Test Pilot's Daughter: Revenge (6 page)

She was getting impatient, “So what do we do with these foot pedals?”

“
I’m getting to that,” Furgeson complained. “Those rudder pedals also have three functions. On the ground, you use them to taxi the airplane. If you push the right pedal, the nose wheel turns right, left pedal, left. On the ground you guide the plane with your feet. Think of it as putting your feet up on the steering wheel of your car. In the air, the very same pedals control the rudder which points your nose left and right, allowing you to make ‘coordinated turns.’ Perfectly coordinated turns require the proper use of aileron, rudder and elevator.”

“
So what do you mean coordinated turns?” she asked.

“
Very simple,” Furgeson smiled. “Coordinated turns keep your butt planted directly in the center of the seat, like going around a race track that’s been properly banked. In a typical left turn, you’d use the yoke to roll the wings left, apply a little back pressure to hold up the nose and push the left rudder to “center the ball.” That’d give you a perfect left turn. By properly coordinating the ailerons, rudder and elevator, the pilot controls the bank of the highway. Get it? The common term, ‘flying by the seat of your pants’ refers to the feeling in your ass when you coordinate the controls.”

“
Got it,” Christina chuckled. “So what’s the third function? You said the rudder pedals have three functions.”

“
Patience, girl, I’m getting there. My, my, always in a hurry. If you push on the top of the pedals you apply the brakes on the landing gear; right pedal, right brake, left pedal, left brake. When you want to slow down on the ground, reach your feet up and push the top of both pedals at the same time.”

“
Brakes. Got that. Can we go fly now?”

“
Okay!”
Furgeson chortled. “If you think that lecture was long, wait till you hear my infamous speech, ‘The Movement of Weather Systems and Thunderstorms.’ It goes on for hours.”

“
Gee, can’t wait.” Christina rolled her eyes.

After what seemed like an eternity, Christina walked with her instructor out on the tarmac. PDK was bustling with activity, a virtual beehive of new sights and sounds. It seemed like there were instructors, students and pilots everywhere. Planes of all types were taxiing, taking off and landing. As they walked, a Leer Jet made a perfect squeaker on the runway close by. Christina had to stop and watch.
Holy shit! Nice landing. Beautiful.

They walked out to a little Cessna 150. It was tied down with three thick ropes, and she marveled at its beauty. Painted orange and black checkerboard and sparkling clean, the little plane sparkled.
Love the look,
Christina thought. An ideal aircraft for beginners, the Cessna 150 was stable and forgiving of mistakes common to new students.

Uncommon for a trainer, this particular plane, November Two Eight Eight Three Sierra, had a moving map GPS mounted in the panel for navigation. Modified for a large number of commercial applications, the technology was a God-send for general aviation. GPS receivers, cheap enough to mount in any private aircraft, tracked several geo-synchronous satellites and computed the exact location of the receiver. Advanced software and symbolic displays allowed the pilot to enter the three-digit code of any airport in the world and fly to it. Christina was fascinated by the GPS and wanted to learn all about it.

After a long and drawn out lecture on preflight inspections, Furgeson finally let her climb into the left seat for her first flight. When he entered the cockpit, she was shocked. The visual appearance of the old man magically transformed from Barney Fife to John Wayne. He seemed to undergo some sort of metamorphous from a ‘little old man in a hat’ one would see weaving his car all over the road, to a fiercely determined fighter pilot and war hero. John Furgeson didn’t just sit in an airplane, he wore it like a minister wears his Sunday suit.
Weird,
she thought,
he actually looks like part of the machine.
Hs eyes lit up like an excited schoolboy.

Another lecture covering every instrument on the panel was more than she could endure. She didn’t want to hear about the altimeter, the airspeed indicator, the artificial horizon, the turn and bank indicator, the vertical speed indicator or the directional gyro. She just wanted to get that baby in the air.

“
Can we go now, or are we just gonna sit here?” she shouted in frustration.

Furgeson did a double-take and said, “Sure, let’s go.”

He showed her how to crank the engine and taxi out to the “run up” area. He went through the standard procedure for preflight checks by bringing the engine up to 2,000 rpm with the brakes locked, so that every gauge and control could be tested under stress.

“
If your car dies on the road,” Furgeson lectured, “you might be inconvenienced, but if your airplane dies in the air, you might be dead. Believe it or not, a great many accidents result from idiots running out of gas. Pilot error, no excuse for that. Others crash because the pilot didn’t use the very minimum of precautions. I read one NTSB report where a guy took off with the tow bar still attached to his front wheel. Not a good idea. Most accidents can be avoided with just a little patience, discipline and common sense.”

Obviously missing the point, Christina was completely out of patience. She looked at him and yelled, “Okay, I get it, for Christ’s sake! Can we fly this goddam thing sometime today
?”

“
I see patience isn’t your strong suit. Well then, tell you what. Let’s go.”

The adrenaline was pumping when she pushed the throttle full forward, and the Cessna surged ahead. It accelerated, jumped off the runway, and they were in the air, climbing to the north. Flying to the practice area over Lake Lanier, she was amazed how quickly she became comfortable with the basic concepts of maneuvering an airplane.
Piece-o-cake,
she thought. Furgeson put her through several exercises covering coordinated turns and airspeed control.

After about forty-five minutes, he said, “This dog-shit is boring. How’d you like to try some crop dusting?”

“
Sure, if you say so.” She couldn’t believe it.
Crop dusting?

