Rescued?! Who the Hell Wants to Be Rescued?

He came too blearily. This was worse than before. Before he had at least been on his feet, he had at least been mobile. His memory may have been completely fractured but at least there was clarity. Now he just felt groggy, vision blurred, and a throbbing ache at the back of his head. Slowly his senses were coming back, although faded and distant with out real reception. Strangely though, above all else he recognized the bitter taste of gun oil.

Like a flash bulb shattering a dark room his mind caught up, painfully. The voice, the sound of footsteps, the second and third man. Bearded faces. A heavy blackjack, stars...

Voices. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted the decision. A dimly glowing bare bulb hanging from its fraying cord cast long gloomy shadows over the rusting surfaces of the factory floor. He willed his eyes to focus, his mind reeling, torn between slipping back to the safety of unconsciousness or making an effort to determine where he was. He was alone, he hoped. Left and right glances, the fog slowly lifting. Hollow and distance clanks could be heard, the sound of forlorn machinery groaning against age. He was shackled to a metal chair that was strangely bolted to the floor beneath him. "Ok," He said aloud. "Now what?"

As if to answer, thick Russian voices grew closer but strangely muffled. The loud clank of pins sliding and the creak of heavy hinges brought his attention directly to the wall in front of him. As his vision cleared and adjusted for the lack of light he could make out the steel barrier, like a giant bulk head, riveted to girders with a single heavy door. From his rusting gate poured an equal pale gloom to the one above his head, three men stepped out, the same three from before. Two took places at his left and right, their shear bulk made so much more predominant by their heavy winter clothing. The man on his left smiled a crooked, gaping smile, his leather like face drawing to fine lines around his eyes, a long scar running from his forehead parallel to his nose and vanishing in his thick beard. The one on the right was no better only balding, with his scars displayed on across his tattooed hands. What ever was amusing his friend on the other side, he didn't share in the sentiment. No smile graced his lips, only a hard scowl and look of menace flickering behind his eyes. His mouth a razor slit of what could only be furry. In either case, Lefty or Righty as he quickly decided to call them -no formal introduction seemed to be coming- the message was crystal clear. No, they were definitely not here to serve coffee or provide aide. No, they were probably not going to take the shackles off. No, asking wouldn't help much either. Goons, in any language or country are that very thing, goons. Their purpose was intimidation, which was working, or the providers of pain, judging by Righty here, the latter. They simply were not to be reasoned or fucked with.

The scrape of another chair being dropped in front of him refocused his attention to the last man. Thinner than the others, but still as heavily dressed and bearded as Lefty, he plopped down, the back of the chair facing his prisoner. Crossing his arms and leaning forward his removed a pair Ray Bans from his face, his cold hard brown eyes scanning his subject. A smile parted across his perfect teeth.

"Did you really think, honestly, that you could hide even this far away?" His accent a perfect mid-western English. American, couldn't be anything else.

Panic and fear instantly paralyzed him. He didn't have a clue who this man was, or why he was strapped to a immobile chair, or what any of the three wanted but his mind had finally shifted into gear and grasped the situation. No, it was something more that had triggered such a state of shock. That voice, rustic and gruff, resonating want and motive set off a string of alarms in his head. He didn't know how or why, he certainly didn't recognize the man’s face, but the voice was a piercing stiletto that drove home to the fiber of his soul. He recognized it instantly and that recognition meant pain and fear. Sweat began to cross his forehead, his arms and hands becoming slippery.

"You've caused us a great deal of trouble you know. Chasing you across dust bowls and tourist traps back home is one thing, but tracking your ass across half of Europe and in then on to this frigid place, that is altogether a different game isn't it?" He leaned back from the chair, holding a grip on the top, staring at his captive as if debating in his mind the appropriate punishment. "A game you've not played before. Perhaps you're learning faster than thought. Still though, it always ends the same doesn't it?"

He stood and pushed his face closer to his captive, the smell of vodka and frustration on his breath.

"I always win, don't I? No matter what information you grab, no matter where you go, no matter how many others lives you risk, or throw away, I always find you in the end... don't I?"

Ray Bans stepped back and flipped the chair around. Sitting loudly down he sighed, almost disappointingly. Clicking his teeth, he nodded to his assistants. A crashing blow from the left came down directly across his jaw. Explosive waves of pain coursed through his face and down his arms. Before he could rally from the first, another landed squarely from the right. The coppery taste of crimson began to mix with the still lingering flavor of gun oil. Again the left right combination came. Once just didn’t seem to be enough. Ray Ban waved a finger, his companions stepped back, but not outside of reach. A message could still be delivered at command. Ray Ban pulled from his jacket pocket the staged photos and falsified id.

