Blue Skies (22 page)

Amazing. That was more brazen than the worst blockhead pilots she knew. It made her laugh. “Oh, my, does your wife know what you do when you're out on the road?”

“I see you've met Rocky,” Nikki said. She'd come upon them without either of them noticing her. He looked up at her, his mouth hanging open in confusion. He clearly didn't remember her, but then she had an entirely new look. “I thought you weren't allowed to fly this airline, Rocky,” she said, still standing and looking down at him.

It took him quite a while, then his eyes slowly grew wide as he came to recognize her. Once he was sure, he simply stood and made his getaway. Not to the bar, but down the concourse and past Security at a very fast pace.

“You know that man?” Dixie asked.

“Remember that guy I told you about who was impersonating an air marshal?”

“No way!”

“Way. He's not supposed to be able to get a ticket on Aries,” she said. “I don't know if he did any time, but I'm sure there was a hefty fine and his name is on the watch list. I wonder how he managed it.”

“Well,” Dixie said thoughtfully. “He wasn't an air marshal today. He was a triple-seven pilot for American Airlines.”

B
ob Riddle was the original meeting man. By keeping her ears open and instructing Dixie to do the same, Nikki soon learned that when Bob arrived in the morning, he handed Crue a list of calls to make and meetings to schedule. He met with pilots who had just been hired; he met with in-flight personnel—flight attendant managers—individually and in small groups; he spent a lot of time wandering around the corporate and finance end of the office building; and he had meetings with vendors who supplied everything from airplanes to airplane coffeepots. Nikki had no idea what he was doing, but he was doing it very busily.

Then one of his little projects saw the light of day. A fashion show was scheduled to be put on by a uniform vendor for flight ops and in-flight senior staff. They would have to make a selection for pilot and flight attendant uniforms immediately if they were to be ready for the first flight.

Ordinarily Nikki would not trust herself to choose anything dealing with fashion, but these were uniforms. They had hardly changed over the past forty years, with the exception of the occasional avant garde look—like hot pants and boots. So, how hard could it be?

Harder than she'd dared fear.

“Our objective at New Century Air is to accentuate
the new,” said Reese, flight attendant and head of the uniform committee. “We want to be innovative. We want to
stand out.
”

That's where the trouble started. The whole point was that pilots
not
stand out. Pilots were cool, detached, in control behind the scenes. At least that's what the airline preferred the flying public to believe. The truth might not be good for ticket sales.

Bob Riddle had joined forces with Charles, the head of in-flight, and his committee of four flight attendants, who apparently had been longing to go to Mardi Gras for some time. Between them they had come up with some rather interesting ideas. The manufacturer had both sketches and mannequin models set up in the conference room when Nikki arrived.

The first outfit she saw was a turquoise suit for pilots with gold filigree on the sleeves and gold piping along the edges. There was a complementary one-piece fitted jumpsuit made of spandex for the flight attendants, including a wide belt with a large gold buckle. It reminded Nikki of something that might be worn by the crew of the
Starship Enterprise.

“Um, have you taken into consideration that there is no longer a weight standard for flight attendants?” Nikki asked. She mentally noted that there were about three people she knew who would look good in that leotard—Dixie and two men. “And then there's the maternity issue,” she added.

“We can find a way to deal with maternity, but we don't intend to let our flight attendants get fat,” Reese said.

“Ah, then you intend to be sued?” Nikki asked. “I believe that's an EEO issue.”

“It
can't
be!” she argued, aghast.

“Let's just move along,” said Charles. “There's plenty here to see.”

Next they viewed a mannequin wearing a tan suit with red-and-black shoulder boards and gold buttons.

“That's a favorite of mine,” Bob said.

“He looks like an Iraqi general!” Nikki protested.

“Look at the sketches for the coordinating flight attendant uniforms,” Reese urged. “They're striking!”

“They look like female generals!” Nikki exclaimed. “Look, you have to know pilots, especially the men. They don't like to get all trussed up. They tend toward conservative and comfortable clothing that's easy to maintain.”

