EFNW Iron Author 2018
Words to use: Fire Palpable Brooch
Homeland Security has taken all the fun out of flying. When I was a kid, there was always eager anticipation when we got to the airport. A little bit of caution—Dad always wanted us to check one more time that we weren't carrying our Boy Scout pocketknives before we went through the metal detector—and after that, we'd go right to the gate and watch the airplanes.
Some airports had a rooftop area where you could watch the airplanes land and take off. One weekend when we were near the airport we just went by and airplane watched for a while.
Not any more. They've taken away one thing after another all in the interests of security. There's a bit of paranoia about going through the line, and if you don't follow the instructions exactly you get pulled aside for a pat-down or some blue-gloved TSA agent going through your luggage or demands to dump out your water bottle.
At least there's a bar between the security checkpoint and the gate. A fancy bar—it even had a little brick oven in the corner with a cheerful fire going.
I checked my watch, and then took a seat at the bar, right next to the fireplace. Close enough that I could see the flames dancing just out of the corner of my vision. Airport drinks are stupidly expensive, since they've got you captive, and you either pay for them or you get nothing.
I ordered a double.
By the time I'd finished my drink, I'd mostly forgotten about my trip through the security checkpoint and proceeded to find my way to my gate. Of course it was at the far end of the terminal, and while I could have taken the airport tram, I thought that walking would be better. Work off that last little bit of nervous energy.
I'd packed everything in a carry-on bag—an old one that didn't have wheels—and by the time I got to the far end of the airport, I was really wishing that I'd decided to replace it. Or checked it in like any normal person would have. But I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction.
I'd been smart enough to bring my Kindle, both for in-flight entertainment and before. It was fully charged, and loaded with a few new books that I'd been meaning to read, as well as a few old favorites in case I just didn't feel in the mood for something new.
After proactively putting my cell phone into airplane mode, I leaned back in the seat and lost myself in the world of Westeros.
* * *
An hour later, I was standing in line in the boarding area, not entirely certain that I was in the correct line. They'd announced boarding for zone 2, which I presumed was somewhere on my boarding pass, but after looking at it three different times, I still hadn't found it.
There is probably a field of sociology which takes place entirely at airports. Maybe psychology, too. People have a range of experiences on airplanes and at airports and a range of reasons for flying.
I mostly don't try and figure out someone else's business, but my eye kept being drawn to the customer in line just behind me. It would have been better if she was in front, because then I could have pretended that I was just looking to see if the line was moving, not catching sideways glances at her.
This is like the setup to a bad sitcom episode, I thought. Why would a pegasus even need an airplane?
That was a singularly stupid thing to think. I had legs, but if I wanted to go somewhere farther than my mailbox, I'd probably drive my car.
I thought about saying something to her then, but there were a few people between us. A wrinkled old prune with an ivory brooch holding her shawl clasped, a gaggle of college-girls that were gossiping about how, like, totally hawt the waiter at Olive Garden was, and a well-dressed businessman whose sole focus was on his cell phone.
The line started shuffling forward, moving at zombie-speed up to the gate where our boarding passes got scanned one more time, and then we got to go in the airbridge to the airplane.
There was very little overhead bin space left by the time I stowed my bag, and then I squeezed through to the window seat. For all the fun that the TSA had taken out of flying, they still let airplanes have window, which meant that I could still look out and feel some of the thrill I'd felt back when I was a kid.
I looked over the safety card and fastened my seat belt and asked myself if I should've used the bathroom one more time before getting on the airplane and then I crouched down a little bit and looked out the window.
I must have been completely lost in the intricacies of airport operations, because I never noticed when she sat down in my row. I didn't notice her until I heard the thunking click and saw the lights blink briefly, a sign that the airplane had switched over to internal power.
The stewardesses were walking down the aisle, closing the overhead bins and looking at seat belts. And there was a pegasus pony sitting next to me, struggling with her buckle.
“First time flying?” I said.
“On an airplane.” She fluffed her wings a little big, just in case I'd somehow missed seeing them.
“Yeah.” I shook my head in the hopes of rattling some of the stupid loose. “That's what I meant. Do you want a hand? Er, some help?”
“Maybe.” She tugged at the belt. “I don't even like these things. What good are they going to do me?”
If I'd had a moment to think, I probably wouldn't have, but I reached across her lap and got the free end of her belt, and then I had to basically grope her to get it fastened.
Airplane seatbelts were not designed for comfort or adjustability, but I could at least take solace in the fact that they were roughly designed for my anatomy. In her case, not so much. She looked singularly uncomfortable.
“If there's nopony in that seat,” she said, pointing to the vacant center seat, “I'm gonna stretch out after the airplane takes off and I can take this dumb thing off.”
“That's a good idea.”
“You don't mind, do you?”
“Not at all.” I had already decided that I was going to lift up the arm rest if nobody took that seat, and give myself a little bit more butt room.
“I'm Lynn,” she says, sticking out a hoof. “It's not much of a pony name; my parents named me after contact.”