"Interesting name you picked for yourself. Ivan. Can you even ready Cyrillic? Did you pick this to spite me or did you even know what they typed?" He tossed the id at his captives’ feet.
"Great shots by the way, didn't realize you were such the war hero. Is the tank in the back ground real or some paper mache joke?" Another flick of the wrist, the photos tossed next to the id. "What am I to do with you?"

The sweat still trickled down his back and arms, despite the cold air around him. He could feel it gathering around his wrists where the shackles clasped the U shaped rings. He was still petrified, gripped completely in fear and shock but somewhere in the furthest recesses of his mind, those not knocked silly from his new best friends, a plan subconsciously started taking action. Without commanding them to do so, he felt his wrist slowly, impossibly start to turn. Ray Bans stood and waved is hands, both index fingers coming to a point. Lefty and Righty gripped their captive, roughly one holding his shoulders, the other holding his head. From his waist, Ray Bad produced a silver pistol, an old 1911 automatic and shoved the barrel to his captive’s lips pressing them to his front teeth. He fought at first but a twist of the shoulder from his tormentors momentarily opened his mouth in a cry of grief. These giants who were so adamant about his lack of mobility must have easily pulled tree stumps by hand in a past life. His shoulder aching however became less important than the weapon now boring its way to his esophagus, the source of the familiar taste now found.

Ray Ban smiled ear to ear, his thumb drawing back the hammer of the silver weapon, it's pearl gripes gleaming. Mechanically it clicked, past the half cocked position, ever so slowly down to full and locked. It wouldn't take any effort at this point. An easy squeeze on the trigger, tripping the sear, would release the hammer, striking the firing pin, igniting the primer, burning the powder and pouring the conical hollow slug down the short barrel into the cavity of his skull, his eyes were wide, a strange mix of panic and odd acceptance of his fate.

"You are very, very lucky you know." Ray Ban spoke the words calmly, flatly as if delivering a eulogy.

He pulled the trigger.
The click was almost deafening.
"Somebody still wants you alive."

Cold, And Winter

"Damn does it ever stop snowing?"

The wind raked him again, the heavy coat doing little to stop it. Dark streets of midnight St Petersburg, what the hell was he doing here. No rubles, few dollars American, a fake Russian Id and forged war photo's, created in the back stage of an old abandoned theater, convincing at first glance but ridiculous to the scrutinizing eye, his clothes dirty from fleeing and the heavy wool coat, all he had in his possession.

"Damn what am I doing here? Damn Damn"

The fake id and photos still warm from creation were merely hours old, he didn't even speak Russian! Who were these supposed to convince? Avoiding at all cost anyone who asked questions was the only smart plan he could come up with. It was the only plan period he could come up with. All he could remember, the only though that occupied his mind to shear blindness revolved entirely around that back stage and it's dimly lit room in the wings.

"What was her name?"

He whispered to himself out loud, not intentionally as his mind raced the phrases simply fell out in the open. Dangerous probably, alone at this hour in the middle of a city that would suspect his actions. Americans don't travel at night, alone, poorly dressed for the winter, gloveless and muttering to themselves. What little attention was to be drawn was most likely focused his way and not in his best interest. Eyes from windows were watching.

"What was her name? Did I even know it?"

That forlorn stage, that thick Russian accent, she must have been the only person thus far that he had met who even spoke English, and what a beautiful sound it had been. What little he remembered before stumbling to that place, led by a complete stranger who was either sympathetic to his plight, or leading a lost lamb to an easy slaughter, was that of haze, tattered clothing and a fist full of money that he had no idea how it had come to his pockets. What he did remember apart from the whirl wind of flashes of photo bulbs, props and grungy costuming to sell his part as war fighter, were the piercing blue eyes.

Several shots, the mechanical click of the camera and old film plates being slid from the archaic camera frame, the smoke from the photographers hand rolled cigarette, the pounding of Cyrillic keys on the aging type writer, chemical developers, she spoke to him.

"Here" as she forced a clear bottle in his hands. "Will keep you warm."

The dark sultry voice, echoing in his head. Flashes of memory eluded him. The numbing effect of the alcohol, he froze in his tracks, cobble stones under his boots. "What happened next?" His eyes held wide, the fear of a fractured memory creeping in, grow worse. "Damn!"

