mountains to the west, admiring the glistening, snowcapped peaks.

"Beautiful," he murmured.

"What?"

"I'm glad I qualified for this post. Flying is the only job for me."

"Qualified?" Gunther said, and chuckled. "You tested out at the top of

the applicants. No one is more qualified than you."

"You came in second by two points," Orton mentioned.

"Yeah," Gunther said. "I still think you cheated."

They both laughed, relieved to be up and away, anticipating the long

flight to California with relish.

"Do you want me to buzz Gail for a coffee?" Gunther queried.

"Not yet," Captain Orton replied. He inspected the vertical-speed

indicator and the altimeter. "What's the latest between you two anyway?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Are you going to ask her to marry you?"

Gunther glanced at the cockpit door. "Ssssh. She might walk in and

hear you."

"So?"

"So she's been bugging me about marriage," Gunther revealed. "She

wants a December wedding."

"And you don't?"

"I'm not ready for marriage," Gunther said.

"What are you waiting for? Old age?"

"You know me. I like playing the field. I'm not ready to settle down."

"You don't know what you're missing," Orton stated. "I've been married

for nine years, and I've loved every minute of it."

"Even the four kids?"

"Especially the four kids."

Gunther shook his head. "I don't know how you do it."

"Do what?"

"Handle a big family. My younger brother has a wife and two kids. Just

two. If I go to visit for a week, they drive me up the wall. They yell and

fight and spit and run all over the place. One of them even glued my shoes

to the kitchen floor! I don't know how anyone can handle a family."

"All children go through phases."

"Maybe so. But I'm not ready for kids, and I'm certainly not ready for

marriage. What's the rush? I have my whole life in front of me."

Captain Orton gazed at the instrument panel. "We're almost at twenty

thousand feet."

"Do you want me to take over?"

"Not yet, thanks. I like…" Orton began, then stiffened.

A brilliant flash of crimson light enveloped the cockpit, casting the

instrument panel in an eerie reddish glow.

"What the hell!" Lieutenant Gunther blurted out.

Captain Orton could hear a muted, sizzling noise, and he reached up

and tapped his headset.

"What's going on?" Gunther asked, bewildered.

"I don't know," Orton admitted. The aircraft was still on course, steady

and stable, but the sizzling was growing louder.

"What's that sound?" Gunther inquired, gazing out the cockpit. "Look!

Even the nose is glowing red!"

Captain Orton started to angle the 757 in a tight turn.

"What are you doing?"

"Returning to Stapleton," Orton said. "I don't like this."

"What could it be?"

"Beats me," Orton said, frowning, alarmed by a dramatic increase in

the bizarre sizzling.

"Is it me, or is the temperature rising?" Gunther asked.

Captain Orton abruptly realized he was sweating profusely, and he

looked at a circular gauge to his right. His breath caught in his throat.

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