Tiger's Claw: A Novel

“You’re taking a flight review in an Aztec? What’s that for?”

“The multiengine rating.”

“Multiengine? You’re doing multiengine stuff already? What about single-engine?”

“I already passed the check ride for the single-engine commercial certificate.”

“You did? Congratulations!” Patrick exclaimed. A commercial pilot’s certificate would allow Brad to fly for compensation, a big first step in any aviation career. “Wow, that was quick! You’ve been there for less than a week and you got your commercial license! Outstanding! Why didn’t you call or text me?” Brad didn’t say anything. “Man, you must be beat.”

“I’m exhausted, Dad—‘beat’ doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Brad said. “Along with all the studying and flying, I’m running all over this place doing errands. I have to check the calendar online every hour for schedule changes, because if I’m late for anything, Mr. Hoffman screams in my face.”

“You were late for something?”

Brad rubbed his eyes in exasperation. “I didn’t check the online calendar the first night, and I didn’t know I started at five A.M.,” he said.

“But you knew about the online calendar, right?”

Brad sighed again. “Yes, Mr. Hoffman gave me all the log-in stuff,” he admitted. “But I was so tired after I got here, I just went to bed. He told me to look it all over before we met up in the morning, and I thought he meant we were going to meet up when the employees got coffee and donuts at seven A.M. I was going to get up early to go online—I didn’t know I’d be starting at frickin’ oh-dark early and have two hours of stuff to do before work began!”

“I’ll bet that won’t happen again,” Patrick said.

“Everybody is my boss, even the nonlicensed mechanics,” Brad blurted out. “I miss out on the donuts every morning because they’re gone before I have a chance to get to the break room, I usually miss lunch, and I’m having one of my energy bars for dinner because I haven’t had a chance to go shopping.”

“I’ll put together a CARE package and either overnight it to you or fly it out myself, if I have the time,” Patrick said. “What else do you need?”

“Everything,” Brad said. “I live on break-room coffee, which I make most of the time because Colonel Hoffman drinks it by the gallon and never wants to run out. My bed is a rusty old contraption that looks like it was recovered from a hundred-year-old shipwreck, and my mattress is aircraft flight control packing material.”

“I’ll bring out an inflatable mattress too—it’ll be better than packing foam,” Patrick said. “Drop me a text or an e-mail and let me know if there’s anything else you need. How’s your room?”

“It’s a storeroom, which I share with a couple dozen aircraft tires, cases of oil piled up to the ceiling, sheet metal, janitor stuff, and tools,” Brad replied.

“But it’s okay?”

Brad looked around his room, with its one bulb and looming boxes surrounding him, and shrugged. “It’s okay,” he said grudgingly. “It’s better than the tents out in the field during Second Beast.”

“And you’re doing all right?”

Brad hesitated again. “I guess,” he said finally. “I am just so friggin’ tired. Mr. Hoffman has tests for everything—two, three a day on everything imaginable. I’m up and down answering pages and driving back and forth between all the hangars he’s got out here.”

“But you’ve already got your commercial pilot’s license, and you’re going for a multiengine rating! That’s great! I can’t believe how fast you’re going. You must be doing well.”

Brad paused again, this time much longer; then, in a low voice: “Dad, I’m not sure if I can do this.”

“What?”

“Dad, I know I can do intense flight training, and I can work, but . . . but I’m not sure if I can do both,” he said. “I mean . . . I’m really tired, like crazy tired. I don’t have time to eat, and I get maybe four or five hours of sleep a night.”

“Mr. Hoffman says that’ll all change after you’re checked out in his planes and familiar with the routine,” Patrick said. “It won’t always be twenty-hour days. Besides, you’d have to pull a few all-nighters if you were in college, believe me.”

“I feel like I’m being hazed, as if I was back in the Beast,” Brad said. Patrick narrowed his eyes—he’d never heard Brad use this whiny tone like this, and he was angry and concerned at the same time. “I don’t feel like I’m getting anywhere. Yes, I got the commercial pilot certificate, but I don’t see that as much of an accomplishment— there are a lot of people knocking out their commercial license in two or three days around here. I study and take tests all the time, but except for the Cessna 182 I’m not doing any real flying.”

“Brad, you’ve only been at it less than a week—Mr. Hoffman told me his basic program is a minimum of five months,” Patrick said. “You’ve got to give it a chance.”

“I’ve read those flight training magazines. They say I can get my licenses and ratings in the same amount of time, and I can live in an apartment and don’t have to do chores and errands—nothing else but fly and study.”

“I know there are plenty of flight schools out there,” Patrick said. “I don’t know if we could have afforded them, but we could’ve given it a shot. But remember, the reason we chose Warbirds Forever was because you’d have the opportunity to get checked out in some of the huge array of planes Colonel Hoffman has out there.”

“I thought it was because Colonel Hoffman is doing work for you.”

“He is, but he offered the opportunity and built a program just for you,” Patrick said. “Besides, I know he’s a great instructor and aviator.”

“I haven’t flown with him yet. I fly with a different instructor almost every time.” He paused for a few moments, then he said, “Dad, isn’t there something else we can do?”

“You don’t like it there? Sounds to me like you’re doing pretty well.”

“I’m really dragging, Dad,” Brad said. “I shouldn’t have to be everyone’s slave just so I can get a few ratings.”

Patrick didn’t like hearing his son talk like this—it sounded as if he was giving up. After dropping out of the Academy, Patrick was afraid that his son was developing an unhealthy quitter’s mind-set. “Here’s the situation, Brad,” he said in a deep monotone, trying not to sound angry. “You have what’s left of a college fund. I wish it had been bigger, and we’ve already expended a lot of it with Warbirds Forever, but there it is.

“You’re an adult and can make your own decisions about what you want to do and how you want to do it,” Patrick went on. “Choice one: you can use what’s left of the money on any school you want. I don’t like the idea of borrowing money for college, but if we have to, we will. Two: you can take the money, minus taxes and penalties, and use it for whatever else you want, like flying or travel. I hope you don’t do that, but it’s up to you. Or three: you can give Warbirds Forever another shot. We’ve already paid the money—you might as well stick it out, get as many certificates and ratings as you can, then make a decision when it’s time for the next tuition payment in three months.”

“Three months!” Bradley groaned. “Oh, man . . .”

“Brad, you made a commitment, and Tom Hoffman has built a great program for you based on that commitment,” Patrick said sternly.

“You can ask him to refund the money for the flying I haven’t done yet.”

“I could, but I won’t,” Patrick snapped. “He made a commitment to you, me, and the folks he hired to train you. Do you think your instructors just appeared out of thin air? Tom had to recruit and hire them. Some of them have families that rely on that income. Do you think it’s right for them to get laid off just because you’re weary? A lot of those guys have second and third jobs, and some had to relocate to get the job. If you quit, they lose their jobs.” Brad said nothing.

“So what’s it going to be, Brad: stay or quit? I think you should stay, but it’s up to you.” Still nothing from Bradley. “Give me a call when you make up your mind. I’ll fly out this weekend either to drop off your CARE package and air mattress, or pick you up and bring you home. Talk to you later, son.” And Patrick hung up.

Patrick decided to let Brad think about it over the weekend, but he hadn’t heard anything, so a little before eight A.M. Monday morning, Patrick landed his turbine pressurized Centurion at Reno-Stead Airport and taxied over to the main Warbirds Forever hangar. He was pleasantly surprised to be greeted by Bradley, who trotted out onto the tarmac wearing ear protectors and an orange reflective safety vest and carrying marshaler’s batons. “Hey, Brad,” Patrick said after he was led to his parking spot and shut down the engine.