Cloudy and slowly, it came. Like the smoke that lingered in the room long after the papers and photos where placed in his hand, the image came. Wantingly he almost begged for a clear view and vividly it came to answer his call. She sat atop him, stretched across his back on the hard wood floor, her clothes piled loosely near the fading curtain. How white her skin was. Flawless and soft, it almost glowed in stark contrast to the surrounding dark. She moved against him, pressing her body against his chest and whispering softly but cunningly into his ear.

"Twelve hundred" she pressed into his lobe. Holding herself as if to fight off the very cold that strangled the rest of the world. "Twelve hundred for all. Id's and photo's. Yes?" Almost playfully the words rolled from her tongue. Not even the sound of breathing could be distinguished from her accented grin. "You want to escape alive don't you?" eyes flashing a hint of deception.

He watched her, looking down her spine, the white, so unusually bright and yet so cold, her black hair cut short further confusing the skin tone and blurring the lines of what was and what was not before him. How much vodka had he swallowed? Was there even any left in the bottle? He watched her eyes flash, knowing that trust was something he was in short supply of and surviving would be more satisfying than knowing what was going on, damn the facts. That was then. That was before the door had closed and the aimless shuffle against the wind began.

"How much for it all?" His eyes just as darkly reveling his intent, after all, considering the circumstances, what else to do with a nude woman sitting so coyly across him?

"For you, fifteen hundred, all American"
With two in his pocket, why resist?

The cold swarmed him. What happened after only his imagination would be left to construct on its own. He remembered the white skin, blue eyes and dark hair. What more was necessary, save for directions? "God what is going on?"

He stumbled on blindly, was there even an embassy in this city? He could only hope. Ever more talking to himself and growing louder, unaware of the footsteps and eyes, closing. Perhaps he should have been more careful.

Find a gate, find a way out. Find a train. Anything. Thoughts raced through his head. "Speak to no one. No one at all."

"Not even to me?"

He turned. No voice he had recognized, gruff and stern.

"What the hell happened?"

One those days.

It's an odd feeling when everything starts to catch up. Laundry, dirty car, destroyed apartment, dust, work, sleep (the demand for and not receiving) Something within you begins to rebel. Begins to seethe. Begins to twitch. On a day to day, this happens to everyone. Trouble is, the relief system. Everyone has methods of zoning out, reaching Zen, blowing off steam and stabilizing before acting on such impulses as painting the far wall with the contents of the lottery ladies skull from the local quickie mart. Arguably, at least here such an argument will be made, this is defying a subtle yet necessary natural instinct to weed out from the heard the generally useless. For more than a few thousand years now, man has been slowly carving or modifying this instinct out of his day to day operation, slowly allowing the truly stupid o flourish completely unchecked. This has more than likely resulted an a -less than desirable gene pool- shallow stagnant and screaming for more than a chlorine rinse, an entire flush and drain is actually more in order but the very device that would have otherwise allowed for this has been completely numbed and subdued. Changed from an ax swinging blunt force solution to a mere grind of the teeth, we all, each and every, wait perpetually in line for the hopeless case in front of us. Shedding food stamps for cigarettes and playing the same loosing numbers as they've clung to for untold years, they prowl. Or in the same spirit of useless, the fat man at the burger bar, ordering one of everything followed by a "diet" whatever as if the absence of sugar were any hope at all for saving his lard ass from the imminent heart attack, lurking the shadows of clogged arteries overburdened with excessive blood pressure . We have endured, and coddled these people for far to long. It's either time to start loading some guns or exporting the stupid to a far away country....one with closed borders and a F.E.M.A outpost.

Once the case was made that such folks were needed, the stupid were necessary to carry out the remainder of the jobs that normal or intelligent people were unwilling to do. However to counter this, I submit that the immigrant population into our country, illegal or otherwise, have gladly picked up that torch, which by the way was dropped from the fat stubby fingers of the last cretin, and run like INS and hell were right behind them. Frankly, despite all the politicized bullshit associated with it, I truly believe that if you've come up with a clever way getting into this nation AND found a way to avoid taxation till death all the while benefiting from lazy or over burdened white people, then WELL DONE. You've found a niche and a way to actually produce in life, the same way those who never leave the trailer park or can spell the word career never will or could. I'll gladly make a trade, those who want to work in this nation for those who don't. Each can exchange to the others country. I give the trailer park community a week before they all kill each other with a lack of gun control or social norms to keep them all in check.

