A Time for Patriots

“A fleet of dinosaurs, if you ask me,” Jon said. “The plane is almost thirty years old!”

“They’re introducing newer planes into the fleet as the older ones reach a certain airframe time limit,” Brad said. “We were slated to get a glass-cockpit turbo 182 this year. That was canceled because of the economy and all the cutbacks. Maybe we’ll get it when the recession is over.”

“Or maybe get something better,” Jon mused.

“There’s nothing better than a trusty 182—maybe a turbo 182 with a glass cockpit,” Brad said. He unlocked the pilot’s-side door, then opened the passenger-side door from inside. “We still use the original instruments.”

“Holy cats — I’ll say you do!” Jon exclaimed, his eyes wide in wonder as he scanned the faded Royalite plastic instrument panel. “I can’t remember the last time I saw round steam gauges!” He pointed at the GPS device. “Jeez, that GPS manufacturer hasn’t been in business in fifteen years! And… and is that an FM simplex radio?”

“The radio operates both in simplex and repeater functions,” Brad explained. “CAP operates about five hundred repeater stations around the country to provide communications over a wide area, hostile terrain, or when conventional communications like telephone and the Internet are knocked out.”

“Wow — I didn’t realize you guys did what you do with such… outdated stuff,” Jon exclaimed. “I guess your major tool is the old Mark One eyeball, eh?”

“We have a Gippsland GA-8 with the ARCHER hyperspectral sensor — that’s probably the most high-tech plane in the fleet,” Brad said. “Back in the Vegas squadron they were able to send digital photos from the planes via satellite, but we don’t do that here.”

“It would be easy enough to do,” Jon mused again. Brad could always tell when his uncle’s mind began working a problem, same as his dad: they got this faraway look, as if they were looking through the earth back onto their lab bench or computer, already experimenting and planning. “The transceiver weighs less than a sack lunch. You could even do two-way voice, data, and text.”

“That would be cool,” Ralph said.

“Look at that — vacuum-powered gyroscopic gauges… a wet compass… carburetor heat… my God, an L- Tronics Model LA direction finder,” Jon muttered in disbelief. “Those were built in Santa Barbara, California, by hand practically by one guy, years ago. He was my hero. The guy literally transformed the nation with his gadgets.”

“Most of the time the stuff works pretty well,” Brad said. “And the plane flies great.”

“You’ve flown it?”

“You bet I did,” Brad said. “Ralph too. Every CAP cadet gets five powered and five glider orientation rides. It’s part of CAP’s aerospace education program. We’re not allowed to do takeoffs and landings in CAP airplanes, but I’ve done steep turns, stalls, and slow flight.”

“I didn’t realize the Civil Air Patrol did all that stuff with these planes,” Jon said. “Actually, I never thought about it. So when do you get to pilot one of these hot rods, Brad?”

“Not for a while,” Brad said. “I’ll train to be a mission scanner, get two supervised flights, then train to be a mission observer. Meanwhile, I have to get my private pilot’s license and get a hundred and fifty hours of pilot-in- command time. Then I can train to take a CAP Form 5 check ride, which is like an annual flight review. Once I pass that, I get two supervised flights in the left seat with a crew, followed by a CAP Form 91 evaluation.”

“Sheesh, it sounds worse than the Air Force,” Jon remarked. “They really make you jump through some hoops, don’t they?”

“I’ll be flying two other crewmembers in an Air Force airplane on an Air Force — assigned mission — they want us up to speed,” Brad said. “I don’t think it’s jumping through hoops at all.”

“You sound just like your dad — who, speak of the devil, here he is now.” Jon shook hands with Patrick as he walked up to the Cessna. “Brad was showing me his high-tech piece of machinery here. Are you sure flying one of these isn’t taxing your aging flying skills too much?”

“Jon, even you could pilot one of these,” Patrick said with a smile. “How are you, Ralph?”

“Fine, sir. Brad was helping me with some reading.”

“Good for you, Brad. How’s Jeremy doing?”

“Released from the hospital to his grandparents in Sparks, sir,” Ralph said. Patrick knew the boy would know the details. “He’s doing fine and has asked about joining the CAP.”