“Bob,” I say. “What brings you to Earth?”
“I'm in truck driving school. At first I wanted to be a train driver, but then I realized that trucks don't have to follow tracks and can go wherever they want to.”
“How—” I clamped my mouth shut. Maybe I was wrong, but it felt like asking a handicapped person something really offensive about their disability, and I'd already proved myself a fool by asking her if it was her first time flying.
* * *
We were four hours delayed getting off the ground, and the mood in the cabin was getting tense. I could see that she was suffering from her belted-in position, but there was nothing she could do about it. The stewardesses were merciless in enforcing the rules, getting slightly snappier as the time wore on, and I could hardly blame them.
I never liked the shuddering feeling as the airplane first started accelerating down the runway, but it smoothed out like it always did. The plane shivered a little bit and then the nose came up and then we were climbing. I kept my nose pressed up against the window, looking for familiar landmarks.
The announcement chime dinged politely a few minutes later—seemingly right away, although I could tell that the airplane had mostly leveled off. The pilot gave his standard boilerplate about keeping your seatbelts fastened whenever you were in your seats in case of unexpected turbulance and then said that the stewardesses were going to be passing out drinks and food from the lunch menu and that everyone was going to get half-off as a way to apologize for the delay.
Lynn hadn't waited for the end of the announcement to unbuckle her seatbelt and stretch out on the chair. Maybe she was afraid I'd renege on my promise and take the middle seat, or maybe she's been just that uncomfortable.
She stretched out her wings and rolled her back and then managed a brief Yoga pose: Downward Facing Dog. She flicked her tail once, and then dropped her rump back to the seat, her tail brushing lightly against my leg. And then she was asleep.
* * *
Every time you hear an interview after an airplane crash, it always starts out with: 'the flight was normal until. . . .' But how else are you going to describe it? It was normal until it wasn't. Someone had a vague foreboding, or a feeling, or saw something.
I never saw or felt anything amiss; the flight was normal until one of the stewardesses came back to our row and crouched down in front of Lynn, pausing for a moment before shaking her shoulder. She kept her voice low, but I could hear anyway. “Do you know how to fly?”
Lynn's ears dropped down and then perked back up, and she nodded. Meanwhile, a palpable terror grabbed me. In these post-9/11 days, passengers don't get to go up to the cockpit to look around. The doors are locked, and nobody but the flight crew gets to go up there. Ever.
There were no announcements over the PA. I watched Lynn follow the stewardess down the aisle, all the way to the curtain between first and second class, and then I lost sight of her. She was pretty short, and I didn't want to stand up, didn't want to cause a panic. I pulled my seat belt tightly around my waist and took the safety briefing card out of the seatback in front of me. Now was a good time to review the instructions.
Lynn took in the deserted cockpit. Scraps of the meals that they'd eaten were still on the floor, a mute testimony of what had happened here. She could smell the fear and sickness and she pushed those things to the back of her mind. It's just like a truck.
She took the left seat. The driver sat in the left seat, and the co-driver sat in the right. She wouldn't have a co-driver for this flight, but it was reasonably short.
Trucks had cruise control; airplanes had fancier cruise control. She knew without consulting a single instrument or gauge that the airplane was flying itself, making minor course corrections to keep it pointed towards its destination.
There was a wheel in front of her to steer, and two pedals that were presumably the clutch and brake—the throttles were a pair of t-handles. Studying the wheel for a moment revealed that not only did it turn, but it also pulled forward and back.
It only took her a moment to correlate its movements with the airplane's response, and she nodded in satisfaction.
There was even a radio. The CB in her Peterbelt had about 40 channels; the airplane clearly had many more, since the display was four digits long. Since she didn't know what channel it was supposed to be on, she left it where it was and looked around for a mic.
That turned out to be attached to the headset. You weren't allowed to wear them in trucks, because they blocked too much hearing, but maybe that was allowed in an airplane. There was lots of wind noise.
“Breaker one nine, anypony got a copy? This is the brown birdhorse, come on?”
A moment later, a voice exploded in her ear. “Are—get off this channel! This is an aviation channel.”
“Ten-four,” she said cheerfully. “I'm in an airplane, and neither of the pilots can fly it. If I'm on the wrong channel, which one do I need to be on?”
There was silence, and then a new voice cut in. “Ah, brown birdhorse?”
“Yeah.”
“This is Omaha control. Did you say that you're in an airplane and neither of the pilots can fly it?” The voice on the other end of the radio sounded slightly worried.
“Ten-four, good buddy.”
“We need you to squawk seventy-seven seventy-seven on your transponder.”
“I'm not good at bird—can I just say it?”
“I . . . you. . . .” The radio fell silent for a moment an then a new voice came on. “Ah, brown birdhorse, how much flight experience do you have?”
“I've been flying for fourteen years. Not in a commercial tru—commercial airplane.” She scanned over the flight instruments. Maybe the transponder was another name for the Qualcomm. Those usually worked on their own, but maybe there was some kind of a special procedure for them on airplanes.
