Flygirl Page 24

  As he stood beside her, Tris closed her eyes to be with him again. In his unmistakable tone and timbre, a huge smile on his face, Bron greeted her in their common language.

  “Good morning, Captain.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I wrote this book at least 30 times. At the end, at the very end, when I had a finished product for publication, I realized that I’d strung together a bunch of words in a sequence that no one else had ever thought of before. And that, friends, is the only thing I take credit for.

  This book’s journey started over twenty years ago when I began jotting down notes about some of the stranger things I’d seen and heard as a corporate pilot. But it wasn’t until I discovered the Novel Writing Certificate program at San Diego Writers, Ink. in 2015 that it became a real book.

  Carol Pope was one of my first readers, and has been a fan of Tris long before that was my protagonist’s name. (I’m not going to tell you what it used to be. Best left in deleted items.) Dan Trujillo, a writer and high school principal became one of my subject matter experts and helped me give context to Tris’s decision to leave teaching.

  Thanks to my military experts, Ed Gallagher, LTC, USAF (ret) and Corry Jeudeman Prestidge, CDR, USN (ret), both pilots. I have nothing but the highest regard for those who serve. Thanks Ed and Corry for what you selflessly gave to our country, and for helping me understand what it was truly like to be in the military flying game.

  Ed and his wife Chris Gallagher, along with Mary O’Tousa, Bette Barnett, Deak Wooten, Mitchell Kardon and Martha Kardon were early readers. Authors E.P Sery, Lois Letchford, Bruce Ashkenas, Mikel J. Wilson and Sam Ashkenas read later versions, as did Kay Collier, Barbara Shaw and Theresa Freese. All of your critique were invaluable.

  Christina Munro, an Air Traffic Controller at Southern California TRACON, made sure I used correct phraseology when quoting ATC. My longtime friend Rosalind Heinemann schooled me on proper simulator procedure, and has always been my cheerleader in any endeavor I’ve pursued in or out of the cockpit.

  I was a member of two read and critique groups through San Diego Writers, Ink. The first was a general fiction group, where I received useful insights. The second was a Master Workshop where I was truly fortunate to work with two-time author Jill G. Hall and YA novelist Dina Koutas. Their suggestions helped bring this book in for a landing. The final content edit performed by Holly Kammier made sure that landing was a ‘greaser.’

  Holly and Jessica Therrien, my publishers at Acorn Publishing, LLC, gave this story a home. I am so proud to be a part of what they are building. Acorn author Lois Letchford introduced me to Zan Strumfeld. Zan became an invaluable resource in so many areas I’ve lost count. In all respects she is my “right-hand-Zan!”

  In the end, there is always one person without whom no book would exist. For this book, and for me, that person is novelist T. (Tammy) Greenwood.

  Tammy taught the courses in novel writing craft that gave me the tools to finish this book. She proctored both the read and critique group and Master Workshop I was a part of, providing her thoughts and suggestions at every turn. She performed two full developmental edits of this book that helped me to understand how I could better reach my readers. If I had a question, Tammy had the answer. Thank you, Tammy, from the tip of my pen to the bottom of my heart. Nothin’ without ya.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Studio Bijou Photography

  Robin D. “R.D.” Kardon is a native New Yorker, educated in the New York City Public school system. She attended New York University where she earned a B.A. in Journalism and Sociology, magna cum laude, and was a member of Phi Beta Kappa. Robin graduated with a J.D. from the American University, Washington College of Law.

  After ten years as a litigator, Robin began her professional flying career. She holds an FAA Airline Transport Pilot certificate with three captain qualifications and has flown all over the world in everything from single-engine Cessnas to the Boeing 737.

  She currently resides in San Diego where she volunteers with local animal rescue organizations and dotes on her beloved rescue pets.

  rdkardonauthor.com

  R. D. Kardon, Author

  Continue on to read the beginning of Angel Flight, Book #2 of The Flygirl Trilogy . . .

  ANGEL FLIGHT

  a novel

  The Flygirl Trilogy, Book #2

  by

  R. D. Kardon

  IQALUIT, NUNAVUT

  CANADA

  April 11, 2000

  CHRISTINE

  Testing . . . testing. Okay, it’s recording.

  Erik, my love,

  I can’t find the Glock.

  It’s been in the safe since I first got diagnosed. Every now and then, I’d take it out, release the safety, and stick the cool muzzle in my mouth.

  Practice.

  After you left last night, I kissed you again in my mind and went to the safe.

  But the gun was gone.

  I waited too long.

  Do you know?

  PART I:

  THE CREW

  February 2000

  Exeter, Illinois

  One

  Strips of purple and gold stratus clouds stacked in an infinite sky led Captain Tris Miles home. Low rays of sun sketched the horizon outside the cockpit window, and behind her a swollen wall of snow buried the east coast.

  She raised her arms above her head and closed her eyes. The left seat of the twin turboprop Royal 350 had molded to the curves of her body over time and held her like a hug. In the right seat a few feet away, her co-pilot Bruce Burkey had the controls. When her eyes opened a few seconds later, he’d configured the airplane for a graceful descent into Exeter International.

  Bruce’s perfect approach ended in a soft landing. Tris took command and taxied to the ramp. After the ground crew guided the airplane safely into the Westin Charter Company hangar, Tris hopped off the airplane to finalize post-flight paperwork.

  Long after he should have left for home, she found Bruce in the Royal’s passenger cabin, crossing the safety belts and lifting errant crumbs from the seats with exacting fingertips. Stooped over in the not-quite-five-foot-tall cabin, his lanky wide-shouldered build, deep-set eyes, and scraggly blond hair gave him the haunted look that had earned him the nickname Lurch.

