Dead Eyes Opened

By Clayton Taylor

The book tells the story of two different men.

One story involves Rick Stanton, an air traffic controller who also works part time as a flight instructor and charter pilot.

When Ricks best friend is killed in an airline training accident, he is outraged when the NTSB rules the crash a result of, pilot error. He sets out to prove the NTSB wrong and encounters opposition at every turn. Not only is he driven to find the truth, but he must also battle the demons from within.

The second story is told first person, is a story about a man who works in the Department of Defense as a, not your typical spy. He frequently finds himself in over his head dodging death and bullets.

These two men share a past. Although they each lead separate lives, they are both searching for the same things: happiness and meaning. Events outside their control will bringthe two together.

In a strange twist of fate, while they each pursue a vendetta, they find they have quite a bit in common. Not the least of which is; they are both looking for the same person.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 29, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595860616

Clayton Taylor

Clayton Taylor’s inspiration for Flying in Circles was born during the many hours he spent piloting wide-body airliners over the Pacific Ocean. He lives in Texas.

Book preview

Copyright © by Clayton Taylor.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-0-5954-1722-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-0-5958-6061-6 (e)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 12/19/2011

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PREFACE

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

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

I dedicate this book to Captain Mickey Kane.

Thank you for being my friend and mentor.

Special Thoughts to:

Valerie Anne Taylor,

I wish we could have met.

This is the absolute truth,

Intermixed with lies.

- Calvin Stanton

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my family:

Kimberley Kay

Lyndsay Morgan

Melissa Anne

It's tough to live with someone while he struggles to put words together.

To the Editors:

Dr. Robert Gowdy

Lisa Mosier

Thanks for your patience while educating me.

Special Thanks:

Ray Razak

Vern St.Amour

Boyd Thornburg

Tom Matthews

Bill Geipel

The Air Traffic Controllers at Stewart Tower

And,

The Employees of Command Airways

PREFACE

This novel is based loosely on people whom I have met and events which have occurred in my life. It is strictly a work of fiction. Although some events may parallel actual events, it is only by coincidence.

The characters, their names, the use of existing company names and authentic aircraft types are only used to lend a sense of realism. My words are not meant to portray any specific person, company or aircraft in a good or bad light.

Throughout the book I use the words him and his as non-gender specific so as not to use his/her, which I feel would make the book difficult to read.

The time frame of the book is the late seventies and early eighties. Jimmy Carter is the President of the United States, interest rates are in the double digits, inflation is high and fifty-two American hostages are being held in Iran. The hostages will remain in captivity for 444 days and will be released when Ronald Reagan assumes the presidency.

Shortly after Reagan assumes office, John Lennon will be assassinated in New York City. In addition, in August of 1981 Ronald Reagan will fire more than 11,000 air traffic controllers for conducting an illegal strike.

PATCO, the controllers union, will grow frustrated over the FAA turning a deaf ear to many problems faced by the controllers on a daily basis. PATCO will be the only union to support Reagan based on promises he will make during the election. The controllers will pay a very heavy price for their lack of political savvy for many years to come. This act will also usher in a period of anti-unionism which will last for many years.

Rick Stanton is an air traffic controller working at the New York Approach control, referred to as the common I, or common IFR room. To Rick, Ronald Reagan is a former actor and the Governor of California. He will one day get to hear Mr. Reagan's name a lot, but will be spared the politically-motivated bloodshed which many of his friends will experience.

This book takes place well prior to the PATCO strike. It is a time of relative calm within the ranks before the winds of change begin to blow. Pan Am and TWA are the major international airlines and American Airlines is a medium size domestic carrier. Southwest Airlines is so small, it is barely a blip on a controller's radar screen.

The reader should be aware that there are two main stories which run parallel throughout the book. The two stories highlight the lives of two separate people and will be brought together as the book moves forward.

One story is told in the first person and the other is told third person.

