Tiger's Claw: A Novel (19 page)

S
TEAD
A
IRPORT
, R
ENO
, N
EVADA

A
WEEK LATER

“It’s a real pleasure to have you here, Brad, a real pleasure,” boomed Thomas Hoffman. The tall, hulking owner of Warbirds Forever Inc. was carrying a duffel bag for Bradley as they made their way through an immense hangar filled with planes of every description, carefully parked to maximize floor space without creating a hazard. It was just after sunset, and Patrick had just dropped Bradley off in the turbine P210 Centurion. “Sorry you got here so late—I wanted to show you around and get started on some paperwork.”

“I didn’t mean to be so late, sir,” Bradley said. “The guys at Sky Masters threw a little going-away party for me after closing, and I put in a full day at Sky Masters before the surprise party, so it was a really long day. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, not at all,” Hoffman said pleasantly. “You have a little homework to do before your day starts, and it’ll be a busy day tomorrow. We should have a little time tomorrow to show you around, but I think you’ll be pretty busy.”

“Thank you, sir,” Brad said. He looked around the hangar in sheer wonderment. The floor was incredibly clean—it even looked polished enough that the overhead lights reflected off it—and painted with light gray petroleum-proof paint. There were about a dozen large wheeled toolboxes, decorated with every possible sticker, patch, and photograph, but it was all tastefully and professionally done. This had to be the cleanest and most well-organized workshop he had ever seen, he thought.

But the really amazing sight was the planes: Some were in various stages of repair; others looked brand new. There was everything from large bizjets to single-engine two-passenger light-sport airplanes . . . and warbirds. Brad was not a real warbird fan, but he recognized a few from World War Two, Korean War, and Vietnam War movies, and most looked as if they had just come off the assembly line. “Man, I don’t even recognize some of these jets,” he said.

“You’ll become very familiar with all of them and probably get type rated in a few of the more popular warbirds,” Hoffman said. He nodded to one of the showroom-quality planes. “That’s one of our favorites: an Aero L-39 Albatros. This one was from Romania. For a fraction of what any other single-engine jet costs, guys can pick one out and have it dismantled and shipped here from Eastern Europe. We check them over, rebuild them, paint them, train the owner, and they’ve got themselves a real nice jet that’s easy to fly and relatively inexpensive to fly and maintain. A lot of guys race them at the Reno Air Races.” He nodded to his right. “There’s the avionics shop, my office, the publications room, and the employee break room. Down that corridor are the company offices. The customer welcome area, pilot store, and Accounting are on the other side of the hangar.”

They made their way through the crowded hangar, through a dimly lit corridor, and past several rooms until they came to a door almost in the middle. “I didn’t want to put you at either end of the hallway, Brad, because of the smell from the main hangar on one end and the smell from the paint shop and composite layup shop on the other,” Hoffman said. “I don’t think you’ll notice the smells from either side, but if you do, let me know and we’ll figure something else out. You can even stay at my place until we get better digs. I have a spare bedroom available, when the grandkids aren’t using it.” He nodded down the hallway. “The employee locker room and bathroom is three doors down—I hope you brought towels, because I forgot to bring any.” He opened the door. “Here you go.”

The room was large, but the usable area was very small because the place was choked with boxes, tires, shelving, a large workbench, and aircraft parts stacked to the ceiling. Along one wall was a single bed with spring-and-wire foundation with a roll of thick foam material, linens, and a pillow atop it; next to it was a two-drawer dresser. The room was lit by a single bare bulb affixed to an ancient-looking ceiling fan. There was a simple folding-table desk on the other side of the bed with a desk lamp and power strip.

“I know it’s not the Ritz, Brad, but until we figure something else out, it’s the best I can do,” Hoffman said. “At least you can’t beat the price.”

“I’m sure it will be fine, sir,” Brad said, trying to sound cheerful.

“I don’t think you’ll be bothered by any smells in here from the tires and whatnot,” Hoffman said, “but if you are, let me know. Now, this is still a storeroom, so the other employees will have access to it between seven
A.M.
and five
P.M.
or so, so plan on being up and around by then. They won’t mess with your stuff, but just in case someone doesn’t get the word that I will squish them like a bug if they so much as look at your stuff, I’d secure your laptop in your locker.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The office manager, Rosetta, brings donuts and makes coffee for the employees at seven
A.M.
in the employee break room, but the donuts disappear pretty fast, so be warned,” Hoffman said. He nodded at the desk. “There’s a slip of paper there with the access code to the wireless router for your laptop, and a temporary user name and password to the company’s employee site and calendar. Take a look at your calendar, the linesman course, and the employee handbook online before we get started tomorrow morning. We do most of our internal communications on the secure area of the website. If you have any access problems, let me know in the morning. Your course books are all online too.” He handed him a cell phone. “Your new phone, all programmed with the important numbers. We use the phone quite a bit around here, especially for last-minute tasks, important calendar changes, and when you’re out of earshot of the paging system. Business use only, please.”