  “You know, the company hires people to do that,” she reminded her first officer. Westin Charter’s cleaning service brought the airplane’s interior back to showroom condition between flights.

  Bruce bent over further to pick a couple of lint balls off of the worn carpeting, then moistened his finger to rub a smudge from one of the armrests.

  “Bruce, go home. The cleaning crew will be in tomorrow.”

  He frowned. “You know I’ll do a better job.”

  Bruce surveyed the small but well-appointed six-seat compartment, shook his head, and grabbed the bag of trash he’d already collected.

  “And anyhow, if I’d left it, you know you’d just have cleaned it yourself,” he said.

  Tris had to laugh. “Probably.”

  Bruce followed her down the plane’s air stairs. “Hey, great job this morning getting into Teterboro. First rate.” His remark bore not a trace of sycophancy. Tris had flown the early morning leg into the busiest business airport in the country and landed in New Jersey during a driving winter storm that had packed Runway One with snow.

  “Our passengers had no idea how difficult that landing was. And you just slid it onto the runway.” He tapped his bottom lip with an index finger. “That’s the trick. You make it look easy.”

  “Team effort,” she replied. “Hey. You know what they say,” Tris began their favorite bad-weather joke, born one morning when they had to dig the Royal out of a snowbank. “The crew—”

  Bruce chuckled. “That shovels together . . .”

  “Stays together,” they finished simultaneously.

  Tris had hired Bruce herself, picking him from a horde of anxious, aggressive instructors for the coveted co-p
ilot job at Westin. And he hadn’t faltered, not once, had never been anything but a loyal, exemplary employee from his first day. He was meticulous about the airplane’s condition from nose to tail. This conscientious attention to detail was a crucial characteristic of an airplane captain, which he very much wanted to be.

  Tris glanced at the clock on the hangar wall. She needed to change her clothes and hit the road in a hurry to make it to the cemetery before it closed.

  “Want me to get a jump on the next trip, Cap? Get the aircraft ready for Lemaster?” He asked, although he leaned toward the exit door, the extended handle of his overnight bag tilted forward, backpack over his shoulder, right hand in his pocket clinking his keys and loose change together. She’d noticed he habitually kept his fingers moving, like Captain Queeg in The Caine Mutiny.

  “Nah. I want you to head home. How long until the baby’s here?”

  Bruce grinned. “Two months. Heather’s gotten really big.”

  “I’ll see for myself in a couple weeks at your party.”

  “Yup. We’re really glad you can make it. So, I’ll head out, okay?” Bruce gave a little wave when she nodded, and was gone.

  Outside, the day continued its slow march toward night. The cemetery officially locked its gates at sunset. She’d snuck through a hole in the fence once before and learned the hard way that the footing around the graves was treacherous in the dark.

  Adjacent to the hangar was a room that doubled as a flight-planning area and passenger waiting lounge. Walking in, Tris noted the ripped carpet, the old map of the City of Exeter that hung crooked on a wall, and the papers peeking out of drawers in the rusty file cabinet. It was a far cry from the clean, modern Tetrix flight department offices. But the dingy atmosphere was a fair trade to Tris—she was valued here, not undermined—respected, not bullied.

  Westin Charter shared office space with Westin Flight School. The hum of flight instructors and their students discussing last-minute details, and the squeal of tires from a nearby fuel truck rushing to its next airplane, almost drowned out the sound of someone calling her name.

  “Hello?” she called over her shoulder.

  “Tris?” The husky voice with its strong British accent belonged to Phyllida, the company’s part-time dispatcher. It was a mystery how Tris could have walked right by without noticing her teased beehive hairstyle, purple “jumper,” as she’d say, and bright pink leggings. In contrast, Tris—her baggy uniform draped over her slim five-foot-seven frame, light brown hair lying flat against her head—looked frumpy indeed.

  “Hey Phyll. What’s up?”

  “Tris, I’m so sorry. I know you were looking forward to some peace and quiet, but I’m afraid Woody needs you to come in for a chat.” More than anyone, Phyll knew how exhausting Tris’s schedule was. But Tris was the company’s only captain, and more important, Woody’s confidante. If he needed her, she’d be there.

  “Hey, mind if I change while we talk?” Tris headed to the ladies’ room and Phyll followed, folder in hand. “Do you know what about?”

  “Of course, my dear. It seems we’ve been asked to do an angel flight, bring someone down here from Northeast Canada. Let me see . . .” her voice trailed off. “Oh right. Here it is. My goodness, I can’t pronounce the name of the place. I-Q-A . . .”

  “Iqaluit. I’ve heard of it.”

  “Brilliant! Well, yes, so, tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.?”

  “Of course. I’ll be here.”

  “Cheers, then.” Phyll walked away, her high-heeled boots quiet as they crossed the carpeted floor.

  “Wait,” Tris called after her. “Do you know how we got this trip?” Companies that flew prestigious “angel flights,” transporting critically ill passengers from remote areas to big cities to get specialized medical attention, donated the plane and crew, so the trips were huge money losers. Compensation, such as it was, came through earned respect and attention from industry peers. Flying one could hoist Westin’s reputation above all other small charter operations at the airport.

  “Not quite sure. The Chief Pilot of another company on the field called Woody today. I don’t recall the gentleman’s name.”

  On her way out, Tris mentally ticked off the names of the other flight departments at Exeter who could have offered Westin Charter this trip, those that might have an office in Iqaluit.

  Please let it be anyone but him, any company but them.

  Her uniform shirt and pants carefully folded over her arm, Tris checked her watch again and walked briskly toward the car. There wasn’t time to worry about it now.

  Today was Bron’s birthday, and he was waiting.