“I beg to differ, Nikki,” Bob said. “I'm a pilot and I very much favor a snappy appearance.”

“Bob,” Nikki said pleadingly, “turquoise spandex is way beyond snappy. That'll get a union in here faster than low pay.”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Charles said. “We have more sketches and actual mock-ups to look at.”

Nikki held her tongue. She sat quietly while being shown sketches of low-rider, bell-bottomed pants with paisley vests, multicolored layover shirts with Nehru collars, and her personal favorite pilot's uniform, very loosely pleated pants, silk shirt and leather bomber jacket. Vintage forties. And for the flight attendants? One-piece, tightly belted silk jumpsuits with extra-large shoulder pads. If there'd been a rag tied around the woman's head, she would have been Rosie the Riveter.

“What does Joe say about these ideas?” she finally asked.

“He hasn't been involved. Well, he had this idea that he wanted the first-class flight attendant uniform to differ
somehow from the coach—but when we vetoed that idea he didn't argue.”

“But you're going to show him?”

“Eventually.”

“No, you have to show him now!” she insisted. “I don't know that much about fashion, but—”

“That seems painfully obvious,” Reese said, a very superior edge to her voice.

“But,” Nikki went on sharply, “I believe these ideas stray too far from the public expectation, and that can't be a good thing.”

“Let me show you one that was mocked up for me, so you can see what a real classy pilot looks like,” Bob said, exiting to change. “This one is a little more conservative.”

Nikki took advantage of his absence and dashed out of the room to summon Dixie. “Pilot costuming has gone out of control,” she said. “Call Riordan's office, and if you can't get him to make an appearance, at least see if you can get the Gatekeeper. And see if you can find Danny and Eric. I'm in trouble in there.”

When she got back to the room she fessed up. “I called Riordan's office.”

“Now, what the hell did you do that for?” Reese demanded. “This job was delegated to us and we're getting it done.”

Bob entered the room in a dark suit with gold accents, but Nikki didn't really take it in.

“Sorry. If the boss goes for this, I stand corrected and will apologize—but this stuff is too far over the top for me to be comfortable with. I'm not dressing my pilots up in these costumes unless Riordan insists. And I am going to fight it.”

She then looked at Bob. He was right—he wore the
most conservative uniform thus far, and even it was beyond belief. The double-breasted jacket was black, with two rows of large gold buttons running up the front—eight in total. Swirling gold piping made decorative loops up the sleeves, and there were gold stripes on the shoulder boards.

Riordan walked in. The look on his face suggested he wasn't thrilled to be interrupted for this. His dress shirt was open at the neck, sleeves rolled up. Nikki thought it was yesterday's shirt, and yesterday's circles under his eyes. He took one sweeping look at the uniformed mannequins and sketches laid out on the conference table. “D'you have to wear drag to get in here?”

Jewel stepped into the room behind him. She looked at the uniforms casually, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Bob,” he said, poking at one of the gold buttons running up his chest. “I'm not sure whether you're going to fly a plane or lay down and feed your puppies.” He frowned at the sketches, then at the flight attendant committee. “What the hell is this? Gimme a navy blue suit. Put some skirts and slacks and blouses together. The fanciest thing I wanna see is a vest. Jesus, this shit looks like a fucking Cher concert!” He pointed to the tan suit with the filigree and shoulder boards. “Who the hell is that supposed to be? That guy looks like a friggin' Iraqi general.”

He turned and left the room. Jewel pulled the door closed behind them both. “Do they have bad taste or what?” Riordan could be heard saying as they walked away.

“Okay,” Nikki said, breathing a huge sigh of relief. “Back to the drawing board?”

“What's the point,” Reese said angrily, slapping her notebook closed with an angry snap.

Nikki stood up. “The point, I believe, is uniforms for a professional airline crew. Let's keep that in mind. Hmm?”

 

Thirty new pilot hires were assembled in a leased training facility in a hangar at the airport. The first two days of their training was orientation, during which time they would hear a list of speakers from the roster of corporate officers, including Joe, Bob and Nikki. Then ground school and aircraft systems would begin in earnest for three weeks, followed by two weeks of simulator training.