He stuck out a hand, and Brad shook it. “Welcome to Warbirds Forever, Brad. Your dad tells me you’re a good pilot and a hard worker. Too bad about the Academy. I graduated from there in 1970. I can look back on it now and say it was a good experience, but at the time I remember thinking, ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ But we’ll give you an experience here that I think you’ll enjoy, and a lot closer to home.”

“Thank you, sir,” Brad said. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Good to hear. See you in the morning.” And he lumbered out of the storeroom, the flimsy plywood door rattling loudly on its hinges even after it closed.

Yeah, Brad thought as he looked around, what in hell
am
I doing here? But then he put things in perspective: the space he had was similar in size to his bedroom in the trailer he lived in for years without complaint; he had a job, and he was going to learn to fly a few of those hot-looking airplanes back there in the hangar. This could be an incredible opportunity. He had no doubts that he could fly well enough to please Hoffman. Plus, the boss seemed like a really nice guy.

Brad set up his laptop, but since it was pretty late—and he had a couple beers at his going-away party—he decided to go to bed and get up early to log in and check his schedule. He unrolled the roll of foam on the bed. It looked like engine or parts packing material, several inches thick and fairly clean. He wedged the corners through the wires in the bed to keep it from rolling itself up again, wrapped it in a sheet, then made his bed. He did indeed bring towels, so he was all set. He set his watch’s alarm for six
A.M.
, which should give him plenty of time to shower, check his schedule, and head out for donuts and coffee. He had brought energy bars and beef jerky, which would have to serve as meals until he had a chance to borrow a car and do some shopping.

He walked down the hallway with his toiletries kit and a towel and found the locker room and bathroom with no problem. He found his locker, already marked with b. mclanahan on white cloth tape and black Magic Marker. About twenty other lockers had names on them. The bathroom and showers were extremely clean. He was actually starting to feel at home here—it was very much like the dorm rooms he had seen at the University of Nevada–Reno, except for the aircraft parts stacked to the ceiling in his room, of course.

The spring-and-wire bed made a horrendous creaking and groaning sound as he settled in. He would have to find a piece of plywood to strengthen it, maybe even find a thrift store or swap meet to get a better bed. But he was too tired to let the creaking bother him, and in minutes he was asleep.

“What in hell is going on here?”

Awakened from a deep sleep, Brad nearly flew straight up out of bed. The light snapped on, and Thomas Hoffman was standing in the open doorway, fists on his hips. “Wha . . . what? Mr. Hoffman? Why . . . ?”

“It’s five
A.M.
, McLanahan!” Hoffman thundered. “Why aren’t you up?”

Brad checked his watch—it was indeed a little after five
A.M.
“I . . . I was going to get up at six, sir,” he said. “That would give me plenty of time to . . .”

“You didn’t log in and access your calendar, did you?”

“N . . . no, sir. I thought if I did that at six I’d have time to log in, check the calendar, and get up and get ready by the time the others showed . . .”

“Son, the other employees get here by seven, they’re at work by seven fifteen, and they go home at four thirty,” Hoffman said. “You, on the other hand, have several months of preparation, training, and testing ahead of you before you can even think of following their schedule. Your day starts at
five
A.M.
, mister, and it goes until all your work is done. I assume you didn’t review the employee handbook or look at the linesman’s training presentation, either?” Brad’s expression gave him his answer, and he shook his head in exasperation. “You arrived late yesterday, so you’re several hours behind. Your first day on the job and you’ll be hustling to catch up.

“Okay, here is what we do,” Hoffman said loudly, taking a menacing step toward Brad. “The priority is making sure all the ground vehicles are fueled up and oil checked, but before you do that you have to watch the linesman’s PowerPoint presentation to learn how to use the fuel pumps, vehicles, and equipment, and then you have to pass a written test, and
then
you have to inspect the fuel filters in the gasoline, avgas, and Jet-A pumps before you service the vehicles, and you have to do all this in less than two hours, before the mechanics, customers, and clients arrive. Once the mechanics arrive, you help them get parts and supplies, help move airplanes, anything they need. Then Rosetta has employee, airport security, and schoolhouse paperwork for you to fill out. In between helping the mechanics, you need to prepare for your written systems, performance, and procedures test in the Cessna 182. But if you hear your name paged and you don’t respond in the blink of an eye, I’m coming hunting for you, and you
don’t
want
that,
believe me. Any questions?”

“Y-y-yes, sir,” Brad stammered. “How do I know how to inspect the fuel pumps?”

“It’s all in the PowerPoint you were supposed to watch last night,” Hoffman said, looking as if the top of his head was going to explode. “Besides, your father told me you were experienced on the flight line—I hope he wasn’t blowing smoke up my butt. Now, you’ve got ten minutes to get into your uniform, make me a pot of coffee, and get ready for your linesman’s test. The ground vehicles need to be serviced by seven.”