CHAPTER 1

JUNE 1979

SKIMMING TEN FEET ABOVE the waves of the Gulf of Mexico at 2:00 a.m. was not exactly my idea of fun. Our Piper Arrow was cruising along at one hundred and thirty knots and I was trying desperately not to do something stupid that would end our lives in the blink of an eye. My partner Rich Layden was fast asleep, no doubt dreaming about the two million dollars worth of cocaine we had in the luggage compartment. My cut as an apprentice was to be twenty-five thousand U.S. dollars, which I knew would end up going to the government anyway. Rich stood to make much more, how much I wasn't sure, but it was easily ten times my take.

With all the aircraft lights off it was pitch black, both inside and out. Not only did that help us to remain hidden from the Feds, but it also made it easy for me to see the white crests of the otherwise ink black water. A few times I did manage to sneak the aircraft up to thirty or forty feet, mainly out of fear, but whenever I did Rich seemed to sense it and arouse from his dreams long enough to tell me to watch my altitude. There wasn't much time for me to think about my life while trying so hard to stay alive, but a few times I found my mind drifting off.

I was a new guy in the drug-running business. In fact, it was my first flight to Belize and back.

Known only to a very few, I was what you call a plant. My official job was working for the Department of Defense, mainly doing electronics work, but I had been assigned to work with U.S. Customs. Working under cover, I was employed by TCB Air. The TCB stood for Taking Care of Business.

TCB was a small fixed-base operator at the Scranton Municipal Airport in Pennsylvania. Their business consisted of installing long-range fuel tanks into general aviation airplanes, just like the Piper Arrow I had been desperately trying to keep out of the water. Officially they installed fuel tanks in airplanes so they could be ferried anywhere in the world. The real income however, came from first making a trip to Central or South America to check out the new equipment and bring back some dope to be sold on the streets of New York. With the devices that recorded the aircraft hours, removed or disabled, the new owners never knew the difference.

As far as Rich knew I was just another pilot in need of work. I had told him when asked during my interview that I preferred to stay on the right side of the law, but mainly, money was my master. I was a perfect candidate for the position of test pilot.

My job, at first anyway, was to fly the newly-modified airplanes around for an hour or so to test the new tanks out. In other words, I risked my life so someone else wouldn't have to. After a couple weeks on the job Rich offered me the chance to make some bonus money, but only if I could keep my mouth shut.

Hours into our low level run, through the clouds in my eyes, I thought I saw something move out ahead of the aircraft. It looked more like a shadow of something. Most of my time was spent looking just a few feet ahead of the airplane making sure I didn't hit the water, but occasionally I did manage a glimpse ahead of perhaps a hundred yards or so. At first I wasn't sure if I was seeing things, but then I was positive, I had seen something out there.

I had been awake for nearly forty hours and I was thinking it was just my mind playing tricks on me. I've read that Lindbergh experienced hallucinations on his long trip across the ocean and I thought maybe that's what was happening to me.

As these thoughts were passing through my brain, Rich suddenly awoke from his slumber and grabbed the control yoke. As he hauled back I felt myself being pushed deep into the back of my seat. I glimpsed out the side window just as we passed a mere twenty feet above the deck of a cargo ship. Rich looked out his side window and saw one of the crewmen on duty in the wheel house. Rich nosed the airplane over and once again leveled the Piper off ten feet from the forbidding water.

I don't think he saw us, Rich said.

Of course I was just happy to be alive, regardless if we'd been seen or not.

Why don't you get some shut-eye and let me fly for a while, he added, which was music to my ears.

As I sat there, I began to wonder if all this was really worth the trouble. Through my tired and weary brain I contemplated what had brought me to this strange and dangerous place.

✶ ✶ ✶

Clipper two fifteen heavy turn right heading three six zero, descend and maintain eight thousand. Eastern one sixty seven, slow to two twenty then descend to five thousand. United sixteen twenty four, fly heading one eight zero; traffic is a Pan Am 747, he'll be twelve o'clock seven miles, advise if you see him. Northwest five eleven, depart Sparta heading one two zero maintain niner thousand; speed two ten.

