Fog Bastards 1 Intention by Bill Robinson Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bill Robinson
won't last long. Actually, less than a minute.
"Mountain 4-6-1, turn right to 2-4-0, maintain 1-7-thousand."
They've got us on a course to fly the two sides of the triangle, which will make it look like we flew the hypotenuse. We climb into the cloud layer, and break out into the bright morning sky. I am now trained to look for the giant version of Fog Dude, but he only made the one cameo appearance and hasn't returned. Not that I am disappointed.
We're quickly cleared to our cruising altitude, and onto our flight plan, which means we set the "LNAV" button on to navigate (L is for lateral), and set 17000 into the altitude selector window. (Yes, we make everything sound way cooler than it really is.) The flight management computer can fly smoother and cleaner than any human, but you don't want the FMS flying you in bad weather or in a real emergency.
Before long we're at 35,000 feet, seat belt sign off, cruising comfortably toward paradise. And to think I could have taken the Cleveland route and be fighting thunderstorms for four hours across America.
We play a game for the passengers of "guess the mid point" where they get to write the time down when they think we will be exactly half way between LAX and KOA. The winner gets a free something, I've never bothered to find out what. That takes us a few minutes to set up, then it's just the usual checks on the hour and half-hour. If we're leaking fuel, it would be nice to know when we can still do something about it.
We go through security procedure to get some beverages, and hit the head. I've got a clipboard in my lap, my coffee cup on the console, a pen in my right hand entering data on fuel consumption when I know I have to stop. I've given up trying to find out how I know anything anymore, but my head just pops straight up.
Ken, my captain, looks over at me, and being a veteran captain, he is both puzzled and alert at the same time. If we have to act, it is often with only a few seconds notice.
"There's something wrong." Now he's probably thinking that "act" means locking me in one of the overhead bins.
"What?"
"I don't know, but we need to find out."
He's already been scanning his instruments, not sure what to make of his first officer.
"FSuhcikt" That's him saying "Shit" and me saying "Fuck" at exactly the same instant. Big planes have cockpit voice recorders. When they crash, 99 out of 100 times the last word on the recorder is "Shit" so Ken is more correct than I am, but I am a big fan of the "F" word. I'm pretty sure the last word the Air France guys said before they hit the Atlantic was "merde."
The clipboard is thrown aside, I grab my yoke, and push the button to turn off the auto pilot. The plane asks me if I really want to do that. I push the button again to say yes. Then I speak to Ken.
"Descend?" It's my controls, but his plane.
"Fast, please."
I push forward hard, not worried about all the coffee I'm about to spill in the cabin, but wishing we had time to warn the flight attendants to sit. Not a second later the cockpit is crazy with horns and a mechanical voice screaming "Descend! Descend! Descend!" Ken switches that shit off (ok, shit works better in that sentence, I'll give you that), and recommends an even stronger angle of descent. I'm way ahead of him.
Every big plane, and lots of small ones, have a device on board called a TCAS, which is a collision avoidance system. What we had seen on the HSI screen was a little red diamond of another aircraft at our altitude and heading right toward us from the north on a collision course.
Ken's got visual, he points at it. "Fucking Gulfstream." Proper use of "fuck" by him this time. A Gulfstream is a large private jet.
I turn the computer back on, and let Mr. Boeing's creation return us to the correct course, speed, and altitude.
Ken has the mic in his hand, and
"Mountain 4-6-1, turn right to 2-4-0, maintain 1-7-thousand."
They've got us on a course to fly the two sides of the triangle, which will make it look like we flew the hypotenuse. We climb into the cloud layer, and break out into the bright morning sky. I am now trained to look for the giant version of Fog Dude, but he only made the one cameo appearance and hasn't returned. Not that I am disappointed.
We're quickly cleared to our cruising altitude, and onto our flight plan, which means we set the "LNAV" button on to navigate (L is for lateral), and set 17000 into the altitude selector window. (Yes, we make everything sound way cooler than it really is.) The flight management computer can fly smoother and cleaner than any human, but you don't want the FMS flying you in bad weather or in a real emergency.
Before long we're at 35,000 feet, seat belt sign off, cruising comfortably toward paradise. And to think I could have taken the Cleveland route and be fighting thunderstorms for four hours across America.
We play a game for the passengers of "guess the mid point" where they get to write the time down when they think we will be exactly half way between LAX and KOA. The winner gets a free something, I've never bothered to find out what. That takes us a few minutes to set up, then it's just the usual checks on the hour and half-hour. If we're leaking fuel, it would be nice to know when we can still do something about it.
We go through security procedure to get some beverages, and hit the head. I've got a clipboard in my lap, my coffee cup on the console, a pen in my right hand entering data on fuel consumption when I know I have to stop. I've given up trying to find out how I know anything anymore, but my head just pops straight up.
Ken, my captain, looks over at me, and being a veteran captain, he is both puzzled and alert at the same time. If we have to act, it is often with only a few seconds notice.
"There's something wrong." Now he's probably thinking that "act" means locking me in one of the overhead bins.
"What?"
"I don't know, but we need to find out."
He's already been scanning his instruments, not sure what to make of his first officer.
"FSuhcikt" That's him saying "Shit" and me saying "Fuck" at exactly the same instant. Big planes have cockpit voice recorders. When they crash, 99 out of 100 times the last word on the recorder is "Shit" so Ken is more correct than I am, but I am a big fan of the "F" word. I'm pretty sure the last word the Air France guys said before they hit the Atlantic was "merde."
The clipboard is thrown aside, I grab my yoke, and push the button to turn off the auto pilot. The plane asks me if I really want to do that. I push the button again to say yes. Then I speak to Ken.
"Descend?" It's my controls, but his plane.
"Fast, please."
I push forward hard, not worried about all the coffee I'm about to spill in the cabin, but wishing we had time to warn the flight attendants to sit. Not a second later the cockpit is crazy with horns and a mechanical voice screaming "Descend! Descend! Descend!" Ken switches that shit off (ok, shit works better in that sentence, I'll give you that), and recommends an even stronger angle of descent. I'm way ahead of him.
Every big plane, and lots of small ones, have a device on board called a TCAS, which is a collision avoidance system. What we had seen on the HSI screen was a little red diamond of another aircraft at our altitude and heading right toward us from the north on a collision course.
Ken's got visual, he points at it. "Fucking Gulfstream." Proper use of "fuck" by him this time. A Gulfstream is a large private jet.
I turn the computer back on, and let Mr. Boeing's creation return us to the correct course, speed, and altitude.
Ken has the mic in his hand, and
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