“Excellent, General,” Hoffman said. “I’ll call my next group of pilots and techs and get them started. They’ve already been doing academics, so I can have them headed out your way in a few weeks for flight, simulator, and hands-on maintenance training.”
“Bring them out as soon as you can, Tom.”
“Yes, sir!”
While Patrick was speaking to Hoffman, Linus Oglethorpe arrived in Patrick’s office. Oglethorpe was always amazed and amused to watch Patrick talking in midair with no phone or Bluetooth headset in sight. When he was done speaking with Hoffman, Patrick turned to him. “The president wants more Excaliburs and maybe even SuperVarks,” he said. Linus punched the air in triumph. “However, he doesn’t have the money, so I’m going to ask Helen to kick in. Where are we with the next batch of airframes?”
“We’ve received two from AMARG this past week, Patrick,” Linus said. “Both are in the stage-two inspection hangar ready to start detailed structural inspections. One airframe down at Davis-Monthan did not pass the stage- one inspection, and another is questionable, so you may assume we’re down to twenty. The rest have all completed stage-one inspections and are awaiting their train ride up here. We’ve identified forty-three F-111G and FB-111 airframes that are ready for stage-one inspections.”
“Great. I’m going to meet with Helen, hopefully soon, to see if we can get some advanced funds to start, and I’ll let you know when we can start shipping them up here.” Dr. Helen Kaddiri was the longtime president and chairman of the board for Sky Masters Inc. With multiple doctorates in both business and engineering, the exotic, almond-eyed woman from Calcutta, India, started out in the company as one of founder Jonathan Masters’s assistants. Helen’s resentment at having to work for the boyish, immature, free-spirited Jon Masters propelled her to quickly move her way up the corporate ladder just to get away from him, and she eventually became company president. “I don’t want to wait around for Washington to send contracts and money.”
“We shall be like sprinters in the starting blocks at the Olympics, waiting for you to fire the starter’s pistol, old chap,” Linus said excitedly. “We shall be ready!”
SEVEN
WARBIRDS FOREVER AVIATION, RENO-STEAD AIRPORT, RENO, NEVADA
THE NEXT DAY
Tom Hoffman found Brad McLanahan in the break room, sipping a bottle of water, surrounded by logbooks and paperwork. “Hey, Brad,” Hoffman greeted him. “Just get back from another early-morning lesson?”
“Yes, sir,” Brad said. He was wearing a white aviator’s shirt with epaulets and a captain’s four gold stripes on the epaulet tabs, silver civil aviation wings with a silver senior pilot’s star, a blue name tag, and a black tie—he looked every bit the professional aviator he had become. “Tom Cook. He wants to get his license on his seventeenth birthday, so he’s been taking dawn patrol lessons before school. You gotta admire that kind of drive.”
“I appreciate you doing that for him, Brad,” Hoffman said. “His grandfather is a good friend. Tom Cook lost his dad in Iraq.”
“I know. The kid’s pretty tough.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Unfortunately, typical pattern,” Brad replied. “He does real well when he can fly at least once a week, but if he drops to less than four lessons a month, we have to spend flight and ground time going over old stuff, and that’s a little frustrating for him. I bought him a PC flight simulator that he can play with at home to stay motivated.”
“Good idea.”
“If he comes in again this week, we’ll do a practice cross-country, and if he does okay I’ll sign him off for solo cross-countries, and then if he flies at least once a week, he should have no problem taking his practical before his birthday.”
“Sounds good,” Hoffman said. “With avgas prices going through the roof, I’m surprised anyone can still afford to fly. With all the junk going on with China and what seems like half of Asia, oil and food prices are going berserk.”
“Business really slowed down, didn’t it, sir?”
“Personal and some corporate flying have really tanked, and airplane rentals are almost zero, but higher-end corporate and cargo ops are hanging in there,” Hoffman replied. “The folks who can afford the warbirds and the big jets are still flying. But the ‘hundred-dollar hamburger’ fun flights that turned into the six-hundred-dollar hamburger have all but gone away.”
“The simulators are getting a good workout, though.”
“At least the pilots care enough about staying proficient to come in and get some simulator time when they can’t afford to fly,” Hoffman said. “Hopefully we’ll get a break with fuel prices soon.”
“It sure is looking weird,” Brad said. “I went to Walmart yesterday—the shelves are looking pretty bare all of a sudden.”
“Fewer container ships will risk sailing through the South China Sea with all the shooting going on out there,” Hoffman said. “I’ll bet it’ll start hurting China really bad if their exports dry up any more than they have already. The good news is, a lot of companies are talking about opening manufacturing plants in North America to replace the factories in China. We could actually get a boost in our economy. I’m seeing a lot of corporate execs coming out here looking for land outside Reno to build factories. I see good things ahead for America—we just need to hang in there.”
Hoffman held up an envelope. “I do have some good news for you, Brad. This is a first for me, in all my years of instructing: I’ve never seen an instructor get a tip.” He dropped the envelope on the table in front of Brad. “Only fifty dollars.”
“Fifty bucks is fifty bucks—I’ll take it!” Brad said happily. “The students lay out so much money for lessons, they never think about tipping—they think we’re all rich anyway. Who’s it from?”
“Jeff Keefe, your multiengine student,” Hoffman said. “He passed his check ride, no problems. He was so excited he could fly his own plane home he was dancing on the ramp. He included a card addressed to me with some nice comments about the work you did and the hustle, getting his multi in just one weekend.”
“He came prepared, he did everything I told him to do, and he worked his butt off,” Brad said. “He was a good student—he only tried to kill me once or twice.”
“He says he wants to come back for his instrument rating and maybe his commercial certificate,” Hoffman said. “We like repeat business around here.” He paused for a moment, then said, “You’ve been doing a hell of a job around here, Brad. The hard work is much appreciated. I don’t think there’s an assignment you’ve turned down.”
“I need the hours if I want to get my airline transport pilot rating sometime this decade.”
“You’re well on your way with that,” Hoffman said. “So much so that I’ve uploaded a new curriculum for you, if you’re interested. Take a look.”
Brad changed the page on his laptop computer to the new curriculum folder. His eyes grew wide as he read: “You’re kidding me, Colonel—this is the flight training program for the XB-1 Excaliburs!”
“Exactly,” Hoffman said. “Your dad’s bomber refurbishing program has been expanded and put on a crash schedule. He got more funding for XB-1s and even some money for XF-111s, and they want those planes out on Guam fast.”
“Cool. So I can fly an Excalibur or SuperVark to Guam?” Brad asked incredulously.
“You still need your ATP to be pilot-in-command,” Hoffman explained, “but we got special papal dispensation from the FAA for ferry flights originating at Battle Mountain destined for a military base or outside the CONUS or reverse: if you have more than five hundred hours total time, a commercial certificate, a multiengine and instrument rating, and at least two hundred and fifty hours in multiengine jets, and you complete that course, you can be first officer. You’ll have the total hours soon; we’ll get you more flights in the Lear 35 and Gulfstream to get the rest of your jet time; and you’ve done such a good job around here that you deserve a great big attaboy.”
“That’s awesome!” Brad exclaimed, hopping to his feet. “I can’t believe it!”
“The course is not hard, but it’s long and pretty in-depth,” Hoffman said. “We also have to send you down to Edwards Air Force Base for altitude chamber, life support, flight physiology, spatial disorientation, and ejection seat training, and we may send you to Fallon for the Navy integration training your dad set up, but you’ll enjoy the heck
