Valley Fliers

By David Boito

Jay Smalley, seventeen, loves remote control aviation.  He spends most of his time flying model planes at a San Fernando Valley miniature airfield near his home.  When a newcomer arrives at the field practicing risky maneuvers with a military-grade drone, Jay suspects there is more to this stranger than meets the eye.  But Jay has always been a little paranoid and too prone to conspiracy theories for his own good. 

 

As Jay rallies his fellow Valley Fliers to help unpack what he believes the drone pilot is hiding he sabotages his budding romance with co-pilot Cassie and alienates Kent, the father figure who manages their tiny airfield like it's Edwards Air Force Base.  He even puts his scholarship to flight school at risk.  Is Jay deluded or the only one who can see a clear and present danger posed by the cocky new flight suit on the tarmac?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ideafeast Books
• Release date: Jan 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201185237

David Boito

David Boito resides with his wife and son in the San Fernando Valley suburb of Los Angeles, near the miniature airfield that inspired Valley Fliers, his debut novel.  He is a longtime fan of aviation and always looks to the sky as a plane goes by.  David also works as a screenwriter and has authored short stories including one published in the UCLA literary journal, Westwind. 

Book preview

Chapter One

It was a crisp, clear Southern California day at Apollo XI flying field.  The parking lot was half full.  The bleachers were littered with spectators, mostly parents, girlfriends and wives of the fliers.  Several held binoculars, ready to look to the sky.  Kent Wipnick walked with a military gait and upright posture and turned to the crowd with his microphone.  A very fit sixty-eight years old, he wore a baseball cap that read: U.S. Air Force – We Own The Skies.  Kent was the commander of this airfield and he ruled the place like it was Vandenberg Air Force Base.  This guy commanded respect.   Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Apollo XI field for our semi-annual pylon racing challenge!  Pilots you are now on the clock!

Co-pilots scrambled to their planes as the spectators clapped.  Kent now held up a checkered flag.  He watched his stopwatch as the hands turned around the dial towards the sixty second mark.  Race on! Kent announced as he dropped the flag.

The whine of a high performance aircraft engine pierced the morning calm as the Quickie 500 took to the sky with speed.  The emerald green, lightweight racing plane was a study in sleek, aerodynamic design.  Rated for speeds of two hundred fifty kilometers per hour, it carved through the sky like a surgeon’s scalpel.  Seventeen year old Jay Smalley was at the controls.  Jay loved flying.  Once he reached altitude it was a whole different world.  The problems of everyday life slipped away like soapsuds under a warm shower.  He felt fresh, clean, energized.  You had to be in the moment all the time when you had the helm of an aircraft that could easily cause tremendous damage or loss of life.  He liked in the moment.  Normally his mind went a mile a minute.  But not now.  He was focused only on the mission at hand. 

You’ve got team red and team blue on your six, shouted Peter Zhou, Jay’s co-pilot and friend of the same age.  Jay just called him Zhou and that was his handle.  They had grown up together since first grade at Shelton Elementary School in the San Fernando Valley.  Jay did a shoulder check and noticed two more trim Quickie 500s now behind him, leveling out into a circle pattern high above the airfield.  Then a third gold plane took to the sky off the main runway. 

Who’s that? Jay asked. 

Don’t know.  Never seen them before, Zhou replied as he squinted to make out the identification insignia on the left wing of the plane.   The four planes now sped toward an aerial race course marked by several large helium weather balloons tethered to poles.  There were line judges at each pylon to decide whether or not a plane had traveled outside the course.  If one missed their turn this would be called a cut.  Pilots who made cuts were penalized and forced to add a lap to their heats. 

Let’s show him how this race is done, said Jay, confidently.  He was in his zone; this was his wheelhouse up here.  He would show this gold newcomer what was what and who was who.

One, two, three, turn!" shouted Zhou and Jay executed the command, calmly adjusting his control stick to make the aircraft bank around the first pylon with minimal loss of airspeed. 

Perfect! Jay said.  We got this. 

The red, blue and gold planes zoomed around the marker as well, staying right on Jay and Zhou’s tail.   But Zhou’s eyes were on the next pylon marker below.  It was his job to call out the turns so Jay could focus on his instruments.  Jay had to dip his wing toward the pylon.  That was the defining factor of a pylon turn.  Altitude, speed and bank angle must come together so that the wing points to a fixed marker on the ground.   

