"Atlantica six-four-zero, good evening," Miami Approach welcomed. "Turn right heading two-two-zero. Descend and maintain eight thousand."
Ryder acknowledged the message, and Kingston turned the aircraft toward the west. In a few moments, they were over Miami heading toward the Everglades. Both men listened to conversations between Approach Control and other aircraft. At forty-four, Kingston was older than his first officer but in better physical shape. Jim Ryder had grown a paunch from too much hotel room service. Tony Kingston still had a military bearing and rock hard gut.
"Atlantica six-four-zero, you're number thirteen for approach."
"Jeez, we'll be halfway to Naples before they bring us back," Ryder said. He turned around in his seat to face the flight engineer. "Hey, Larry, you want to hit South Beach tonight?"
"Sure. Berlin Bar, maybe Bash, finish up at Amnesia," Larry Doziev said. "How about you, Tony?"
"No thanks. I've got to finish my report for the union."
"That's what happens when you get married," Ryder said.
Kingston laughed. "I'm not married. You're married."
"Yeah, but you're acting married ever since you and the mystery woman got together. When you gonna show her off?"
"Maybe she's married," Dozier said.
Not yet. But I'm going to change that.
He had never before committed to one woman, always thinking the next one was the fantasy creature who would fulfill all his needs. Now, with the passage of time and more women-flight attendants, models, executives with one-night layovers-in his past than he could remember, he finally had someone whose needs he wanted to fill, a woman he loved more than he loved himself.
Lisa. Lisa Fremont.
The girl from down the hill in Bodega Bay who had traveled so far. He'd known her practically all her life, but he had been blind to the hell she had endured at home. Maybe if he hadn't been stationed so far away, he could have done something. For starters, he would have thrashed Harry Fremont.
Lisa. How have you done it?
Abused child to teen runaway to underage stripper, then with the guidance of an older man-not him, damn it-a new path, summa cum laude at Berkeley and now law school at Stanford. He was awed by her inner strength, her accomplishments, and he loved her dearly.
I've found a soul mate, not a cell mate, and I'll be faithful to her until the day I die.
"C'mon, Tony," Dozier said. "Just one drink."
Kingston scanned the airspeed and altimeter readings. "Sorry guys. Like I said, I've got work to do. Maintenance laid off another dozen workers last week. We've got twenty percent fewer mechanics and thirty percent more planes than we did-"
"I know, I know, but you're pissing against the wind."
Behind them, facing the starboard bulkhead, flight engineer Dozier swiveled his chair toward the front of the aircraft. "Hey, Tony, you might as well give up. Max Wanaker's gonna cut costs till bodies pile up, and then he'll make changes."
"Tombstone technology," Ryder said. "It's an old story."
"Or they'll say the equipment was fine," Dozier added, "so the accident must have been-"
"Pilot error!" Ryder shouted in mock glee.
"It's one thing to drop the olive from the salad," Kingston said, referring to a famous cost-cutting move of another airline several years earlier. "But laying off maintenance people, rushing inspections, and making us fly planes that ought to be in the shop or-"
"Scrapped!" Dozier interrupted, tapping his control panel. "This baby's older than some of the girls Tony screws."
"Used to screw," Kingston protested. There was so much he couldn't tell them. Lisa's relationship with Max Wanaker, president of Atlantica Airlines was one thing.
What could she have ever seen in him? But then, she was still a kid.
"Tony was a helluva lot more fun when he chased women instead of FAA inspectors," Ryder said, getting in one last shot.
Kingston was thumbing through the flight manual, preparing to call out the landing checklist. "You guys want to land this plane or bust my balls?"
"We just want the old Tony back," Ryder said.
Cowboys. All pilots begin as thrill-seeking cowboys. Late nights, high speeds, and fast women. I'm damned happy to have matured.
"You know what I want?" Tony asked, then answered his own question. "Joe Drayton. He knows his people have been pencil-whipping inspections they never perform. He's gonna sign my report."
Ryder laughed. "No way. Drayton's three years from a vested pension. If he goes public, he'll be refueling DC-3's in Addis Ababa."
"You're wrong," Kingston said. "He's already slipped me the paperwork."
Now Dozier was chuckling. "Hey, Tony, you're the one creating most of the paperwork. Every time an engine coughs, you do an occurrence write-up. Every time we're hit by a microburst, you write a memo on inadequate training for windshear conditions."
"I'm just doing my job," Kingston said. "Three days ago at O'Hare, I spot an oil leak on my walk-around. Some rent-a-temp mechanic comes over and wipes it with a rag. I refuse to fly the ship and I get written up. A couple months ago, they forget to replace the j, O-rings after doing a master chip inspection on an L-1011. The plane t barely gets back to Atlanta after the captain sees the oil pressure gauge light up. Plus they're covering up their mistakes. Did you read the bulletin on the 757 Tom Ganter flew out of Miami last week, the one where the instruments went haywire?"
"Yeah. It had a wasps' nest in the static sensors," Dozier said.
"Bull! That's the cover story. Ganter took a look at the static ports after
