The Bridge Across Forever: A True Love Story

"You said you were flying back to Florida today."

"Changed my mind. I'll go tomorrow."

"Oh, Richard, I'm sorry. I'm going to have lunch with Ida, then I have a meeting this afternoon. And a dinner-meeting, too. I'm sorry, I'd love to be with you, but I thought you'd be gone."

That'll teach me, I thought, for making assumptions. What made me think she's got nothing to do but sit and talk with me? I felt instantly alone.

"No problem," I said. "It's better I take off, anyway. But may I tell you how much I enjoyed our evening last night? I could listen to you, talk with you till the last cookie in the world is crumbs. Do you know that? If you don't know that, let me tell you!"

"Me too. But all those cookies that Hoggie feeds me, I've got to starve for a week till you'll be able to recognize me again, I'm so fat. Why can't you like seeds and celery?"

"Next time I'll bring celery seeds."

"Don't forget."

"You go back to sleep. I'm sorry I woke you. Thanks for last night."

"Thank you," she said. " 'Bye."

I hung up the telephone, began laying clothes into my garment-bag. Is it already too late to leave Los Angeles and fly so far east before dark?

I did not relish night-flying in the T-33. An engine flame-out, any forced landing in a heavy fast airplane is difficult enough in the daytime; black night outside would turn it thoroughly unpleasant.

If I'm wheels-up by noon, I thought, I'll be in Austin, Texas, by five, their time, off at six, Florida by nine-thirty, ten o'clock their time. Any light left at ten o'clock? None.

Oh, so what? The T has been a reliable airplane so far . . . one small mystery hydraulic-leak, the only problem I haven't fixed. But I could lose all the hydraulic fluid and it wouldn't be a disaster. Speed-brakes wouldn't work, ailerons would get hard to move, wheel brakes weak. But it'd be controllable.

There was the faintest foreboding, as I finished packing and thought my way through the flight. I couldn't see myself landing in Florida. What could go wrong? Weather? I promised never to fly through thunderstorms again, so I probably wouldn't do that. Electrical system failure?

That could be a problem. Lose electrical power in the T and I lose fuel boost pumps from the main-wing and leading-edge tanks, that leaves tiptanks and fuselage fuel only to fly on. Most of the instruments go out. All radio and all navigation equipment fails. No speed-brakes, no wing-flaps. Electrical failure means a high-speed landing, needs a long runway. All the lights are gone, of course.

The generator, the electrical system has never failed, hasn't whispered that it plans to fail. This airplane is not the Mustang. What am I worried about?

I sat on the edge of the bed, closed my eyes, relaxed and visualized the aircraft, imagined it floating in front of me. Scanned it smoothly from nose to tail, watching for something wrong. Just a few minor spots showed up ... the tread on one tire was nearly smooth, a dzus fastener on the plenum chamber door was worn, the tiny hydraulic leak way in the middle of the engine compartment that we hadn't found. Definitely no warning, telepathically, that the electrical system or any system was going to blow up. And yet, when I tried to visualize myself arriving in Florida tonight, I couldn't do it.

Of course. I wouldn't go to Florida. I'd land before dark, somewhere else.

Even so. I could not see myself walking away from the T-33 this afternoon anywhere. Such an easy thing, it ought to be, to watch that in my mind. There I am, engine shut

down; can you see that, Richard? You're shutting the engine down at some airport where you've landed. . . .

I couldn't see it.

How about final approach? Surely you can see the turn, the runway swinging majestically up from earth, landing gear is down, three little wheel-down pictures to show it's locked?

Nothing.

Well, heck, I thought. Not my electrical powers failed today but my psychic ones.

I reached for the phone and called the weather station. It would be fine all the way to New Mexico, the lady said, then I'd overtake a cold front, thunderstorms with tops to 39,000 feet. I'd clear the thunderstorm-tops at 41,000 if the T could stagger up that high. Why couldn't I visualize myself landing safely?

One more callv to the hangar.

"Ted? Hi, it's Richard. I'll be down in about an hour- would you roll out the T, make sure she's got full fuel? Oxygen's OK, oil's OK. She might take half a pint of hydraulic fluid."

On the bed I laid out maps, took notes of the navigation frequencies, headings, altitudes I'd need in flight. I computed times en route, fuel burned. We could climb to 41,000 if we had to, but just barely.