One, two, three, turn! Zhou exclaimed again and Jay cleared the second pylon.  He performed the maneuver flawlessly.  The third pylon came up quickly, but Zhou once again navigated him through a smooth turn.  The line judges on the ground kept careful watch to make sure they didn’t cut. 

Lap one down.  Nine to go.  This was only about a one minute heat but one minute could seem like an eternity especially when you were neck and neck with your opponents.  One, two, three turn! Zhou shouted again.  Jay banked again.  And so it went.  Two laps, three, four, Jay kept a comfortable lead. 

Suddenly blue plane surged forward.  Blue on your six! shouted Zhou. 

I don’t have any more throttle! replied Jay. 

I know!  Ease off for the next turn!  You’re turning at too high an airspeed!  It’s increasing the radius of your turn!  Costing you time! Zhou tracked blue’s trajectory with laser precision.

Copy that! answered Jay. 

One, two, three, turn! barked Zhou as the next pylon loomed.

Jay eased off on his throttle and the Quickie 500 cut much closer to the pylon, saving distance and time.  The pilot of the blue plane was flustered.  He cut this turn too short, missing the marker.  The line judges noted this down.  Jay inched ahead of blue, moving back into the lead. 

Blue’s out.  He’s done, said Jay.  He knew blue well.  He was a weekend warrior who would come out to the airfield in his RV and camp out in the parking lot.  He was a good flier but not in Jay’s league.  Blue was at the airfield more for the social experience than to win.  He was complacent, happy to just place in the heat.  Jay liked winning.  And really he had to win.  Winning was his path forward to win a scholarship to his college of choice.  So this was not just something to do on the weekend for Jay.   It was a crusade. 

Jay opened up his throttle and maintained his lead.  Gold plane brought up the rear.  The newcomer was obviously not a threat.   Jay increased his airspeed on the straightaway.  They neared pylon number three. 

Red plane on your nine, Zhou shouted.  Jay looked to his left and there was red plane, right on schedule.  Jay could read red like a book.  Red’s strategy was always to make a push like this in the second half of the heat.  It usually involved some desperate maneuver like the one he was making, where he would increase his altitude and try and dive bomb, causing you to make an error in the turn.  Jay confidently kept his cool and gracefully dipped his left wing at the pylon with perfection.  Red quickly had to level out to make the turn.  But he didn’t.  He kept diving.  What was going on?  He plummeted towards the field.  Something was wrong. 

Incoming!  We’ve got an engine failure! yelled Kent.  He threw a yellow flag as the red plane plunged toward the center of the airfield.  Red had obviously stalled his engine in the dive.  It wasn’t coming back.

Hope he’s okay, Jay said to Zhou.  He circled the race course, maintaining his altitude.  They were curiously unconcerned for the life of their competitor.  But Jay couldn’t take the time to focus on what was going on down on the ground.  There was a race to win. 

The red plane primed his engine in the nick of time.  It restarted and he pulled out of the nosedive.  Red circled off to the west of the field, leveling out so he could come back in and land on the main runway.  Kent dropped his fire extinguisher and picked up the checkered flag.  An air horn sounded. 

Jay smiled as he heard the race was back on.  He re-entered the aerial racecourse and gave a thumbs up to Zhou.  He figured this heat was in the bag.

One, two, three, turn! Zhou counted out and Jay cut his next pylon.   The green Quickie 500 cruised into its next to final lap.  But suddenly out of nowhere gold plane zoomed past them.  Where did he come from? Jay asked. 

I don’t know.  Didn’t see him, Zhou replied.

That’s your job! Jay carped.  That’s why you’re called the spotter!

Sir yes sir, Zhou responded with sarcasm.  One two three turn!  He called as pylon four presented itself.

Jay missed the turn.  He dipped his left wing but he was inside the balloon, not outside where he was supposed to be.  He had just lost points.  Shit! he cursed.  Gold plane had gotten under his skin.  It was ahead now, starting its final lap, perfectly rounding pylon one. 

Jay and Zhou tried to make up the time but it was no use.  They had lost their rhythm.  One two three turn! Zhou shouted with a crackle in his voice on pylon two.  Jay made the turn but he had to cut his airspeed to make sure he did not muff it again. 

Gold plane whipped ahead as if he had afterburners ignited, handily cutting pylons two, three and four.  He finished the course and flew by the bleachers, dipped his wing to the crowd.  They broke into cheers and applause.  Whoever this guy is he’s a showoff, Jay thought.  Gold streamed across the finish line. 