Anything it takes get the damn lottery lady out of my way.
Anything it takes to get that fat asshole out of the drive thru.

KW

RUN, DAMN YOU!

It happens. We get comfortable in our surroundings, our routines become set, we adapt and settle in. Complacency, much like an unchecked vine, creeps in slowly weaving in between the edges, deep into the cracks, ever bonding us to our own conclusions and small windows of the world. Cushions on a couch we’re all snuggled into. There’s nothing wrong it, to some degree it’s a natural thing. Many chalk it up as the career, the spouse, the home, the two point five, the white picket fence and the golden retriever happily waiting, slobbering on an old worn out tennis ball at the gate or drive way for the chance to play. For most people, not only is his normal, it’s a goal. Something to be obtained even against the most impossible or improbable odds, man’s hand extends out to grab this as his own. Who cares in the long run if it matters, if it’s even remembered, its stable and that’s what most people yearn for anyway, stability. Amidst the perceived chaos of jobs and life, which in itself isn’t all that chaotic and can be relatively predicted, kids grow up, go to college repeat what they’ve learned from the previous dreams of yester years generations, you grow old and hopefully not alone, the cycle carries on all the while we convince our self via stress and concern that the stability is the norm we seek and so love. Time rolls on but I’ve gotten off point. That grip, that vine, which binds us so warmly…comfortably, the boat that carries us across the ocean of time and life, safe and sound, with little to worry or care or want for…some of us are busy supercharging the engine! Some of us are busy drilling holes in the hull. Some of us are having fun, remembering that man never accomplished much by sitting in the cave throwing rocks at the sun at dawn to ward off its evil bronzing spirits, nor did we ever win any wars by smoking dope and not taking showers. Some of us are cutting the vines, tearing down the walls, feeding the dog chocolate, setting the couch on fire or seeking other chair like alternatives, living fast on an insane blend of adrenaline, caffeine, rock music, destroyed bank accounts and unadulterated (and sometimes adulterated) pure fun… AND WE’RE DAMNED DETERMINED TO TAKE YOU ALL WITH US!

Sit down. This is going be interesting.

Aches Pains and Lessons Learned

After spending six months cramped in, out, upside down and sideways around a cockpit while hauling fuel hoses, dealing with Jet setters, in house politics and the stirrings of a potential stalker(Someone else, not you Em), it occurred to me that somewhere through the duration I picked up about five pounds that I didn't previously have, nor wanted. So tonight, after such a long absence of physical effort (at least in the fitness effort direction, all other physical efforts have been purely aircraft related) I've restarted a running routine. Eight laps around an empty flight line during the last hour of slavery when the winds are calm, the sky is wide open, and no one is flying or taxing in. Between myself and whom ever the second man is, we have the terminal building and our attached ramp to ourselves. Time to put it to good use. (I'm sore as hell right now, complacency hurts)

Running has always been a good escape for me and these days it's a welcome stress relief. Although this is the beginning night of this new effort, I had previously spend months in the gym, right up till the point when the project got under way. When the work started on the Cessna, the work on my body (and the cancellation of the gym membership) came to a close. Now that she's nearing her completion I can shift focus slightly. Back to the point about stress though. I'm no where near where I wanted to be in my aviation life as I had planned. By now, I had pictured myself at the very least behind the column of a KingAir, building time and paying off loans. If not there, at the controls perhaps of a Canadian RJ. In either case, twas not to be, at least not now at this point. On the positive side, despite my delays I do, and can, claim two points that a great deal of established jet jocks, much to my own surprise, can not boast to.


One: I own, not rent, split, fractionally share, or finance my own Aircraft. This very point in and of its self at my age and place in aviation is practically unheard of and I am eternally greatfull for this fact. Many pages could be written about the pure potential that ownership implies. I'll write that book later, something along the title lines of "Luck, Looks and Pistol Whippings: How to own you're own Airplane and make it in Aviation without owing your soul to VISA"