Rick hated it when it got so busy. That was the thing about being an air traffic controller; you were either bored to death or scared to death. Rick was talking to fifteen different aircraft on his frequency and he was having trouble keeping the picture. Just fifteen minutes had passed from when he had only three aircraft on his frequency and was able to think about other things, things that had nothing to do with ATC.

Hey, Rick, keep an eye on that United, looks like he's catching the Clipper, advised George, the radar room supervisor.

Get bent, George, snapped Rick.

More than being this busy, he hated people telling him what to do, especially a loser like George, who hadn't talked to an airplane in years.

George had a few ulcers and supposedly couldn't sleep at night. He wanted everyone to feel sorry for him, but no one did. Rick thought part of his problem was that he smoked three packs a day and drank a pot of coffee every morning before 10:00 a.m. What Rick didn't know, and George wouldn't talk about, was that he couldn't sleep at night because of the nightmares.

One night while working radar, an airplane he was working encountered an instrumentation failure and flew into the ground. During the last thirty seconds of flight, the pilot keyed his microphone and screamed into George's ear all the way to his death. When he returned to work after a month off, he was not the same man. The facility chief promoted George to supervisor, telling him he would not have to work traffic again. He knew George wasn't the best choice, but it would only be for a few years and then George would be retired.

Rick, like many of the other senior controllers in the room, felt George was a lousy supervisor. He never worked traffic, whereas most other supervisors would, and he always rode roughshod over his herd of controllers. He didn't know the truth about George, but as Rick saw it, working traffic had caused everything under George's hair to go bad, what little hair hadn't already fallen out.

Afternoon New York, Piedmont eighteen is with you at one zero thousand doing two fifty knots; we have information bravo.

Piedmont eighteen, New York, descend to niner thousand and slow to two ten, said Rick.

Ten for nine, slow to two twenty, Piedmont eighteen.

Speed is two ten, Piedmont, said Rick.

Roger, two ten, Piedmont eighteen.

Clipper two fifteen heavy, descend to five thousand, said Rick.

Clipper two fifteen, eight for five.

TWA one forty five, slow to two ten; you're going to be following a Northwest 727 just coming by Sparta.

TWA one forty five.

United sixteen twenty four, you got that Clipper in sight yet? asked Rick.

Tallyho, United sixteen twenty four.

Rick was talking about as fast as he could when he heard the voice of another controller in his headset.

Hey, Ricky, I've got a deal for ya, said Lew.

Lew was working departure control at the other end of the room and as any controller knows, a deal is something you don't want. It usually means a bad situation that's being given to someone else to work out. Controllers often use the term to describe two aircraft that are too close together or an aircraft that is requiring too much of their attention. The deal is for the other controller to put the aircraft on your frequency and let you work it out.

Eastern two zero five, coming to you. He's a DC9 with a left engine fire that he says won't go out. He wants vectors for an approach with the emergency equipment standing by.

Gimmee a break, Lew, said Rick. Take him out east and give him to east arrival.

No dice, man. Dannyboy is swamped. And besides, you have a more soothing voice, said Lew.

Knowing it wasn’t a compliment, Rick responded, Danny didn't answer the line did he?

Nope, so here he comes, said Lew.

Approach, Eastern two zero five is with you and having trouble main taining three thousand.

Eastern two zero five, approach, say your heading.

All of a sudden the worst thing that could ever happen happened. The little sweep that went around his radar scope stopped: The radar was down! Suddenly Rick had to quickly remember where every aircraft was, in addition to their speed and altitude. No problem for five or six airplanes but he was working seventeen!

Attention all aircraft, our radar is down. Stand by for further instructions. Don't call me I'll call you, ordered Rick, in the steadiest voice he could muster. "Eastern two zero five proceed direct to the compass locator, you're cleared for the ILS four right approach, maintain two thousand or above until established inbound. Call the tower at the marker, equipment will be standing by. Clipper two fifteen heavy, maintain five thousand and proceed direct to the four right compass locator and hold as published …

✶ ✶ ✶

When Rick arrived home that night, everyone was fast asleep. He usually enjoyed this time when he could sit in his living room in complete darkness with no disruptions and drink a few beers. After the night he just had, he figured it would take five or six beers to unwind.

