A Time for Patriots

“Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima, Elko Tower, runway two-three, cleared for takeoff.”

“Three-Four Lima, cleared for takeoff, runway two-three.” Frank taxied onto Runway 23, and instead of locking the brakes, running the engine up to full power, and then releasing the brakes, he kept on rolling, then applied full power as he turned onto the runway centerline. The engine smoothly roared to full power, and the four- seat Cessna responded as spritely as ever, accelerating quickly…

… except there was a sharp banging sound on the left side of the plane, from the direction of the left main gear tire, getting louder and louder as he accelerated. “What the… something’s wrong,” Frank muttered, and he jerked the throttle lever to idle.

“What’s wrong?” Kara asked, the concern evident in her voice. “What’s going on, Frank?”

“Why are we stopping, Dad?” Jeremy asked.

“Sterile cockpit, guys, remember — no talking until level-off except for an emergency,” Frank said. He pressed the mike button: “Elko Tower, Three-Four Lima is aborting the takeoff, possible flat tire.”

“Roger, Three-Four Lima,” the tower controller said. “Cancel takeoff clearance, turn right at the next taxiway, and contact Ground.”

“Three-Four Lima, wilco.”

“Hey, Dad?”

“I said no talking, Jeremy.”

“But, Dad…?”

“This better be important, Jeremy!”

“I think it’s your seat belt, Dad. Something’s hanging out of the plane.” The pilot looked out his left side window, and sure enough, there it was: in his haste to depart, he forgot to fasten his seat belt, and the buckle end had started banging on the side of the plane. How in hell could he miss that?

“Thank you, buddy,” Frank said in a low, contrite monotone. “Good call.” He taxied off the runway, contacted Ground Control, and received a clearance back to takeoff position. In the run-up area, he pulled power to idle, pulled the parking-brake handle, had Kara hold the toe brakes on her set of rudder pedals just in case — her husband was usually admonishing her to keep her feet off the pedals, and now he wanted her feet on them — unlatched the door, and pushed it open. With the propeller turning, it required a lot more strength than he thought to open it, and the noise was a lot louder than he expected.

“Hopefully I’ll never do that again,” Frank said after he had everything retrieved and reconnected. He took a moment to catch his breath — he noticed his heart pumping rapidly just from the excitement of being in all that noise and windblast. “I’m sure the guys in the tower got a big laugh out of that.” He made sure he fastened his seat belt this time, then looked around at everyone else’s belts. “Okay, everyone ready to go?”

“Dad, I need to use the bathroom,” Jeremy said.

“What?” Frank thundered, then immediately felt bad for shouting. “But you just went!”

“I just gotta go, Dad.”

“If we go back, will we miss those thunderstorms?” Kara asked. “Will we have to spend another night here?”

“We might.”

“Then we’ll have to skip seeing my parents in Reno,” Kara said cross-cockpit. “We can’t stay in Reno — we have to go straight home from Carson City. Jeremy can’t miss any school, and I have no more vacation days off left on the books.”

Frank didn’t reply to her, but instead asked, “Is it number one or number two?”

“Number one,” the boy said, but if the father had turned back to look at his son, he would’ve noticed the little anxious expression that meant that number two might be stirring as well.

“Then you’ll have to do it in the piddle pack,” Frank said. “We’re leaving. Hold it as long as you can.”

“Okay, Dad,” Jeremy responded meekly. Frank called Elko Tower, received another takeoff clearance, and in moments they were rolling down the runway again. This time there was no banging or anything else gone wrong, and they were airborne.

The skies were bright and sunny until thirty minutes into the flight, but soon Frank saw it — a dark white, gray, and brown mass of clouds on the horizon. He could see the northern edge of the squall line, but it was far to the right of course, not to the left as he had hoped. The thunderheads were towering skyward, and as he flew closer he swore he could see them rolling up even higher, driven by enough heat and raw energy to light up a city.

“Salt Lake Center, Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima.”

“Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake Center, go ahead.”

“I’d like to deviate twenty degrees north for weather.”

“Deviation right approved, report when direct Winnemucca again.”

“Three-Four Lima, wilco.”

“Why are we turning?” Kara asked.

“To get as far away from those buildups as we can,” Frank said. “If we start turning now, we won’t be as far off course when we pass them, and we won’t have to make as big turns. It’s a fairly slow-moving system — we should miss it easily.”

“Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake Center… uh, verify that you do not have weather-avoidance or — detection equipment?” the air traffic control controller radioed.

“That’s affirmative, Three-Four Lima does not have weather equipment,” Frank admitted. Several times this summer, which seemed to be particularly thunderstorm-active in the West, he wished he had spent the extra money on the portable navigation unit that also downloaded weather and NexRad radar images via XM satellite radio. But it wasn’t required equipment, he rarely flew in bad weather or at night, it was a lot more money than the unit he had purchased, and the monthly subscription costs were astronomical — the wife was already pissed about how much all the airplane stuff cost already.

“Roger,” the controller responded. “On your new heading off the airway, I’m going to need you higher to stay in radar coverage. Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima, climb and maintain one-two thousand.”

“Leaving one-zero thousand, climbing to one-two thousand, Three-Four Lima,” Frank responded. He pushed in the mixture and propeller controls, fed in power, and started a shallow climb.

“Do we have to go on oxygen now?” Kara asked.

“Only if you feel you need to,” Frank replied. “Go ahead and get the masks out.” The portable oxygen bottle and the three masks were in a canvas bag behind the pilot’s seat, so it was easy to open it up and get the masks out. Kara swabbed the inside of each mask with an alcohol pad, making sure to wipe hers twice — she always thought it was a veritable germ breeding ground.

As soon as they passed eleven thousand feet, the turbulence began. They felt an occasional light bump at ten thousand, but now it was a consistent light chop with an occasional moderate bump, and the higher they climbed, the worse it got.

“Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake Center, how’s your ride?” the controller asked as they leveled off at twelve thousand feet.

“Light, occasional moderate turbulence,” Frank reported. “When can I go back down to ten thousand?”

“Not until after Battle Mountain, sir,” the controller replied.

“Can I get VFR on top at ten-five?” “VFR on top” was an option for pilots on an IFR flight plan to fly at VFR altitudes — even-numbered altitudes plus five hundred feet flying westbound — if they were clear of clouds.

“Negative, Three-Four Lima, that’s below my minimum vectoring altitude in your present area,” the controller responded. “You’ll have to wait until you get into Battle Mountain Approach’s airspace. Maintain one-two thousand.”

“Maintain one-two thousand, wilco, Three-Four Lima,” Frank replied. His only other option to fly at a lower altitude out of the turbulence was to cancel his IFR flight plan, but he didn’t feel comfortable with that until he was around those thunderstorms — the mountain ranges in this area were pretty high, and if he lost contact with the ground, he’d be in a world of danger.

“Dad, I don’t feel so good,” Jeremy said. His wife immediately found an airsick bag, opened it, and gave it to her son. The turbulence was gradually increasing in intensity — it was now getting close to continuous moderate