Ch. 6 "The Proposal" from Scud Runner (Memoir)

[S Robert Williams]

This piece is from Chapter 6 and it introduces the inner conflict of the protagonist when presented with the primary conflict of a 3000 mile flying challenge presented by the antagonist.

 

In the aviation business, there are two types of people: those of integrity and complete rascals. Brave souls of high honor stand next to snake oil salesmen, with no population between the two. Flying produces Pulitzer Prize winners, war heroes and drug runners.

             Pilots are gossips, and I had heard a lot about Harry Forrest: the stint in federal prison, the airport that burned down, the lawsuits, the mechanics who came and went like the change of the seasons. What made things worse was that Harry Forrest was an experienced and knowledgeable pilot. Knowledge and courage make a scoundrel more dangerous—and I had no doubt that Harry Forrest was a knowledgeable and courageous man.

            I’ve always believed that you either trust someone or you don’t; there’s no middle ground. Truth is complete or it’s nothing and, in flying, truth can be life or death.

          My friend Lance and I had just wrestled the Stearman into its hangar after a short flight when Harry appeared on his golf cart.

            “Hey.”

            “How you doin’, Harry?”

            “Well, I’ve got a problem. What are you doing in July?”

            “No plans, why?”

            “You think you can fly a Stinson L-5?” I’d never actually seen one but knew it was a small, slow observation plane from World War II. Forrest’s eyes twinkled like the stars on a frigid night, taunting, challenging my cocksureness.

            “Sure.”

            “I think so too. If you can fly this old Stearman, you can fly that.” Ego massaged, I nodded. “We’re buying one and we need it ferried here. You interested?”

            “Of course. Just give me enough notice.”

As Forrest puttered away in his golf cart, I walked over to Lance, who was tying a rope from a wing to one of the hangar posts, sweat falling from his chin.

“What was that all about?”

            “He wants me to ferry an airplane for him.”

            “Yeah, what kind?”

            “Stinson L-5.”

            “You can fly that, can’t ya?”

            “Sure. With some instruction. Let’s get a beer.”

Two weeks later, as Forrest pulled up to the hangar, I was alone and, in theory, ready for cross-examination.

            “How are you, Harry?”

            “Good. You still interested in flying that plane?”

            “Yep.”

            “You sure?”

            “I’m sure.”

            “By the way, did I tell you where it is?”

“Where is it?”

“Oakland.”

            “Oakland!” I couldn’t stop my voice from rising.

            “Oakland…it’s in California.”

            “Yeah, Harry, I know where it is.”

            Forrest and I stared at each other with only the chirping of birds and the rustling of trees breaking the silence.

            “I’ll pay all your expenses.” The voice hinted desperation. “I’ll pay for the gas.”

            “Big deal, Harry. How about the funeral?”

            “Look, Bob, it’s a museum piece.”

            “Harry, I’ve been to lots of museums and I haven’t seen much flying.”

            Although I hardly knew a thing about the plane, I knew it wasn’t some glorified bus with soft seats, jet engines, movies and cocktails. There would also be no autopilot, no fancy navigational systems and other electronic wizardry to assist me on the way. The old, primitive plane would not fly itself. It would demand seat-of-the-pants, hands-on judgment over the entire continent.

            The flying options chilled me. I knew I could learn to fly the plane, but could I navigate the entire country? Would it be able to clear the mountains, or would I fly off into the nothingness of the desert never to be heard from again? But what bothered me most was that there are two types of people in aviation, and Harry Forrest was one of them.