“I think he’d be a great cadet,” Patrick said. “So. Are you guys done?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I have a birthday surprise for my son, thanks to Uncle Jon here,” Patrick said. “Unfortunately your first scanner flight was canceled, but I have something else I think you’ll enjoy. Climb on out of that flight suit.” Eyes dancing in anticipation, Brad locked up the Cessna, put the keys away, then returned in a flash in civilian clothes.

“Drive us over to the hangar,” Patrick said, tossing him the keys to the Wrangler. Brad happily drove to the other side of the base, where the civilian aircraft were parked, the smile not leaving his face.

“Are we going flying, Dad?” Brad asked excitedly after parking beside Patrick’s hangar.

“We are,” Patrick said. “Dr. Masters owns the airspace around the base for his special project today, and he’s not using it for the next two hours, so he got us permission to use it. It won’t be a cross-country — we have to stay within thirty miles of the base — but you’ll be able to get some air work and some landings in.”

“Great!” Brad shouted. His smile dimmed a bit. “But… I can’t afford to fly the 210, even half. I’d be just as happy flying the 172.” Brad had been training for his pilot’s license in a rented Cessna 172 Skyhawk, saving money and doing odd jobs around town and the base to pay for fuel and flying time; Patrick was his flight instructor.

“That’s the second surprise,” Patrick said. “Dr. Masters is paying the tab for this flight. Happy birthday.”

“All right !” Brad cried. “Thank you, Uncle Jon!” Brad had to contain his excitement and, as his father had taught him, put his pilot’s brain in gear as he proceeded to unlock the hangar and get the turbine Cessna P21 °Centurion ready to fly.

Patrick had downsized his airplane from the twin-turbine-powered Aerostar to a single-engine airplane, but it was just as high-tech. Thanks to Jon Masters’s tinkering, this Cessna pressurized single-engine airplane had an advanced turboprop engine that propelled the plane at a top speed of more than three hundred miles an hour for over 1,500 nautical miles at altitudes up to twenty-five thousand feet. It was equipped with two wide-screen electronic flight displays, dual GPS navigators, a NextGen datalink for weather and traffic, side-stick controllers, single-lever engine control, and a host of other features and upgrades. Its advanced electronic ignition system allowed it to burn any kind of liquid fuel available, from automotive gasoline to the latest biofuel.

“I’m going to let you do everything,” Patrick said. “I want to see if you’ve gotten rusty. Take your time.”

“Yes, sir !” Patrick watched as Brad pulled the plane out of the hangar, drove the Jeep inside, and began a preflight.

The exterior preflight mostly consisted of draining the numerous fuel tanks and sumps to check for water or contamination, checking that the flight controls were free and clear, and checking for any signs of leaks or damage. When the walk-around was completed, Patrick climbed into the front passenger seat first, followed by Brad in the pilot’s seat, and he closed and dogged the entry door tight. The interior preflight was even easier: the computers mostly did everything, under Brad’s watchful eye. Engine start was stone-cold simple: turn on the battery switch, command the engine start on the touch-screen electronic controls, watch the engine displays, and watch for any hot-start anomalies that weren’t caught by the computer. Within minutes they were airborne.

“Three of the most dangerous stalls you can do,” Patrick said once they were at their operating altitude, “is an approach-to-landing stall, a departure stall, and a traffic-pattern or accelerated stall, so that’s what we’re going to practice first. Run through those for me.”

“Roger,” Brad said. “Clearing turn, coming left.” He performed a clearing turn left and right to check that the airspace around them was clear of other traffic, then said, “The approach-to-landing stall simulates stalling with the plane in landing configuration. Flaps ten, then the gear.” He lowered the first notch of flaps, then the landing gear. “As the airspeed decreases I’ll pitch up to landing attitude. Flaps twenty… flaps thirty. Power back, nose stays up…” A few moments later, the stall-warning horn sounded and they felt the first rumbles of disturbed air over the wings, the sign of an impending stall.

“Recover,” Patrick said just as it felt as if the plane was going to nose over. Brad released the back pressure on the side-stick controller and fed in full power. When the plane reached takeoff speed, he raised the landing gear and the first notch of flaps and waited until he had a positive rate of climb.

“Good job — minimal loss of altitude, nose straight, positive rate of climb,” Patrick said after Brad had