Angels on My Wings

By Roger Vizi

Transcons flight three seven departed from Los Angeles bound for JFK airport in New York. Sometime after they reached their cruising altitude, the first officer noticed the pressure dropping in the cargo hold below. Neither the captain nor the first officer was aware that a partially filled propane tank had been loaded into the cargo hold and was about to explode.
Mayday, mayday Transcon flight three seven. Rapid decompression, explosion onboard. Descending to one-zero thousand. Clear all traffic below! These words echoed into the headset of the flight controllers at Lincoln Center and a desperate feeling came over them as they watched flight three seven descend on their radar screen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 29, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469750972

Roger Vizi

After completing Profile of a Murder, Mr. Vizi is now working on the manuscript for Angels on my Wings.

Book preview

Angels on my Wings

All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Roger Vizi

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writers Club Press

an imprint of iUniverse

For information address:

iUniverse

5220 S. 16th St., Suite 200

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

This is a work of fiction. All events, Institutions, instiutions, themes, persons, characters and plot are completely fictional. Any resemblance to places or persons living or deceased are of the invention of the author.

ISBN: 0-595-20604-2

ISBN: 978-1-4697-5097-2 (ebook)

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

This book is dedicated to my sister-in-law Michelle, and

nieces Amanda and Ashley. It was just a matter of time

before I could find a good place for you in one of my books.

And to my wonderful wife of 27 years, Nadine who spends

many hours editing and proof reading my books. I can

never thank her enough.

I would like to thank Don Boyd for the use of the photograph that was

used on the cover of this book. Don is a very talented photographer

and I invite you to visit his web site at www.airliner-photos.com

CHAPTER 1

The loud ringing sound of the telephone shook Bob Danials awake. The room was dimly lit from the amber hue of the streetlight that shone through the open bedroom window. Bob reached over with his left hand and fumbled around to free the cordless phone from its cradle on the nightstand, raised the communicator to his ear, and began to speak.

Hello. He said sleepily into the receiver.

Bob, this is Jim Wilkins at operations. Dave Johnson called in sick and I need you to take Three-Seven to New York this afternoon

Bob sat up in bed and picked up the clock. It was 6:15 a.m. He set the clock back on the nightstand and blinked his eyes to clear the sleep from them.

Yeah, sure he said, still groggy from his sleep. Who’s my second on the flight?

Let me take a look Bob.

The sound of rustling paper gave Bob time to get his senses back.

Randy Blane will be your co-pilot. This will be his last flight in the right seat before moving over.

Right, Jim, Bob said, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. I’ll be there.

He pressed the end button and set the phone back on the table, swung his feet over the edge of the bed and sat up surveying the darkness of the room for his robe and slippers. He wasn’t used to being awake at this hour because he’d normally be taking the Red Eye flights. As a single man, this fit his schedule perfectly and as the senior pilot for Transcon, he was allowed to pick the flights he wanted. He liked working nights because most of the passengers would sleep during the flight, and he could also get some peace as well.

Transcon flight Three-Seven was scheduled to depart from Los Angeles at 1:15 p.m. and arrive at John F. Kennedy airport at 8:19 p.m. That meant he needed to report to the operations office no later than 11:15 a.m. It was the responsibility of the captain to check the weather reports, make sure the fuel reports are filed, check the cargo to be loaded on the flight, and calculate weight and balance information. He made it a point to check the condition of his aircraft before every flight. It’s not normally his responsibility to perform the pre-flight, but he liked to make sure nothing was overlooked.

He stood up and reached for his blue robe that was lying on the hamper next to the bed put his right arm in first, then swung the terry cloth garment around to the other side and slid his left arm in. After tying the belt around his waist in a square knot, he slipped his fur lined dark blue house shoes on his feet. Walking into the kitchen he began to make the coffee. He needed his java every morning, he knew he drank too much coffee for his age, but the flight surgeon had cleared him every year so he concluded in his own mind it wasn’t a problem.

He looked around the apartment while he was filling the clear container with water. Bob liked his life organized always put everything back in the same place he had found it. The kitchen cupboards were all organized this same way, with coffee cups to the right, glasses arranged by size. His cooking pans had the proper size lid placed on them, and were stacked by size. He arranged his closet in the same manner, pants were hung on the right side, followed by shirts, then his jackets. Ties were all hung perfectly on the rack. This organization had suited him well in life and on the job, as well. Repetition was the key to staying out of trouble in the skies, he always taught the members of his crew. If you always do things the same way every time, the chance of making a mistake, which isn’t acceptable, will be minimal.

He opened the cupboard door and took the first cup from the shelf, and looked longingly at the cup with the logo of Transcon emblazoned on it, remembering the many years he’d been flying for them. He closed the door and set it next to the coffeepot that was gurgling to life, spewing out the dark, hot elixir of life he needed to get him going in the morning.

He opened the door to his apartment and reached down to retrieve the newspaper that laid on the stoop and looked down the darkened enclosed hallway to the left and then the right and saw no activity. He surmised that all of his neighbors were still sleeping, as he should be on a Saturday. Turning around, he closed and locked the door behind him. He loved living in an apartment. He was in the skies more than half of the month and he didn’t have to worry about mowing the lawn, or watering any plants. All he had to do was close and lock the door, and take off into the friendly skies.