Man what a night, Rick thought, I hate that damn job.

He sat for the next hour on the couch contemplating his place in the universe. He knew he needed a change, but wasn't sure which direction to take. These thoughts were not unfamiliar to Rick; they were present whenever he had a bad day at work. And for longer than he could remember, almost every day was a bad day. He opened another beer and decided to think about something else.

Rick took some solace in the knowledge that he had a few days off. He planned on spending most of his time at the airport in White Plains, New York where he worked as a part-time flight instructor and charter pilot. He was scheduled to fly with two students the next morning in one of the flight school's Cessnas. Then later in the day he was planning on flying his usual weekend trip in the Piper Navajo on a charter to Atlantic City.

The Navajo is a small twin-engine airplane that holds eight passengers and two pilots. The cabin is unpressurized, which means it generally operates below ten thousand feet and in the weather. It has a fuel range of about four hours and has enough instrumentation to handle much of the weather it flies through. It was also the biggest airplane the company owned.

All pilots, regardless of who they fly for or what they fly, strive to fly the biggest airplane on the property. Rick was no different. He knew it was pilot ego. If the company bought a larger airplane, he would want to fly that one too. But until then, Rick was content flying the Navajo. He made good money flying it and had numerous opportunities to fly to some great places.

Rick truly enjoyed flight instructing and flying charters, but his real dream had been to fly for a major airline. Unfortunately, the major airlines didn't hire pilots who wore glasses, and Rick had worn glasses most of his life. He always hoped that someday the airlines would change their policy and his ATC job would become just a bad memory, but until that happened, his ATC job would have to do. Rick made the best of it, knowing his government gig really wasn't all that bad.

When Rick arrived at the airport the next morning his best friend and fellow instructor, Billy Caine, was waiting for him. The tall thin man with a freckled face, who looked much younger than he really was, had a smile from ear to ear. In Billy's hand was a letter of employment from one of the local commuter airlines serving New York. Rick was overjoyed and a bit envious of his friend because he knew this was the first step to the major airlines.

In a few years Billy would be making big bucks flying for a major airline. That part was fine by Rick, but he feared their friendship would slowly wither away; just like a couple of Rick's former friends and flying buddies who he hadn't heard from in quite a while.

Rick hated the fact his eyes were so bad. It was something that bothered him ever since he learned to fly and decided he would make aviation his career. It wasn't until after he'd made his career choice that he found out how the airlines felt about hiring four-eyed pilots.

That's great man, I'm really happy for you, said Rick. When do you leave?

Next week, said Billy.

I guess in a few years you won't even remember my name, said Rick, remembering his previous buddies.

I'm only going to be flying a Beech 99, said Billy. That's hardly big ego stuff.

Time will tell, said Rick. I hope you don't forget your old buddy back at the flight school.

Come on, man. I'd like to think our friendship transcends this job, said Billy, having heard the story before about Rick's airline buddies.

I hope you're right, man, said Rick. I'm really glad for you, he added, hoping the frown he felt on the inside wasn't showing up on the outside. I've got to go, said Billy, I've got a student waiting. We can talk about it on the trip to Atlantic City later with Mr. H.

OK, Billy, said Rick.

As he watched Billy walk out to the flight line, familiar thoughts flowed through his brain. He knew Billy would soon be gone from his life and yet another friend would be history.

Rick flew with his students later that morning. The first one was close to flying solo and Rick was able to let his guard down just a little. The second student was a different story.

While practicing flying the aircraft as slow as it could go and still remain in the air, his student fell behind. Rick reminded him to keep the aircraft coordinated.

Use your rudder to keep us going straight, he said.

Suddenly one of the wings stopped flying while the other one did not: referred to as a stall. As the left wing dropped, the student, remembering what Rick had told him a moment earlier, pushed the rudder pedal all the way to the floor. The result of his action placed the tiny aircraft into a spin.

