The Dryline. Jack Grubbs
to a minimum, we ought to be looking at the sensor as well.” Tom was very impressed that the only major moving part within the chamber portion of the JETS was the simple ball valve used to close off oil from escaping out of the bottom. But to Tom’s way of thinking, a sensor inside the system was not good. “Let me come up with—”
Susie called to the men. “Don, it’s Elam.”
Susie gave the phone to Don and walked to the kitchen island.
“Hey, Elam,” Don said. “How’s it going?” A short wait. “Sorry, I flew into Houston and went fishing. The fish hate cell phones so I turned it off.” Another short wait. A grimace on Don’s face followed a period of silence. Don stood up, his face looking down at the stone slab floor. He leaned against the back of the couch for balance. “Damn. How’d it happen?”
Tom looked up from the couch and Susie leaned against the granite countertop, both aware that a serious conversation was in progress. Don looked at Tom and Susie, and then pointed his thumb toward the floor.
“Yeah, I’ll be there by noon. Let’s meet at City Market for lunch so we can talk. We ought to go out to the site before seeing the police. Yeah, I agree. OK. See you tomorrow.” Don hit the end button on the phone, stared at it for a moment, then looked back and forth at his hosts. He shook his head and answered their unspoken questions. “One of our workers was killed Saturday night. A great kid. I need to get back to Luling in the morning.”
Four
Tuesday, December 29
Broken Wing Ranch
An early morning chill melted beneath the growing sun, allowing the threesome a fine breakfast on the patio. Piled all over the table were hot biscuits, sausage links, crisp bacon, and a large mound of scrambled eggs. The conversation, interrupted only by voracious appetites, focused on the business for the day. Tom’s J-3 sat half a football field’s distance to their front.
“It’s no big deal. I knew you were coming, so I saved the day on my calendar. Even got a five-mile run in while you racked out.” Tom hesitated only long enough to finish off a biscuit and stab another sausage link. “Got the Piper gassed and ready to go. Planned to take you up sometime today anyway.” He nodded toward the plane. “I’ll take you there. You find out what happened and make some decisions with Elam. We’ll be back here before dark.”
Don acquiesced. “All right. It’s a deal. But it’s my treat at the Montgomery Steakhouse tomorrow for breakfast.” He reached for his cell phone. “I’ll tell Elam to pick us up at the airport.”
“Good,” said Susie as she pushed her chair back and stood up. “But it’s warming up fast, so you’ve got fifteen minutes to finish breakfast, grab your gear, and get airborne. I’ll handle the dishes.” Her “timed event” comment came from simple physics: the hotter the temperature, the more runway needed. With two men weighing over one hundred and seventy pounds each, cool conditions were critical on a short runway. The only baggage was Don’s briefcase and cane.
While Don called Elam, Tom dove into the remaining eggs and sausages.
Fifteen minutes later, Susie hugged Don warmly, kissed Tom affectionately, and stepped away from the Cub.
Tom sided up next to the plane and turned to Don. “Here, let me give you a hand.”
“Outta my way.”
The doors on Piper Cubs operate opposite to conventional doors, swinging about a horizontal rod and attaching to the wing above the pilot’s seat. Don moved to the back end of the cockpit and aligned himself with the tandem passenger’s seat. He placed his cane on the floor and, with his hand, lifted his right leg to the foot rung attached to the wing strut. Next he put his right hand on the back of the pilot’s seat and his left hand on the passenger seat. He gathered his strength, grimaced slightly, and hopped off his left foot while simultaneously trying to push off with his right leg. The right leg did not respond. It slipped off the rung, catching the bottom of the strut. Don fell butt-first into the grass.
“Fuck!”
Tom bit into his lower lip while reaching a hand toward Don. He was rebuffed.
“I can get myself up. Fuck,” he repeated. He struggled to get up, almost falling a second time.
Susie tightened her jaws and blinked her eyes rapidly to keep away the tears. She looked away.
Don faced the opening once again. He turned around, back to the plane, and tilted his back to the inside of the plane while pushing up from the steel tubing with the palms of his hands. He made it to the floor and, using every bit of his arm strength, lifted himself into the seat.
Don looked at Tom, sweat trickling into his eyes. “I don’t want help and I don’t want sympathy. Let’s hit the road.”
Tom said nothing. He prepared the plane for takeoff.
Magneto on. Throttle near idle. Pull the prop. Engine start. Tom pulled the wheel chocks while Don held the heel brakes. Once onboard, Tom guided the plane slowly to the east while Susie walked to the west end of the runway. Tom eyed the windsock and relaxed, knowing he had a light west wind. At the end of the runway, the 1940 Piper J-3 Cub circled and stopped.
Full throttle. The propellers bit into the air, driving the plane forward. The extra weight of the new passenger multiplied the effects of an uneven grass runway. Still, as always, the small yellow plane gathered speed and headed toward freedom.
C’mon. C’mon. Tom willed his way down the runway.
Don enjoyed it all.
Tail wheel up. More speed. More lift. The small yellow plane unchained itself from the runway, rising gently into the sky. A pretty woman waved at the brothers as they flew by. Pine trees, grabbing at the wheels, passed thirty feet below them.
Don spoke through the intercom. “Nice takeoff.”
Tom turned around and winked at his brother. They both smiled as the sky opened to their front.
Majestic patterns of dark green pines and beautiful oaks passed beneath them, giving life to the unborn grasses of East Texas. They only needed ten minutes to cover the eighteen miles to Conroe. Tom and Don changed planes at Conroe and flew the Grumman Tiger west to Luling. The coral-blue sky, devoid of even a popcorn cloud, held for the entire trip. Thick stands of pines eventually withered into sparse, open rangeland dotted with mesquite, oak, and pecan trees. Their flight path took them along I-10, a gentle sweep to the northwest, and then generally south-southwest to Luling’s Runway 22. Tom eased the Tiger into a smooth glide while yawing into a 10-knot west wind. The landing, smoother than an escalator ride at the mall, impressed both passenger and pilot.
“Smooth as silk, Tom.”
“Just another perfect piloting job. Like all my others.”
Don smiled, remembering a few other landings. “Yeah, right.”
Don tapped Tom on the shoulder and pointed to a man sitting on the left fender of a ‘91 Cadillac DeVille. “There’s Elam, over by the hangar.”
Elam Duquette, his graying, unkempt hair blowing in the wind, slid forward and walked toward the parking apron and approaching plane. He looked older than his years. A noticeable limp, the result of a fall from an oil derrick, was one of Elam’s personal signatures. More memorable was a broad, kid-like smile stretching beneath a nose that tilted slightly toward his right cheek. He’d won most of his fights, but his proboscis had taken a sizeable number of good shots in the process. God-awful brown chinos hung from his butt. New clothes, a shave, and a haircut would cut at least twenty years from his appearance.
The Tiger rolled to a stop. Tom cut the engine and slid the canopy back. He stepped out onto the wing,