The First Casualty

67

Colonel Hasty had never flown in Algerian airspace but he had heard the stories: Strict adherence to ATS routes to avoid endless military airspace, no matter how circuitous, constant fuel consuming changes of altitude and controllers whose English was unintelligible despite the fact the language was the lingua franca of aviation.

That was why he was pleasantly surprised to hear a very American voice in his head phones. “Air Force One, descend to and maintain flight level three-one-oh. You are cleared Cairo International direct. Stay with me. Oh yeah, give my best to your chief passenger.”

Though non-aviation-related chatter was discouraged on the airways, the controller had started it, and rank does, in fact, have its privileges, and Air Force One ranks right on up there.

“Uh, I’ll do that, Algiers Center. You sound like an American. Midwest, if I’m guessing right.”

“Indianapolis originally. Worked Atlanta Center till ’82. Listened to the damn union and went on strike in ’81. Got fired and been here ever since. Not half bad if you don’t mind sand, heat, and couscous with every meal. Good news is there’s no retirement age here, not if you have any aviation experience. Sure would like to go home, though. Maybe you could put a word in with your boss.”

Hasty had come across the world’s most garrulous air-traffic controller. Surprising he hadn’t been fired before defying a presidential order to return to work.

As is so often the case for people who work closely together over a long period of time, Patterson knew what his superior was thinking. “Maybe the guy just gets long-winded when he has a chance to chat with a fellow American. ’82? That’s before my time.”

“Maybe so but just our luck to run into an air traffic controller who likes to talk.”

Had Hasty any idea of what had happened just more than thirty minutes ago in arguably the most obscure place on Earth, he might have had a different concept of luck.