“Make coffee? But where do I find the . . . ?”

“Son, I showed you where the break room was last night, and all break rooms throughout the entire
planet
are the same: they have coffeemakers, sinks with running water, refrigerators with coffee, and cabinets with coffee filters, cups, stirrers, sugar, and all the other stuff. I’m sure you can figure it out. If you can’t even figure out how to make me coffee, what makes you think you can fly one of my airplanes? Now
get
moving
!”

W
ARBIRDS
F
OREVER
I
NC
.

A
FEW DAYS LATER

Brad answered his cell phone on the first ring—he had found out that Tom Hoffman and many in his front office liked to use the cell phones as pagers, and answering the phone on more than the second ring was a big no-no. “Yes, Colonel Hoffman?”

“Brad, it’s your dad,” Patrick McLanahan said. “I just wanted to check in and see how things are going. Did you have a good day today?”

“I don’t know, because it’s not over yet.”

“Not over? It’s after nine
P.M.
!”

“I know,” Brad moaned. “But I have a written test on the Piper Aztec first thing tomorrow morning, and then I’ll have a flight review, like a Civil Air Patrol Form 5.”

“Getting checked out in an Aztec?” Patrick asked. The Piper Aztec was a light twin-engine low-wing airplane, very easy to fly and economical to operate. “It sounds like great progress. What did you do this week?”

“What
haven’t
I done?” Brad exclaimed. “Not only am I doing the flying stuff, but I’m constantly being called away for something else. There are tests for everything around here: linesman, security, aircraft ground handling, safety this and safety that. But I’m interrupted every ten minutes by Mr. Hoffman texting, calling, paging, or bellowing for me to do something.”

“Sounds a lot like Civil Air Patrol. Did you pass all the tests?”

Brad took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Yes,” he said finally. “The linesman and ground handling were actually easy—the guys back at Battle Mountain had already taught me most of the stuff.”

“Good work.”

“But once I passed the test, I have a bazillion tasks to do, all before the mechanics show up at seven o’clock.”

“Seven
A.M.
? What time do you start every day?”

“Five
A.M.
, if I’m lucky,” Brad said. “And I just got back to the room a few minutes ago. But I’ve got to study for the Form 5.”

“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.

“Hi, Dad,” Brad said. They didn’t embrace or shake hands. “How was the flight?”

“A little bumpy already,” Patrick said. “I needed to speak with Colonel Hoffman, and I didn’t hear from you, so I thought I’d bring the air mattress and some goodies for you.”

“Thank you.”

They stood in awkward silence for a few moments, then Patrick asked, “Made a decision yet?”

“I don’t really have much choice, do I?”

“You do, and I’ll support any decision you make.” Brad’s cell phone beeped, and he looked at the display. “You’re being paged?”

“For about the hundredth time this morning,” he said. “Do you need fuel? Should I top it off?”

“Depends—are you going back with me, or staying?”

The cell phone beeped again. Brad looked at the display with a rather concerned expression, then at his father. “I gotta go,” he said. He looked at his father, once, the weariness evident in his face, but he nodded. “I’ll top it off for you.”

“Okay, Brad,” Patrick said. That
should
mean he was staying—the turbine P210 couldn’t hold two men, all Brad’s belongings, the CARE package, the air mattress, and full fuel tanks, and Brad knew that. Patrick retrieved the CARE package and the air mattress and headed inside.

On his way there, he saw Brad hurrying out of Tom Hoffman’s office. “I’ll put this stuff in your room, Brad,” he said.

“Thanks, Dad,” Brad said over his shoulder, then quickly disappeared.

Patrick found Hoffman at his computer, with the TV on in a corner. The office was Spartan, with just a desk, two chairs, and a couple bookshelves crammed with technical manuals. The walls were filled with photographs, plaques, and memorabilia from his twenty-six years in the U.S. Air Force. “When are you going to invest in a real office, Tom?” Patrick asked.

“Don’t need one,” Hoffman replied. He nodded at his laptop computer. “My entire life and business is right here.” He glanced up at the television. “What do you make of the Chinese acting up in the South China Sea, General?”

“I don’t find it credible that the Coast Guard helicopter was shot down by mistake,” Patrick said. “If they were recovering pieces of that Poseidon, the crew of that Coast Guard helicopter would have seen them doing it. Downing that helicopter bought them several hours to search for wreckage.”

“So you think China was involved in the P-8 crash too?”

“I don’t have any details, but I don’t believe in coincidences,” Patrick said. “There’s no doubt that China is laying claim to the South China Sea and building up their air and naval forces there quickly. I think we’re going to see many more unexplained occurrences, mistakes, and accidents out there. Beijing thinks as long as there’s no solid trail leading to them that we won’t do anything.”