Kent picked up his microphone and addressed the gathered onlookers in the stands.  We have a winner!  Gold plane comes in first place during its first heat here at the airfield with a score of twenty four points!  In second place green plane, piloted by Jay Smalley and Peter Zhou!  Congratulations!

Tough break, said Zhou.  Guy knows how to fly.  We’ll nail him next time. 

Jay remained silent.  He was in a funk.  He circled the green Quickie and began his descent towards the tarmac.  He brought her in on a normal glide path and tucked into a perfect landing attitude.  The landing gear met the concrete and Jay taxied past the bleachers toward the main pit area.  The main runway was backed up with a line of planes awaiting approval for take-off. 

These were the participants for the next event, the monthly free fly.  There was a Boeing Model 40 postal plane, a DC9, a B52 bomber, a P51 Mustang.  It was certainly a diversity of aircraft that would clog the throughput of any normal airport.  But this was not any old airport.  It was a miniature airport designed and approved by the Aeronautical Modeling Association (AMA) for remotely-controlled powered aircraft of five different categories:  radio controlled fixed wing, heavier than two pounds (runway #1), radio controlled fixed wing, two pounds or less (runway #2) radio controlled helicopters and drones (helicopter pad) control-line aircraft (U-control circles). 

Jay steered the green Quickie off the main runway and on to the taxiway.  The main runway was about six hundred feet long, with three taxiways leading off its main artery.  He and Zhou stepped out of their designated pilot stand, just off the main runway, and walked over to retrieve their aircraft.  Jay closed the antenna on his remote transmitter as he walked.  I’m sorry, he told Zhou.  I was a jerk back there.  None of this was your fault.  He just out flew me, that’s all. 

Everyone’s entitled to an off day, Zhou replied as he picked up the Quickie and inspected her for any damage.  She had a wing span of fifty two inches and weighed about three and a half pounds.  They walked over to the Pilot’s Pit, a covered area with benches and tables where pilots could tweak their aircraft, commiserate and talk shop.  This was the hangar of the airfield.  Next to the pilot’s pit was the snack shack where hungry remote-controlled aviators could purchase hot dogs, soda pops and other sustenance for a long day at the field. 

Jay!  There’s someone I want you to meet! yelled Kent as he climbed down from the tower.  The tower was a former lifeguard station made of two by fours and plywood.  It was painted a bright red, white and blue.  Jay stopped in his tracks and turned back.  Zhou followed, carrying the green Quickie. 

They met Kent back at the pilot’s pit and he waved over a slim, fit, sun-tanned guy of about thirty-eight.  He wore combat fatigue pants and a camo sweatshirt with a blue boonie cap.  Jay, I’d like you to meet Captain Oren Frazer.   His dad and I flew Hueys in Vietnam.  He’s a veteran Air Force officer in his own right.  Recently retired and moved to our neighborhood.  Captain Frazer carried his gold Quickie:  the one that had blown Jay and Zhou out of the water in the race. 

Nice heat, Jay replied.  Pleasure to meet you.  He put out his hand and Frazer met it with a fist bump.  What kind of birds did you fly?

F15 Eagle, E11A, T-38 Talon and some experimental stuff that’s classified, Oren replied. 

Where were you stationed? asked Zhou.

All over, really.  I have flown all over the world, Oren answered.  Again, some of my missions were classified. 

Why did you retire so soon sir? asked Jay.  Wouldn’t you rather be flying real birds? 

Jay, I’m not sure that question is appropriate... Kent averred.

No, it’s okay! Oren went on.  Of course I would rather fly real birds! he said.  I had a bit of an injury.  It’s fine now but it made me realize that I’ve got some other goals in my life that I want to pursue. 

Sorry for prying, sir, Jay apologized. 

No apology necessary.  Oren smiled. 

You can ask the Captain any other personal questions later, Kent jibed.  

The flying field has always been my temple, my church and my gym.  So expect to see a lot of me!  Oren took a step back behind Kent.  "And please, call me Oren.  None of this sir or Captain Frazer stuff."

And don’t feel bad that you lost, Jay!  If you had to lose you might as well lose to the best in the business, right?  Kent quipped.

Sure, Jay said.  Although it gave him little consolation.  He needed to keep his stats high to remain on track to fly in the AMA youth scholarship competition.  Kent and Oren walked off towards a brand new high end Winnebago in the parking lot.  Many of the older, more affluent hobbyists would come to the airfield in mobile man caves where they could hang out and tinker with their aircraft in air conditioned comfort. 