The nose of the aircraft was pointed almost straight down as it spun around and around like a corkscrew. Looking outside the windshield the pilots could see the ground spinning around, while inside the aircraft they were being tossed left and right with each rotation. The spinning turns got tighter as the aircraft plummeted toward the earth.

Rick, having seen this a hundred times, took the controls from his student and quickly recovered from the spin.

After a few minutes of straight and level flight to give them each a chance to calm down, Rick had his student fly back to the airport to practice some landings.

On one landing, the airplane bounced back into the air and came down on the nose wheel. It then started bouncing up and down like a bucking bronco. Rick was forced to intervene before things got too far out of control. After the incident, Rick had the student taxi back to the hangar. There was still time left in the lesson, but with the way he was feeling about Billy, one loss of control and one near crash, he told himself he’d had enough for the day.

He usually considered any day a good day if none of his students tried to kill him. It was never an intentional thing, his students attempting to kill him; it was usually a mistake they would make that Rick would have to catch before it was too late. It didn't really bother him that much; he knew it came with the job.

After a few minutes of down time that afternoon, Rick called the flight service station to obtain a weather briefing and to file a flight plan. Rick told the briefer he would be picking up two passengers in Bridgeport, Connecticut, fly them to Atlantic City, then return later that evening. The briefer informed Rick that the weather for the flight down would be fine, but an area of thunderstorms was developing to the west and would most likely affect their flight home.

Late summer thunderstorms are not very unusual, but they are something all pilots, regardless of the airplane they fly, are concerned about.

Rick made notes of what the briefer said, and then after the briefing he filed a flight plan.

The sun was in the western sky as Rick and Billy piloted the aging Navajo from White Plains to Bridgeport to pick up Mr. H. and his secretary. While enroute, there was very little conversation between them, mainly because it was such a short flight.

Mr. H., or, Handjob Haynes, was a regular charter customer to Atlantic City. His real name was John Haynes, but the pilots of Panorama Flight Center, where Rick was employed, nicknamed him Handjob because of all the in-flight activities that took place in the back of the airplane with his secretary.

Mr. Haynes was wealthy, single and weighed about three hundred and fifty pounds. His longtime secretary was married and thin.

Even though she loved her husband, she always looked forward to an evening away from home. She told her husband they had business dealings in Atlantic City requiring frequent Saturday night trips. She’d told the lie so often that she actually believed it to be the truth.

Mr. Haynes paid his secretary quite well, and on the trips to Atlantic City he wined and dined her, mainly so he could have a good-looking woman on his arm. His only request was for a little testosterone relief on the flight home. All things considered, his secretary didn't see anything wrong with it. The arrangement suited them both just fine, but to Rick and the other pilots it seemed weird.

On the flight into Atlantic City the two pilots spent most of their time talking about Billy's new job and his plans for the future. Billy was well aware of how Rick would feel about his leaving the flight school, so he tried to tone down his excitement as much as he could.

As they approached Atlantic City the two pilots began to discuss their plans for making the approach and landing into Bader Field.

Bader is a small airport with a very short runway that is surrounded on three sides by water. Most pilots hate flying into this tiny patch of land, but most passengers prefer to land there because of its close proximity to the downtown area. Rick often wondered how many people would want to land there if they knew of all the hazards that existed.

The approach required the pilots to fly between two hotels at an altitude that was below the top floor, then dive at the last minute toward the runway. At the other end of the runway there was a small patch of water that ended in rapidly raising terrain. In addition to those challenges, there were numerous tall antennas in the area and a large number of small airplanes to watch out for.

As Rick set the aircraft up on final approach to Bader Field, he called for Billy to set the flaps to the approach setting. When the aircraft was about three miles from the runway, Rick asked Billy to lower the landing gear. As the gear came down the aircraft suffered a complete electrical failure. Three miles from the runway at thirteen hundred feet in the air all four occupants sat quietly in the darkened airplane. The malfunction only lasted for about five seconds though; then all the lights came back on and the gear fully extended.

