“I’m really glad Colonel Spara let us fly together, Brad,” Patrick said.
“Me too,” Brad said uneasily. He took a sip of water, but it didn’t help his stomach much.
“I think it’s because there’s a whole lot less guys hanging around the squadron these days, after the attack on the FBI guys,” John said. “It’s getting harder every day to put a crew together. Leo is busier than ever with the Highway Patrol. I think there’s just one other pilot I’ve seen around, other than Rob and you.”
Just as they were circling the northeast side of North Peak, Brad saw it — two black circles, one small, like a campfire area, and the other much larger. “Dad, I think I see something, nine o’clock.”
“Pick out things around it that will help steer your eyes back to it,” Patrick said. “What do you see?”
“A couple black spots on the ground, right beside a trail,” Brad said. He had to look farther down and back to keep it in sight, and that was even more disorientating.
Patrick scanned out his window, but he knew he couldn’t get too distracted from flying the plane. “I didn’t see it,” he said. “I don’t have enough room to keep turning left, but I’ll loop around to the right and bring you right back to it on the same heading. Coming right.” He made a right turn away from the mountain, perhaps a bit more sharply than he intended…
… but Brad wasn’t ready for it, and when Patrick turned, Brad couldn’t stop it — he put his head between his legs, pulled the headset microphone away from his lips just in time, and threw up on the floor of the Cessna.
“Brad!” Patrick exclaimed, rolling wings level. “Are you all right?” His question was answered with another heave. “Brad?”
“I’m… I’m okay.” But he followed that announcement with a third heave.
Patrick and John pulled their overhead vents open all the way to let in as much fresh air as they could, but it was no use — the smell wafted up to the cockpit, and now it was everywhere, impossible to ignore. Patrick looked over at John, who was already starting to turn a little pale. “John…?”
“I think I’m done for a while too, Patrick,” he said uneasily.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Brad said. “I should’ve eaten something. It’s all the turning, and looking sideways and downward, and the turbulence…”
“Don’t worry, Brad,” Patrick said. “Either it’s happened to every pilot, or it soon will. We’re heading back to base.” John radioed Rob Spara at the squadron to report that they were exiting the search grid and gave them their ETA back to base.
As they were approaching the traffic pattern, John looked and saw a group of about ten cars on either side of the road to the base. “What’s going on down there?” he asked.
Patrick looked himself. Two lines of individuals carrying signs were walking down the road toward the main entrance to the base. “Why, they look like protesters!” he exclaimed. “Looks like they’re going to demonstrate outside the base!”
“I hope they stay outside,” John said. There was really no outer gate to Joint Air Base Battle Mountain, just a light chain-link fence designed to keep out tumbleweeds, and a cattle guard on the road to keep out stray farm animals on the nearby open ranges. All of the base security was electronic, using laser, infrared, and millimeter-wave sensors for all-weather precision scanning, with responses made by unmanned and then manned vehicles. “I haven’t seen a protest march since the Vietnam years.”
Patrick made the landing, brought the plane back to the hangar, then helped clean out the back. Afterward, they checked in with Rob Spara and described what they saw, including the protesters outside the main gate. “Yeah, they warned us about that,” Rob said. “Base security said if it gets bigger they might have to escort folks in and out.” He turned to Brad. “You feel okay, Brad?”
“I’m much better,” Brad replied. He had a packet of cheese and peanut-butter crackers and a ginger ale. “I just needed to eat something. I didn’t really have breakfast. I was too excited.” He turned to Patrick. “Sorry for messing up the plane, Dad,” he repeated.
“Don’t be. It’s okay. Feel like giving it another try?”
“Yes!”
“Sure you want to push it, Brad?” Rob asked. “It’s not going to get any less bumpy out there.”
“I still want to go,” Brad said.
Rob looked at Brad carefully, then glanced at Patrick. But Patrick just put a hand on Brad’s shoulder. “He’s an adult and a senior member now, Rob,” he said with a smile. “He can make his own decisions.”
Rob hesitated. “I’d say airsickness is an ‘illness’ in the ‘IMSAFE’ checkoff that would ground you, Brad,” he said. “But I have a ground team in the field and no other crews to fly the 182.” He turned to John. “You feeling okay, John?”
“Yeah,” he replied. He too was munching on crackers and washing them down with ginger ale, both believed to be good nondrug remedies for airsickness. “I got a little green around the gills when the smell first hit, but I’m good now.”
Rob thought about it a little more, but he finally nodded. “Okay, guys,” he said, punching flight-release information into his computer. “You’re released. Make contact with the ground team and see if you steer them over to that sighting you made.” After Patrick got a bite to eat himself — with a bottle of ginger ale too, just in case — they refueled the plane, preflighted, loaded up, and were off.
But it was soon obvious that Brad’s stomach was not going to cooperate. They were on the downwind leg of the departure, still in the climb and not yet at pattern altitude, in smooth air, when Brad said, “I don’t feel so good again, Dad.”
Both air vents were already wide open. Patrick leveled off at about five hundred feet aboveground and reduced airspeed to smooth out the ride. “Try looking out the front window instead of the side window for a while, Brad,” John suggested.
“I tried that,” Brad said. “I think it’s sitting in the back. I feel all cooped up back here. I never got airsick when I sit in front or when I’m flying.”
John turned to look at Brad, and he saw how miserable he looked. “I think we better put it down, Patrick,” he said. “Brad’s not—” And at that moment they heard a loud PRRING! and felt a sharp metallic impact vibration from the left wing. “What was that? Did we hit a bird?”
“Didn’t feel like a bird,” Patrick said. “Back me up on altitude while I look, John.”
“Roger.”
Patrick searched the leading edge of the wing for the source of that noise. “I don’t see any—”
“I see a hole in the wing!” Brad said suddenly. “Out by the tip, just forward of the aileron! Fuel is coming out!”
Patrick saw it a moment later. “Now, how in heck did that happen?” he asked no one in particular. He turned the control wheel slightly, then scanned the instrument panel. “Everything feels okay, and the engine instruments look—” And at that instant they felt and heard another sharp rap on the airplane, this time from somewhere on the tail and rear fuselage. “What the hell…?”
“Hey, the back window is broken!” Brad exclaimed. They all turned and saw the rear Plexiglas window with numerous spiderweb-like cracks emanating from a deep round hole near the upper edge! “It looks like a bullet hole!” Brad said.
“Holy crap , I think someone’s shooting at us!” Patrick shouted. He mashed the microphone button: “Battle Mountain Tower, CAP Twenty-seven-twenty-two, declaring an emergency, requesting immediate landing clearance.”