Approach Control

The bend in Alligator Alley: a lazy S curve in the otherwise arrow-straight highway. Time to put the book down. Ricky tucked the thousand page collectors' edition of Lord Of The Rings in a pouch behind the pilot’s seat. Since crossing the coast he was only able to read a couple of paragraphs.

"Just when The Rohirrim’s about to charge the ranks of Mordor. ‘A red day!’"

Gondor will have to wait a while longer.

Hat off - gently: The Panama Straw’s delicate, slightly dirty, brim starting to fray. Time for a new one. After the gig, I’ll get myself a Stedson, maybe.

Seatbelt - unbuckle. Door - unlatch. Past the second curve, bank left.

Key the mike: “One-five-sierra, ten-five.”

The response: “One-five-sierra, clear.” Showtime.

One thousand feet high. Warm. Adjust the air vent. Stretch. Been sitting too long.

Butterflies belly-swarming. Adrenaline: Good stuff.

Dirt roads below, a ghost subdivision on the western edge of The Everglades … developer’s mistake? No power lines, houses, pavement. Just a grid of empty roads with pine trees encroaching. Giant’s game board.

The Square’s in sight, a distinctive, elongated rectangle in the middle of the dead subdivision. Line up on the right side and descend to tree tops.

Too low to see The Square now. Hit the threshold at landing speed, that’s the plan. Hard to do when it’s not visible. No go-around. If missed, they’d have to move to the alternate, or cancel. He’d be in big time trouble.

Everyone’ll be mad. Especially Juney.

Due south, tree tops under foot.

Going too fast.

Flaps down, power back. SLOW DOWN!

The radio barked, “One-five-sierra, Ten?”

Why? Something wrong? Pop up, get a visual; a little to the right, less than a mile. “Ten, one.” That’s not exactly right, but he should know what I mean.

The radio clicked twice. Lost sight of me? Probably.

Speed’s better, slowing, getting close to a stall. Gap in the trees - road’s ahead. Narrow. Way narrow. No back taxi after landing: too tight for a U-turn. Gotta land short. Will the wings even clear? Juney says it’s wide enough. He’s been on the ground with Buford. Focus on the centerline - don’t look at the wingtips.

Passing the threshold. Cut power. Stall warning. Sinking like a rock. SHIT! Trees killed the wind. Goose the power … not too much, don’t land long. Pull back! Harder!

The heavy plane kissed the dirt road solidly on all three wheels. Ricky’s teeth smacked together with the impact. Braking hard, trees on all sides, a bright green tunnel. Solid ground for a change. Disorienting after being in the air so long.

He set the parking brake and fought the door open, ran around the tail to the cargo doors on the co-pilot’s side. At idle, the five foot propellor churned up a mini-sandstorm.

The truck skidded to a stop under the wing as Ricky dumped plastic-wrapped bales onto the ground. He froze, startled at the official looking seal on the side of the truck, two uniformed men jumping out in unison. The driver’s athletic frame and Viking features set him at ease. Buford rushed over and yelled: “I got this.”

Ricky went in through the cargo doors to the pilot's seat, buckling the belt tight. Buford tossed out the last bale and closed the rear clamshell door, then stretched inside to hand him a paper bag. “Adios, Spider Man,” he shouted over the engine.

Ricky put the clinking bag between his legs and watched Buford latch the door. He wanted badly to taxi to the end and do a one-eighty. Get in the air. On the ground … in The States … with a load: danger.

Less than a thousand feet ahead, tall trees stood sentinel. “Juney said it’ll be long enough. It’s long enough,” he said aloud.

Don’t fuck up.

Standing on the pedals locking the brakes, he pushed the throttle forward all the way, cringing at stones pinging the elevators.

“Sorry, Buford.” Gotta be hell back there.

He released the brakes and The Hulk sprinted, eight hundred pounds lighter than when she landed. Trees at the end grew taller, filling the windscreen.

Fast enough, pull up: nose off, main's off, stall warning screaming its shrill alarm. Solid green left and right, propellor clawing for the beckoning sky.

This is it. Anticipating an impact in the limbo between flying and failing, Ricky couldn’t breathe.

Tree tops became visible left and right. The Hulk emerged above the green wall.

Push over … hard to force his hands … pick up speed. Stall alarm thankfully silenced. Horizon in the distance.

Reduce power and stay close to tree tops to protect the ground crew, and because it’s fun.

A kettle of buzzards flashed past, too sudden to dodge. Somehow none hit. Lucky. “It’s almost as important to be lucky as it is to be good.” Juney, Lesson Number… 500?

After five minutes, Ricky pulled back, executing a rapid ascent. Not so long ago he was digging ditches on Juney’s farm. No more. Never again.

“Sierra, Ten?” Came the anxious call.

What now? Location? He knows where I am. He’s cover. There’s no code for after the drop. One: Bimini; Two: Opa Locka West; Three: Dade Collier Airport; Four: the bend in Alligator Alley; Five: final approach.

“Ten, Six.” He can figure that out.

“Switch to tower.”

Oh shit. Maybe not.

Ricky changed from the obscure ‘Uncontrolled Heliport’ frequency to the busy air-to-air channel where pilots chat.

“Hey Tarantula, you on the frequency?” Doesn’t sound angry. Juney rarely uses his pet name anymore.

Lots of chit-chat on the radio. Gotta wait for a pause.

“I’m here, just dropped my passengers.”

“Let’s have lunch at the Club.”

The Club, Ocean Reef, Key Largo. Thirty minutes ahead. Cool. Nice restaurant. He’d eaten the liverwurst sandwich ten minutes after takeoff that morning. Never could wait.

No seats, plane’s filthy with seeds and debris. ‘Never land in the States with a dirty airplane.’ Another test?

“My car’s a mess.”

“Wait in the garage. I’ll pick you up.”

Key the mike twice.

Guess he wants me to put the plane in the hangar. Must be important. Did I fuck up?

Ricky opened the bag Buford gave him. Two big bottles of beer - Grolsch -

from Holland.

Maybe the trip back to the Island won’t be so boring. Breaking the siege of Gondor, and beer! Cool.

Caution compelled him to slide the beer under his seat: ‘Do as I say, not as I do.’

There is a more recent mantra, though: ‘Never fly before drinking.’ Don’t think Dad really wants me to follow that one yet.

Another year before I’m old enough to drink.