Until Danny could hire a full-time teaching staff, he'd get help from Nikki, Eric and consultants.

Nikki had to go to ground school, too, as did Riddle. She'd also be teaching some of her own classes, which her degree and experience definitely qualified her to do. In the meantime, she was up to her eyeballs in work that had a very short deadline. Riddle had saddled her with the emergency-procedures manual, and she was trying to get ready for proving flights. And while there was a flight scheduler to plan the movement of the airplanes around the system, there was no crew scheduler as yet. She could do it—three airplanes, thirty pilots, sixty flight attendants. But when would she sleep? And there was the Med Link rep coming in for a meeting; that onboard communication would put a crew member in direct contact with a physician in the case of an ill passenger during flight. Nikki considered getting this contract high priority.

And the aircraft lessors were at the door. So many planes were scattered around the country, sitting idle,
costing their owners millions. When a new airline started up, the leasing companies competed for business, and they wooed prospective clients with golf, fancy dinners and gifts. Riddle was taking on most of that, with Nikki's total good wishes; she simply couldn't fit any superfluous entertainment into her schedule. But it did feel as if his job was fine dining while hers was the hard work of getting an airline certified.

And the closing on her house was drawing near. Next week, she hoped. Thank God for Carlisle. Feeling more secure and safer now, he had thrown himself into helping the kids shop for their bedroom furnishings. The closets, as well as every inch of floor space, were filling up with new purchases from towels to bedding to kitchen items. How in the world she was going to find time to move into the house was beyond her. She desperately needed a wife.

Loaded down with accordion files, Nikki passed Crue's desk. Bob's office door was open, the light on, but no Bob. And Crue's desk was, as usual, neat. She appeared to be working at her computer at a leisurely pace.

Nikki stopped and looked at Crue until the woman turned her head. Nikki was unconsciously frowning, deep in thought. Crue gave an impatient snigger and Nikki shook herself. “Where did you work before coming here?” she asked. “TWA?”

“US Airways. TWA before that.”

“A secretary?”

Crue shook her head but didn't offer anything more.

“Well? What?” Nikki pushed.

“Scheduling.”

“Aircraft?”

She shook her head. “Cabin crews.”

Nikki started to chuckle. She went around the corner and ducked into the conference room. Sitting down in a chair with wheels, the heavy files resting in her lap, she scooted out the door and down the hall until she sat right in front of Crue's desk. “You're going to wear me out with all that chatter,” she said. Crue did not crack a smile. “Come on! Cripes.” She sighed. “Crew scheduling at both airlines?”

Crue nodded.

“In what capacity?”

“What difference does it make?”

Nikki leaned a little over Crue's desk. “I need
help.
”

Crue looked back at her computer, her fingers drifting to the keyboard. “He has someone in mind.”

“What?”

“He said he has someone in mind for that job.”

“Well, he hasn't told me that. In what capacity were you scheduling?”

“I was a manager at TWA, and after they folded I worked as a scheduler at USAir, then got laid off after 9/11.”

“What systems did you use?”

Her lips pursed, as if she was getting angrier and angrier. But she answered, “Years ago it was a computer program made by SDI, then the Bornneman system, and…Well, there was pencil and paper.”

Nikki grinned. “I'm only checked out on pencil and paper. You…ah…real busy with Bob's work?”

She took her time on that one. “Positively worn out,” she said.

“Where is he?”

“Over at the airport, with the pilot class.”

Nikki looked at her watch. “Damn. I gotta get over
there. Quick—why'd you take this job if you're a scheduler?”

“Lashawn is nine, Lincoln is eleven. And like I said, he has someone in mind for scheduling.”

“Ha! Me,” she said, standing. “Will you help me?”

“Will you pay me extra?”

“No. But if you do a decent job, I'll put my head to the task of trying to utilize your skills more effectively than this.”

“And then he might just say he has someone in mind….”