Tiger's Claw: A Novel

communications on the secure area of the website. If you have any access problems, let me know in the morning. Your course books are all online too.” He handed him a cell phone. “Your new phone, all programmed with the important numbers. We use the phone quite a bit around here, especially for last-minute tasks, important calendar changes, and when you’re out of earshot of the paging system. Business use only, please.”

He stuck out a hand, and Brad shook it. “Welcome to Warbirds Forever, Brad. Your dad tells me you’re a good pilot and a hard worker. Too bad about the Academy. I graduated from there in 1970. I can look back on it now and say it was a good experience, but at the time I remember thinking, ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ But we’ll give you an experience here that I think you’ll enjoy, and a lot closer to home.”

“Thank you, sir,” Brad said. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Good to hear. See you in the morning.” And he lumbered out of the storeroom, the flimsy plywood door rattling loudly on its hinges even after it closed.

Yeah, Brad thought as he looked around, what in hell am I doing here? But then he put things in perspective: the space he had was similar in size to his bedroom in the trailer he lived in for years without complaint; he had a job, and he was going to learn to fly a few of those hot-looking airplanes back there in the hangar. This could be an incredible opportunity. He had no doubts that he could fly well enough to please Hoffman. Plus, the boss seemed like a really nice guy.

Brad set up his laptop, but since it was pretty late—and he had a couple beers at his going-away party—he decided to go to bed and get up early to log in and check his schedule. He unrolled the roll of foam on the bed. It looked like engine or parts packing material, several inches thick and fairly clean. He wedged the corners through the wires in the bed to keep it from rolling itself up again, wrapped it in a sheet, then made his bed. He did indeed bring towels, so he was all set. He set his watch’s alarm for six A.M., which should give him plenty of time to shower, check his schedule, and head out for donuts and coffee. He had brought energy bars and beef jerky, which would have to serve as meals until he had a chance to borrow a car and do some shopping.

He walked down the hallway with his toiletries kit and a towel and found the locker room and bathroom with no problem. He found his locker, already marked with b. mclanahan on white cloth tape and black Magic Marker. About twenty other lockers had names on them. The bathroom and showers were extremely clean. He was actually starting to feel at home here—it was very much like the dorm rooms he had seen at the University of Nevada–Reno, except for the aircraft parts stacked to the ceiling in his room, of course.

The spring-and-wire bed made a horrendous creaking and groaning sound as he settled in. He would have to find a piece of plywood to strengthen it, maybe even find a thrift store or swap meet to get a better bed. But he was too tired to let the creaking bother him, and in minutes he was asleep.

“What in hell is going on here?”

Awakened from a deep sleep, Brad nearly flew straight up out of bed. The light snapped on, and Thomas Hoffman was standing in the open doorway, fists on his hips. “Wha . . . what? Mr. Hoffman? Why . . . ?”

“It’s five A.M., McLanahan!” Hoffman thundered. “Why aren’t you up?”

Brad checked his watch—it was indeed a little after five A.M. “I . . . I was going to get up at six, sir,” he said. “That would give me plenty of time to . . .”

“You didn’t log in and access your calendar, did you?”

“N . . . no, sir. I thought if I did that at six I’d have time to log in, check the calendar, and get up and get ready by the time the others showed . . .”

“Son, the other employees get here by seven, they’re at work by seven fifteen, and they go home at four thirty,” Hoffman said. “You, on the other hand, have several months of preparation, training, and testing ahead of you before you can even think of following their schedule. Your day starts at five A.M., mister, and it goes until all your work is done. I assume you didn’t review the employee handbook or look at the linesman’s training presentation, either?” Brad’s expression gave him his answer, and he shook his head in exasperation. “You arrived late yesterday, so you’re several hours behind. Your first day on the job and you’ll be hustling to catch up.

“Okay, here is what we do,” Hoffman said loudly, taking a menacing step toward Brad. “The priority is making sure all the ground vehicles are fueled up and oil checked, but before you do that you have to watch the linesman’s PowerPoint presentation to learn how to use the fuel pumps, vehicles, and equipment, and then you have to pass a written test, and then you have to inspect the fuel filters in the gasoline, avgas, and Jet-A pumps before you service the vehicles, and you have to do all this in less than two hours, before the mechanics, customers, and clients arrive. Once the mechanics arrive, you help them get parts and supplies, help move airplanes, anything they need. Then Rosetta has employee, airport security, and schoolhouse paperwork for you to fill out. In between helping the mechanics, you need to prepare for your written systems, performance, and procedures test in the Cessna 182. But if you hear your name paged and you don’t respond in the blink of an eye, I’m coming hunting for you, and you don’t want that, believe me. Any questions?”

“Y-y-yes, sir,” Brad stammered. “How do I know how to inspect the fuel pumps?”

“It’s all in the PowerPoint you were supposed to watch last night,” Hoffman said, looking as if the top of his head was going to explode. “Besides, your father told me you were experienced on the flight line—I hope he wasn’t blowing smoke up my butt. Now, you’ve got ten minutes to get into your uniform, make me a pot of coffee, and get ready for your linesman’s test. The ground vehicles need to be serviced by seven.”

“Make coffee? But where do I find the . . . ?”

“Son, I showed you where the break room was last night, and all break rooms throughout the entire planet are the same: they have coffeemakers, sinks with running water, refrigerators with coffee, and cabinets with coffee filters, cups, stirrers, sugar, and all the other stuff. I’m sure you can figure it out. If you can’t even figure out how to make me coffee, what makes you think you can fly one of my airplanes? Now get moving!”

WARBIRDS FOREVER INC.

A FEW DAYS LATER

Brad answered his cell phone on the first ring—he had found out that Tom Hoffman and many in his front office liked to use the cell phones as pagers, and answering the phone on more than the second ring was a big no- no. “Yes, Colonel Hoffman?”

“Brad, it’s your dad,” Patrick McLanahan said. “I just wanted to check in and see how things are going. Did you have a good day today?”

“I don’t know, because it’s not over yet.”

“Not over? It’s after nine P.M.!”

“I know,” Brad moaned. “But I have a written test on the Piper Aztec first thing tomorrow morning, and then I’ll have a flight review, like a Civil Air Patrol Form 5.”

“Getting checked out in an Aztec?” Patrick asked. The Piper Aztec was a light twin-engine low-wing airplane, very easy to fly and economical to operate. “It sounds like great progress. What did you do this week?”

“What haven’t I done?” Brad exclaimed. “Not only am I doing the flying stuff, but I’m constantly being called away for something else. There are tests for everything around here: linesman, security, aircraft ground handling, safety this and safety that. But I’m interrupted every ten minutes by Mr. Hoffman texting, calling, paging, or bellowing for me to do something.”

“Sounds a lot like Civil Air Patrol. Did you pass all the tests?”

Brad took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Yes,” he said finally. “The linesman and ground handling were actually easy—the guys back at Battle Mountain had already taught me most of the stuff.”

“Good work.”

“But once I passed the test, I have a bazillion tasks to do, all before the mechanics show up at seven o’clock.”

“Seven A.M.? What time do you start every day?”

“Five A.M., if I’m lucky,” Brad said. “And I just got back to the room a few minutes ago. But I’ve got to study for the Form 5.”