“It's an instrument that should be in the center of the cockpit,” the voice said, and then continued describing the location.
The dials were tiny and not hoof-friendly at all, and it took her several tries before she got all the windows to show sevens. “Ten-four, I've got it.”
“Okay, we see you.” There was another long pause. “Um, say intentions.”
“Intentions.” Lynn tapped her hoof against the control column. “I guess I intend to land at the nearest airport. We're supposed to go to Vanhoof—Vancouver, but I haven't got a map, and I can't find the GPS.” Surely there was a GPS on here, somewhere. Probably in the center screen, which was currently showing a compass heading, along with speed and altitude.
“Understood.” There was a pause. “The closest airport is Butte . . . it should be off to your twelve o'clock position. Please contact the tower on 124.9 for approach instructions.”
“Ten-four. Brown birdhorse out.” The knob on the radio was slightly less fiddly than the one on the so-called transponder, and it didn't take her too long to switch to the new frequency. She sat right on the edge of her seat and craned her neck to see over the nose of the airplane—she ought to be able to see the airport in front of her.
“Breaker one twenty-four decimal nine, this is the brown birdhorse. You got a copy?”
“We can hear you, brown birdhorse. Is that you actual name?”
“Negative, good buddy. It's just the one I use on the radio.” There was surely some way to make the seat move forward and back. Just like the air seat in her Peterbelt, it had lots of levers, and she started tugging at them experimentally, until she finally figured out how to make it move.
She shifted around on her rump waiting for a reply from the radio, and finally got one. “You . . . are you a pony?”
“Ten-four.” The pedals were reachable now, but she was happy to just let the airplane cruise along on its own until she got close enough to see the airport. It wasn't like trying to drive on a highway with all the other cars crowded around; it looked like she had the sky to herself.
“Miss . . . Schantia?” He pronounced her name slowly and carefully, and also completely wrong. But he'd tried, and that was nice of him. “That's me.”
“Do you know the number of souls on board?”
“Hold on, I'll see if I can find a loading manifest.” There would be maps and manifests and log books and who knew what else stuffed in the various compartments and cubbies up here. It was a shame that she didn't have a proper pilot to explain it all to her, but it couldn't be that complicated.
“You can ask the stewardess,” the voice on the radio suggested.
“Ten-four, thank you, that's a good idea.”
* * *
The men and women on the radio had been very nice and polite, which was something that she couldn't always say for her fellow truck drivers. Sometimes they were outright mean when they realized that the truck was being driven by a pony.
The airport was off to her left, still out of view. She'd successfully intercepted the glideslope at the control tower's suggestion, and then continued past it, not realizing that she was supposed to descent. A moment later, a familiar voice came back on the radio. “Uh, Miss . . . brown birdhorse, you ought to be slowing and descending. Is the airplane damaged?”
“No, negative. Not as far as I know. I can check.”
“Let's get you slowed down, first.”
“Ten-four.” She reached out her hooves. The brake would be on the right, the clutch on the left—it was probably smarter to clutch in first and see what happened, then use the brake if she needed to slow down faster.
There was less resistance than she'd expected, and the airplane turned sharply to the left. She grabbed the control yoke tightly and jerked it to the right, which caused it to roll to that side which still going right. An alarm started blaring.
Throttle. She yanked back on the throttles. Am I losing my air brakes? She hadn't found any air pressure gauges. Brakes.
That eliminated the steering problem, until she took her foot off the clutch, at which point that the airplane rolled way over to the left.
Rather than fight it, she just let the airplane go all the way over, centering all her controls as it passed 270 degrees of roll. “Sorry about that, tower,” she said when she finally got the airplane under control again. “I guess I've got a problem with my brakes.” If I can find the gear selector, I can downshift.
“Don't worry about it. Just get on a course of 330 true and execute a direct approach to runway 33L.”
“Thirty-three el.” She nodded, digging out the approach plates. She'd found them when she was looking for the loading manifest.
There were lots of numbers on them that she didn't have time to learn, but importantly it had a picture of the airport, so she knew she was going to the right place.
Behind her was a window that, unlike the ones in the cabin, could be opened. If I can get some air in here, it'll help me fly this thing.
“She hasn't got it.” Every eye in the control tower was fixed on the drunken staggering of the 727 as it lurched towards the runway. It was too low and too slow and there was a gasp of horror as it dipped below the trees.
“You stupid piece of shit!” Lynn punched the center of the instruments. Everything was broken on this dumb airplane. Neither the brake nor the clutch worked, if there was a gear selector it was hidden somewhere. A voice kept saying 'stall' or 'terrain' or 'pull up,' but didn't offer any other useful suggestions.
I'm not going to make it. The trees in front of her were very close, and the airport was very far. I'm not going to give up until—
Branches started smacking against the fuselage, and her instincts took over. She lept out of the pilot's seat and bounded across the navigator's table, then out the open window, tumbling briefly as the rush of air caught her, and then she was free of the tumbling, flaming wreckage.