Jay and Zhou packed up their winning aircraft and placed it in its kit case.  He’s got a nice RV, Zhou observed, as Kent and Oren entered the Winnebago. 

That thing’s got to be a 100K plus, Jay noted.  How do you afford something like that on an Air Force pension? 

It’s called credit, Zhou replied.

Yeah but the payments have got to be enormous! Jay said. 

I don’t know, Zhou remarked.  How do people afford houses?  Cars?  Boats?  Maybe his family has money. 

Maybe, Jay said.  He noticed the Winnebago had a trailer behind it.  The canopy was off and on the trailer bed was a giant, one-fifth scale F16 jet.  She was beautiful, with perfect combat green paint on the fuselage and wings and red, white and blue trim on the missiles and tail.  It even had a 12" tall pilot inside the cockpit and a smoke pump on the back to make contrails.  It was obvious no expense had been spared on this rig. 

It’s giant scale, Zhou said.  You could fit a kid or a dog in the cockpit of this thing if you wanted. 

Jay walked out to the parking lot to get a better look.  He noticed a BVM sticker on the plane.  BVM!  It’s a Bob Violett jet.  They’re the next best thing to real!

Oren popped out of the RV and approached them.  He sipped a beer and smiled widely at the attention his plane was receiving.  She’s one-fifth scale, he said.  Weighs forty six pounds plus fuel.  Has a flight time of nine plus minutes.

Nice, said Jay as he ogled the jet’s engines. 

Those are Wren 44 Gold Turbines.  They’ve got a rating of seven horsepower.  Up to twenty thousand rpm, Oren told him.   

Did you build her?  Zhou asked.

Oren shook his head.  No.  It’s a turnkey.

Jay stared at the realistic ordnance underneath the wings. Those are AIM-7 Sparrows along with Sidewinders.

Very good! Oren said.  You want to take her for a spin?

The jet? asked Jay.

The missiles don’t fly on their own, Oren chuckled. 

Jay was almost salivating.  His cell phone buzzed.  He looked at the text.  From mom: 

Dog’s about to eat your dinner.

Jay smiled at Oren and swallowed his disappointment.  Can I take a rain check? he asked.

Anytime, Oren said.  You’ll be seeing me around here a lot.  I’m new to town.  And this will be my home away from home.

Great! Jay replied.

Welcome! said Zhou.

Oren saluted them as they grabbed their kit case and headed towards the parking space where Zhou’s mom had parked waiting for them.

***

Jay sat at his desk in his bedroom eating his cold supper.  The desk was strewn with model planes, remote controlled cars, transmitters and a solder gun.  On the walls were posters for some of his favorite shows, like Ancient Aliens, from the History Channel.  He had an X-Files:  The Truth Is Out There, poster too.  His bookshelf was filled with books about ancient mysteries and conspiracies, like Chariots of the Gods, by Eric Von Dannikin, Crop Circles Explained, The Mysteries of Easter Island and others.  Another shelf contained books about survival, like 98.6: The Art of Keeping Your Ass Alive, by Cody Lundin and The Worst Case Scenario Handbook.  Jay definitely was drawn to the unknown, the taboo and the art of protecting himself against any and all dangers.  Some of his friends thought he went a little overboard on this stuff.  They called him Fox Mulder, or Conspiracy Theory.   It used to rile him when people called him that but he had gotten used to it.  Now he considered it a term of endearment.

He turned on his computer and went to a website for another one of his TV shows.  It was another one of those true crime unsolved mystery shows called Frosty Case Thaw.  He clicked on an episode about the Black Dahlia murder in Los Angeles.  He ate as he watched. 

A knock came at the door.  You decent? asked a lilting female voice. 

Just watching TV, said Jay and his mom, Becca, popped her head in.  She was an earthy, independent minded, thirtysomething woman with a spring in her step.  Their Dachshund, Weenie, was right behind her.  Weenie jumped on Jay’s lap. 

He’s been cooped up all day.  It was your turn to walk him, said Becca. 

I suck, replied Jay.  I’ll walk him the next three days to make up for it. 

I’ll hold you to that, said Becca.  She took note of the show on Jay’s computer monitor.  What’s this? she asked.

Frosty Case Thaw, he said.  This one’s about the Black Dahlia murder.

Becca winced at the gruesome crime scene photograph on the screen.  Is that her body?

Yeah, said Jay.  "She was cut in half.  Some think it was