“
Back the throttle to 1,500 and trim the nose forward for a descending airspeed of sixty-five knots. Just let her drift down to that field,” he pointed to a cotton field with tall trees at both ends. About two-hundred feet above the ground, Furgeson took the controls. “My airplane. Here’s what you can do when you have plenty of airspeed.” He added cruise power, and the little engine roared. Making a steep turn just over the treetops, he dove straight down. Leveling his landing gear not six inches above the cotton plants, he accelerated to a hundred miles an hour.

Christina gasped.
Yikes!
The tall trees on the far end of the field closed rapidly. She winced, certain there would be a collision. Furgeson waited to the last second, pulled straight up over the obstacle and rolled into an arching left turn so steep, Christina found herself looking straight at the ground.

“
Jesus Christ!”
she screamed, stomach in her throat.
How can the old buzzard take it?

Furgeson rolled out of the turn and lined up on the next several rows. Approaching the treetops he yelled, “Okay girl, your airplane, let’s see what ya got.”

She didn’t have time to think of the risks. She grabbed the yoke firmly and pushed it forward. Nosing toward those cotton plants, she leveled a few feet off the deck. It took all her strength to hold the yoke forward and keep the nose from climbing on its own. She held the little plane level across the field and accelerated. Coming up quickly on the trees on the far side, she hauled back and rolled into a steep turn. The feeling was so exhilarating she could hardly contain herself.

“
Yaaaahoooo!
Holy crap, we’re still alive! Can’t believe I did that!” She turned to Furgeson and said, “How’d you know I wouldn’t crash?”

“
Ground effect,” he said with a confident smile. “At that speed you couldn’t crash if you wanted to.”

“
Oh?” She wondered if it was true.

Furgeson took the controls.

“
I think that’s enough for your first lesson,” he said. “I’d say we’re off to a damn good start. Not bad, girl. Not bad at all.”

“
Great!” she said. Adrenaline boiled.

Flying was the real ticket for Christina. She quickly discovered something most pilots know. Even the simplest flight was never mundane. The absolute concentration required to safely captain an airplane, provided a wonderful escape from everyday problems. Even though it had been ten years since her mother died, the agonizing mental anguish still haunted her dreams. The only true relief from the silent torture was found in the cockpit of that Cessna 150. When she was in the left seat, everything else disappeared. It was a soothing tonic, the ultimate anti-depressant. To her flying was everything.

* * *

During the next couple of weeks, they stuck with the Cessna 150, but at her request Furgeson took Christina up in a Citborea for some aerobatics. Such training wasn’t required for the private ticket, but she wanted “the whole nine yards.” He tested her courage with loops, spins, inverted flight and barrel rolls, coaching her through the controls. It all seemed as natural as driving her dad’s old pickup. The fact that she didn’t get sick in aerobatic maneuvers was testament to a genetic ability to handle Gs.

Christina became more and more comfortable with her flight instructor. Their relationship grew to be something beyond the typical teacher-student liaison. She respected his flying ability and judgment, and they quickly became friends. She spent most of her time learning how to land the airplane, the most difficult and necessary maneuver in a novice’s training. With only a few hours of instruction, she was putting down some decent landings, but she always expected he was somehow helping on the controls.

“
By God, I think you’re ready,” said Furgeson.

“
Ready for what?” she replied.

“
Your big moment. Time to solo.”

“
But I’ve only got a little over four hours in my book. Is that legal?”

“
My call. Most people need ten or more, but frankly, you’re as ready as anyone I’ve ever instructed.”

“
You’re the boss. Let’s do it.” She hadn’t even thought about soloing so early in her training. Suddenly she realized her response, “Let’s do it,” should’ve been, “I’ll do it.” The thought of landing by herself, without the security of an instructor was a bit chilling.

“
I think we’ll fly to Winder and get out of this traffic,” said Furgeson.

PDK was well known as one of the busiest small airports in America with over 10,000 landings a month. Located close to metropolitan Atlanta, it was used by students, private pilots and business executives seeking a convenient alternative to Hartsfield International. The two parallel runways at PDK were always swarming with small planes and business jets. To complicate matters, the FAA used the airport to train air traffic controllers. Green controllers and novice pilots often resulted in chaos aloft. At certain peak times of the day, like 6:00 p.m. when traffic would build, pandemonium was the norm. A great place to learn, if you survived. A private pilot accustomed to such traffic could handle any airport in the United States.

Christina took off from PDK and flew forty miles northeast to Winder, a little town about half-way to Athens. She entered the pattern midfield on a “left downwind” leg and went through the procedures she’d learned. When the Cessna contacted the runway without a lot of awkward bouncing, her confidence surged.

“
Remember when I get out,” he warned, “the plane’s gonna be lighter. Don’t panic if it starts to float or drift sideways on your flare. Just make sure your airspeed is right and do a full-stall landing. You’re gonna have a little crosswind from the right, so don’t forget to cross your controls.”

She frowned but nodded bravely.

“
Don’t worry none. . .you’ll do fine. Have fun.” Furgeson got out and shut the door. He walked over to a nearby hangar, crossed his arms and leaned back with a look of confidence.

A full-stall landing,
she thought.
That’s one of the harder ones.
It was much easier just to fly the plane onto the runway under power. A full-stall landing required sufficient touch and timing to put it down without power, completely stalling the airplane just inches off the surface. Done properly, it would eliminate the dangers of bounding back into flight or porpoising down the runway out of control. Stalling too high, of course, could be deadly.