“Bring that throttle back just a bit. You are a fantastic pilot, by the way. You're smooth on the controls . . .”
He moved a few feet farther from her wing as the airplanes sank earthward.
“Just hold what you have, fly it straight down that centerline . . . there you go, very nice. Relax, relax . . . wiggle your toes. You're flyin’ like an old-timer. Ease the throttle back now an inch . . . Ease the control wheel back ‘bout three inches, now. It'll feel a little heavy and that's just how it should feel. Lookin’ beautiful, you are gonna make a fantastic landing.”
The wheels were four feet above the runway . . . three feet.
“Hold that nose up just where you have it, now just ease the throttle all the way back, all the way.”
The wheels touched the runway, puffs of blue rubber-smoke from the tires.
“Perfect touchdown,” he said, “perfect landing. You can let go of the control wheel now, you don't need it on the ground. Steer the airplane straight with the foot pedals and let it roll to a stop, right there on the runway. Ambulance'll be alongside right quick.”
He pushed his own throttle and the T-34 swept past her airplane, climbing.
“Nice landing,” he said. “You're an awfully good pilot.”
She didn't reply.
He watched down over his shoulder as the ambulance sped onto the runway behind her. It slowed as her airplane slowed, then stopped, doors flying open. The fire truck, red and square, trundled along behind, unneeded.
As the control tower had enough to keep it busy, he said nothing more. In less than a minute his airplane was out of sight toward North Platte.
CHAPTER THREE
The story from the newspaper was pinned on the bulletin board at North Platte Lee Bird airport next morning: Pilot Stricken, Wife Lands Plane.
Jamie Forbes frowned at that. “Wife” equals “nonpilot.” It's going to take a while, he thought, for folks to understand there's lots of women out there licensed pilots, and more every day.
After the headline, though, the reporter told the story fairly straight. When her husband collapsed in the air, Maria Ochoa, 63, thought he had died; she was frightened, called for help, et cetera.
Then he read this: “I never could've landed by myself, but the man in the other plane said I could. I swear to God he hypnotized me, right in the air. ‘Pretend you're an airline pilot.’ I pretended because I don't know how to fly. But when I woke up, the airplane had landed safe!”
The story said her husband had suffered a stroke and would recover.
Airline-captain role play works well for students, he thought, it always has.
He stumbled, though, on what she had said.
Hypnotized her? He walked to the airport café for breakfast, wondering hypnotism, remembering thirty years gone as though it had been yesterday.
CHAPTER FOUR
He had taken a seat in an aisle up front, row A, expecting when Blacksmyth the Great called for volunteers from the audience, he might be asked.
Near the end of the show, it felt like fun to step up to the stage, though he doubted he could be hypnotized and wouldn't be chosen. Two others, man and woman, joined him there.
Blacksmyth the hypnotist, distinguished in white tie and tuxedo but friendly of voice and manner, asked the three to stand in a row and they did, facing the audience. Jamie Forbes was on the end closest to stage center.
The showman stepped behind the volunteers, touched the woman on the shoulder, pulling her gently off balance. She took a step back to regain it.
He did the same to the next in line, and the man stepped back, as well.
Forbes resolved to be different. When the hypnotist's hand touched his shoulder, he tilted with the pressure, trusting that the man wouldn't have much of a show if he let his subject fall over on stage.
Blacksmyth caught him at once, thanked the other volunteers and dismissed them to a round of applause.
Things had gone too far. “I'm sorry,” Jamie whispered while the sounds died away, “but I can't be hypnotized.”