He pulled his chair out from under the small round oak table in the kitchen and sat down. The coffee wasn’t finished yet so he sifted through the paper and opened it to the weather section. It looked like the weather was going to be clear across the country, so it should be a smooth flight. When he was finished, he folded the paper and placed it on the table, then stood up and walked over to the counter where the coffee had just finished brewing. He lifted the large clear pot from the burner and began pouring the dark lifesaver into his cup, inhaling deeply to savor the smell of the fresh brewed coffee as it sloshed into his cup. He drank his coffee black, and made a comment to numerous people over the years that he couldn’t understand anyone putting sugar or cream in their coffee to hide the taste. What’s the sense of drinking it if you can’t taste it? he thought.

He didn’t smoke or drink, like some of the other airline pilots, so if drinking coffee was his only vise, he was in good shape. After downing several cups of the dark java, it was time to take a shower and get ready for work.

Standing nude in front of the mirror in his bathroom he took a good look at himself. At 6 foot 2 and 210 pounds, he was in great shape for his 55 years. He always thought it was because of his lifestyle. Never having been married, and cooking for himself, he ate what he wanted. He didn’t go out on the town when he traveled, instead choosing to stay in his room and read or watch television. He liked watching the local news in the towns he stayed in, you could learned more about the country this way, rather than watching the national news.

He finished getting dressed, then took one more long, approving look in the mirror at his appearance, reached up and straightened his tie, checked to make sure his collar was buttoned, and that his hat fit square on his head. He prided himself on looking professional every time he put on the uniform of Transcon Airways. After all, he’d been with the company for more than 25 years, and they’d been good to him over the years. He respected the management of the company, except for the new operations manager, and never considered working for any other airline. The alarm on his watch began to beep, signaling him it was 10:18 a.m. and it was time to leave for the airport, as traffic would be heavy this time of the day. Picking up his briefcase, and putting it on the cart with his overnight bag he strapped both items down, and rolled them over to the door making one last check of the apartment to make sure there were no appliances left turned on, and all of the lights were turned off. He opened the door, reached around to make sure it was locked, and pulled it shut behind him with a thud. Grabbing the handle of his cart, he headed down the quiet hallway to the elevator that would take him to the garage. There he would load the cart into the trunk and begin his long drive to the airport and a seemingly uneventful flight to JFK.

CHAPTER 2

Billy Hickman was ecstatic having the chance to travel to New York for the National Bar-B-Q cook-off. It had been a dream for him as long as he could remember. He learned his secret recipe from his father, who learned it from his father. He’d been to several cooking championships over the years, but never the nationals. He was booked on Transcon’s flight Three-Seven. Taking his ticket out of the cabinet where he had it stored since he had purchased it two months prior, he checked the departure time once again to make sure he wouldn’t miss this flight. Scanning the ticket, he noted he’d be sitting in seat 15F a window seat. He was delighted at the thought of having a great view of the terrain far below as he put the ticket meticulously back into the folder it had arrived in.

Wilma, are you finished packing my things yet? he hollered.

Not quite. I still have a have to put your shirts and drawers in, she shouted back.

I’m going out and get my grill packed up for the trip. I still have ta clean ‘er up a little more, he yelled though the doorway.

He walked out the back door and down the stairs, his big shoes making a clomping sound as he went down each step. He walked to the back of the shed where he had the grill stored. He’d been using this same grill for more than 10 years, and he didn’t want to be forced to cook his famous Bar-B-Q on a strange cooking devise. He knew the exact set-6-tings for the flame, and just how it would react to his every touch. They might have some new fangled cook stoves in New York and I wouldn’t have any idea how to use it, he thought to himself. No sense taken any chance with this cook-off. I’m a taken this one with me!

He reached over and took a wrench out of his toolbox, and started to disassemble his beloved grill with tender loving care. It had always been impeccably maintained, and he wasn’t going to make this trip without his contraption.

He made sure the valve was closed on the propane tank and removed it. Knowing this was going to be the hardest part of getting his barbeque on the plane as they check every package that is scheduled to be put in the cargo hold, and they would never allow a propane tank to be loaded. I don’t understand the problem, he thought. The valve’s closed, and I’m going to make sure it’s packed real good so it can’t move around. But those people have their own ideas of what you can put on their airplane. I paid for my ticket, so why shouldn’t I be allowed to bring what ever I want!

He finished packing the propane tank in the box lined with foam to cushion it from all sides. He was very pleased with the way he packaged his baby, and was confident it would pass any inspection.

He finished disassembling the remaining pieces of the barbeque and placed each piece gingerly in the box, making sure it was protected from the other items in the box. He had obtained information on the size of box that was allowed in the cargo hold, and he made sure he had the proper size container. When he was finished, he taped each box and wrapped it with twine to make sure it wouldn’t come open. He placed labels on all of the containers and carried them to the truck. He placed them carefully in the back of his truck, and proceeded into the house with a bounce to his step.

Wilma! he bellowed, we got to get a move on here woman. I don’t want to be late for my flight.

Wilma sauntered out of the bedroom toting Billy’s suitcase. It was very heavy, but she was sure he’d need everything that she’d packed. After all, he was going to New York City, so she wanted to make sure her husband had everything he would need for his trip.

He wrestled the baggage from her hands and flung it over his shoulder, then proceded loading it into the truck. Wilma watched from the doorway as he tossed the bag she had so neatly packed into the back of his chariot.

He plodded back into the house, and retrieved his precious airline ticket from the cabinet where it was stored. He took one last longing look at it to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. He looked over at Wilma, who was staring out the kitchen window. She turned around to look at Billy and said "I still don’t like the idea of you traveling to such a big, strange