That was weird, said Rick.

I've never seen it do that before, added Billy.

The landing was otherwise uneventful, but the electrical problem left a knot in Rick's stomach. As they taxied into the parking area, Rick wondered about what had just happened. The thought of flying out of Bader field late at night was bad enough, but the thought of flying into an area of deteriorating weather with an airplane that had an electrical problem was not something Rick was looking forward to.

As they rode into town in the cab with Handjob and his secretary, Rick was still thinking about what had just happened. Handjob was thinking about winning big, and his secretary was thinking about doing some shopping. Billy's mind was consumed with the all you can eat buffet that Handjob would be paying for.

After dinner Rick and Billy played the blackjack tables for a few hours, but only managed to break even. They decided to go up to the room for some shut-eye and wait for their passengers to phone them when it was time to leave.

It was about 2:00 a.m. when the call came. They wiped the sleep from their eyes and took turns taking a quick shower. They met Handjob in the lobby and grabbed a cab for the airport.

Rick was still tired when they pulled into the airport parking lot, but he was awake enough to notice fog had started to form.

Billy ran out to the airplane to do the preflight, happy that in a few weeks he would be doing a preflight with three stripes on his shoulder and flying a twin-engine turboprop, instead of a tired old Navajo.

While Billy did the preflight, Rick called flight service to get the latest weather and file a flight plan.

The briefer advised Rick about the presence of numerous thunderstorms along his intended route. He suggested flying east over the ocean and then north to avoid most of the weather. Without a radar picture to see for himself, Rick had to rely on what the briefer said. Rick filed the flight plan as the briefer suggested and walked out to the plane.

He climbed the tiny stairs in the back of the plane and locked the door. Rick, who was exactly six feet tall, could not stand up in the cabin of the Navajo, nor could most people. He walked hunched over towards the tiny cockpit and sat sideways in the right seat. He noticed the two passengers were already strapped in and Billy was busy getting the air traffic clearance.

It's normal for pilots to swap flying legs, but Rick was still concerned about the previous electrical problem the airplane had, even if it was just momentary. Between the weather and the possible electrical problem, Rick felt as though he should fly the leg home since he was listed on the flight plan as the pilot in command. What that really meant was he was the one responsible if anything happened. Billy could have just as easily been the PIC, he certainly was every bit as qualified as Rick, but Rick had slightly more seniority at Panorama than Billy, so that put him in charge. Rick felt if there was going to be a problem he would rather be in the left seat to handle it because he felt more comfortable sitting there.

He told Billy how he felt and Billy agreed, not that he had much choice. He was disappointed, but the cockpit isn't exactly a model of democracy. Billy said nothing as he moved over to the right seat and Rick moved to the captain's seat.

They started the engines and taxied out to the runway. Rick was well aware of how Billy felt, even though Billy was doing his best not to show it. After they finished the checklist, Rick said, I'll let you fly both legs next time, man. I'm sorry.

There won't be a next time, Rick. I'm out of here, observed Billy.

Well, Rick replied, feeling bad about the situation. I'll make it up to you, I promise.

Rick added takeoff power and held the brakes. If there was going to be any engine problems, Rick wanted to know right then, not halfway down the short runway. The engines sounded good so he released the brakes and the Navajo accelerated down the runway.

The runway was so short Rick had to pull the nose wheel off the runway five knots before the minimum safety speed. If an engine failed at such a low airspeed the aircraft may have become uncontrollable. It was a gamble that an engine wouldn't fail. If Rick had left the aircraft on the runway as long as he was supposed to however, they would have run out of pavement and ended up in the water with the engines screaming at full power.

As they flew off into the darkness Billy contacted departure control. The clearance was to fly along an airway that lay fifty miles off shore. At seven thousand feet they would be far from land in the event of a problem. Both Rick and Billy were aware of the almost endless possibilities.

After a long silence Billy decided to break the tension and joked, "Well, I