This continues the narrative of Brandi and Robin Grant from A Walk Changed Everything, which should be read first. Don’t worry, this story isn’t as complicated as their first. Note: There are two versions; the second one is a re-ordering of the first in case the readers find the original too complicated to follow.
A little introductory information may help: When air traffic control and airlines interact, call signs and flight numbers are used instead of the tail numbers painted on the craft. Some are just the name of the airline, while others have nicknames that are quicker and easier to say. The former US Airways used the call sign “Cactus,” and the former ValuJet used “Critter.” Other fun ones are Brickyard and Speedbird. That’s why, in this story, the call signs don’t match the company names.
As always, any tail number we use in a story is verified to be unused and unregistered with the FAA. If it becomes registered after the date of publishing, it is purely coincidental.
All characters engaging in adult activities are well-over the age of eighteen.
We hope you enjoy: Havana, Baby!
An Excerpt
“Intelligence isn’t very,” his source told him.
“Does anyone know where they’re congregating? And what they’re doing when they get there?”
“Unknown at this time, sir. But they’ll be alone. There is a rumor that they’ll be traveling to an air base somewhere in the peninsula.”
“Can you work on getting me more?”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
Sunday, March 1, 2020 9:40am
I checked my notes before I spoke to ensure I knew the name of the individual that’d be sitting next to me for four days.
“Good morning from the flight deck. Brandi Grant along with Mack McGarry and the four absolutely fantastic attendants in the cabin want to welcome you aboard. We’re currently seventh in line for our departure runway, which means we’ll be airborne in about fifteen minutes. We ask that you remain in your seats with your seat belts fastened. We appreciate your patience. The forecasted weather will likely favor us, and we’re still looking at an on-time arrival. We’ll update everyone if anything changes.”
First Officer McGarry groaned ruefully in the right seat as I replaced the handheld mic on its hook.
“What? What’d I say?”
“Sterile cockpit,” he cautiously observed.
“As long the plane isn’t moving and we’re not in the middle of a checklist, a little minor banter is permitted,” I said.
“Don’t you worry about jinxing us? It feels like bad luck to predict an on-time arrival when doing a pre-departure PA. It’s just begging for trouble,” he answered. “It was pretty pro, though, that you said it all without a single uhhh that I heard, at least.”
The postscript to his comment tickled me, especially how he exaggerated the stereotypical uttered pause.
“Yeah, sometimes optimism can bite me, but I think it helps. You’ve seen just as many company reports and news articles as I have about incidents involving unruly passengers. I won’t say it if I don’t think it’s possible. I won’t outright lie, but I think it’s better to give passengers a positive outlook. If it doesn’t work out, they can be as peeved as they want to be after we land rather than being peeved from the very beginning.”
“True,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
We were silent for several minutes as we continued to move forward in the queue at Seattle Tacoma Airport.
“Spark 417, you’re now number three,” advised the tower controller.
“Roger. We’ll be ready, Spark 417,” I responded in my role as PM, that is, Pilot Monitoring.
The selection of roles was only slightly more efficient than a simple coin toss. It was purely based on the fact that I had most-recently been the Pilot Flying. Of course, as captain, I could override that for any reason, but I seldom would. It’d only been a year since I held the same position as my first officer, and it irked me when four-bars would capriciously deny me loggable cycles. Mack McGarry deserved his time as much as I did. I’d never flown with him before, and I had no reason to trump him.
“Flaps?” I read from the pre-takeoff checklist.
“Five, and indicated.”
“Stab trim?”
“Minus two.”
“Crosschecked and confirmed. Pre-takeoff checklist complete,” I concluded and stowed the laminated card.
Eight minutes later, we heard, “Spark 417, runway one two right, line up and wait.”
“Line up and wait one two right, Spark 417,” I acknowledged.
On most Boeing 737’s, only the captain’s position has a ground steering tiller, so I positioned the craft on the centerline myself.
“Your airplane,” I advised my first officer and heard his acknowledgment.
“Spark 417, caution, wake turbulence from departing triple seven. Winds calm. Runway one two right, cleared for takeoff.”
I acknowledged the call.
“Thrust forty,” my FO said after pushing the throttles forward.
“Stabilized,” I answered a few seconds later once both engine’s N1 indications matched.
“Takeoff thrust,” he said as he pushed the TOGA button twice and released the brakes.
“Takeoff thrust,” I repeated with my hand lower on the throttle levers and underneath his to confirm the levers followed the autothrottle’s command.
“Eighty knots,” I said when the airspeed tape reached that mark, followed shortly with “One hundred.”
“Continuing,” he replied.
“V1… Rotate,” I said a few moments later.
I raised my right hand up and knocked his hand off the throttles because he didn’t remove it per procedure on the V1 callout.
I observed the flight director’s pip move a little too aggressively above the artificial horizon, but he acted immediately and appropriately to avoid a tail strike.
“Positive rate,” I announced.
“Gear up,” he requested.
I moved the lever.
“In transit,” I said, observing the triangle of green lights change from green to red, then off a few seconds later.
“Flaps zero,” he requested.
I moved the lever home.
“Flaps zero set, and… indicated. Gear up and locked.”
“Spark 417, contact departure,” the tower controller radioed.
“Contacting departure. Have a great day. Spark 417.”
I pressed the button to swap frequencies.
“Saint Louis departure, Spark 417, two thousand, climbing per the SID.”
“Spark 417, radar contact. Delete altitude restrictions. Climb and maintain one one thousand, cleared direct LIISA. then on course. Expect higher with Center.”
I read back the change and added, “Thanks for the shortcut, Spark 417.”
Scrolling over three intermediate route waypoints in the FMC to LIISA, I pressed Direct/Execute then dialed 11,000 into the display on the glare shield.
“FMC updated,” I said to Mack.
He reached up to the mode control panel, engaged the autopilot, and the plane immediately banked right. The favor by the departure controller had shortened our flight from 720 nautical miles to 690 thus five minutes shorter, and I smiled.
Once we’d climbed above 10,000 feet, we both released our shoulder harnesses. I chimed the cabin to let the crew back there know we’d crossed the critical altitude. They could leave their seats and begin to work their magic.