Two: I am not burdened down with debt in any form. The majority of young pilots my age, flying any given aircraft at this very moment are strapped for amounts that can range between a few thousand dollars, or (and in the case of a good friend I have here at Lakeland) close too 200,000 plus, tack on interest and you can imagine why so many starting pilots out there are not the happiest of individuals. Trying extending the college roommate experience and live off Ramen noodles a few extra years and you get the idea. And we're all working toward the same goals. Paying jobs. Paying jobs in the field we love, that we are so dedicated to that we are willing to sacrifice relationships...close friends...family...financial stability and uncertainty for years to come...and time in order to obtain. Time is something that every pilot always wants more of. More time to practice important flight maneuvers. More time to dedicate to cross country flights. More time to be inked into the all important log books. Time. Ever single second, even to the most minute click of a stop watch hand or roll of a digital display, in the air, every sweat earned chronological moment counts. Within aviation two roads can be taken to take yourself to the coveted position of Captain, in any airframe, for any company. One route, and the one more vastly popular as the demand for pilots comes to a fevered pitch, is through academy or flight school training. Although quick, and known for producing quality pilots (in most cases) it's also the biggest pitfall. Debt, debt, and more debt will be accrued. The for mentioned friend I have, will start his new life (a change over to Air Traffic Control even after obtainment of every rating save for ATP) at a six figure average. Sounds promising. Factor in his debt plus interest and even if he can dedicate 10K per year to the sum total, he won't be free and clear till some time around twenty years down the road. Twenty years, he's already 28. So at the grand close of 50ish, he'll break even, without an aircraft and will probably float a mortgage from that point forward. By comparison, having no debt, minus the cost of ownership, I will take a longer road to arrive at the same place in ratings, but I will not fret the next twenty years while my eyes get worse, my joints stiffen, and arthritis slowly begins its creep toward my hands. No, I will be much better off. The punchline is the same either way, academy grad or self propelled student, the only thing that counts is the time in the logbook. Doesn't matter if it comes from dropping skydivers, or flying sims for countless months, the only thing that matters is how much time is in that little back log book.

My greatest problem at this stage in the game is my growing impatiences. Even with all the knowledge , all the numbers and all the fingers pointing in the same correct direction (stay out of debt), I still grind my teeth to think that although close to complete, my bird is still on the ground. Something I'll have to work on. Not one to end on a down note however (ask Mozart about his popularity for doing that) I will smile and convey to you, dear reader, that interesting things lie ahead for me at Lakeland Airport. Some I can speak of, some I've been asked to remain quizzically silent on until the time is proper. (It's amazing how flustered some people can get over silence and a smile)


Of that I can speak of, Lakeland is receiving a new flight school. Appropriately enough this is the same flight school from which I bough my now loved Cessna. Leading Edge is coming to Landmark. The new school will feature training and sales of Cirrus SR22's (realistically no basic flight student could ever afford one but it's nice to learn in a glass cockpit) In a surprising conversation had with owner, who's branching out from his home airport at Vandenberg, I've been asked in no uncertain terms if I would like to join the team once I have my CFI and commercial tickets in hand. To say that this is exciting would merely expose an iceberg tip of the growing feeling (and shameless smile) I harbor just below he surface. A paid (well paid I might add) flight instructor position is something I've had my sights set on since I stepped foot on the tarmac here. Motivation to get my training back in high gear. I've already re-cracked the IFR books and have the other Gleims manuals on order. The cute, curly blond with bright eyes who's transferring over from V-town, doesn't hurt the freshly added fuel to the fire either. Here's to steep climbs and hard banks. Never could I be having more fun. :)

KW

Next episode: T-hanger rent, grass runways and how to, and not to, land a tail dragger.

Sun N Fun, Frustration and Falling Short

After two solid days of sanding the right wing to the point of grinding away my finger prints (BTW now would be a great time to rob a bank I think) and adding up the sum total of the remaining things to be done to bring Checkers back to flying status, I've come to the regretful and sigh inducing conclusion that due to work and the lack of available time to dedicate to the project I will not b making the debut for Sun N Fun. To some degree this is heart breaking, culminating seven months of effort to fall just oh so tragically short. The bird will no doubt be in the sky by the end of April, nothing a good two week of solid full time effort could produce but with the insanity that becomes my place of work during Sun N Fun, and the complete unpredictability of a schedule, it's simply too much for one man to do. The A&P who's over my shoulder on this one is just as swamped as he works a the same place as I. So each day I progress a step further, less added pressure now without a deadline looming.


KW

Cessna 150 Rebirth

Getting Closer.














Ready For White.















Ready for Registration Number
















Ready for Display. (Note: That's not me in the photo's, that would be the grand master mechanic/renaissance original.)
















Next Steps: Wings, Tail feathers, and interior. Getting Damn Close Folks.

KW