Tiger's Claw

STEAD AIRPORT, RENO, NEVADA

A WEEK LATER

“It’s a real pleasure to have you here, Brad, a real pleasure,” boomed Thomas Hoffman. The tall, hulking owner of Warbirds Forever Inc. was carrying a duffel bag for Bradley as they made their way through an immense hangar filled with planes of every description, carefully parked to maximize floor space without creating a hazard. It was just after sunset, and Patrick had just dropped Bradley off in the turbine P210 Centurion. “Sorry you got here so late—I wanted to show you around and get started on some paperwork.”

“I didn’t mean to be so late, sir,” Bradley said. “The guys at Sky Masters threw a little going-away party for me after closing, and I put in a full day at Sky Masters before the surprise party, so it was a really long day. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, not at all,” Hoffman said pleasantly. “You have a little homework to do before your day starts, and it’ll be a busy day tomorrow. We should have a little time tomorrow to show you around, but I think you’ll be pretty busy.”

“Thank you, sir,” Brad said. He looked around the hangar in sheer wonderment. The floor was incredibly clean—it even looked polished enough that the overhead lights reflected off it—and painted with light gray petroleum-proof paint. There were about a dozen large wheeled toolboxes, decorated with every possible sticker, patch, and photograph, but it was all tastefully and professionally done. This had to be the cleanest and most well-organized workshop he had ever seen, he thought.

But the really amazing sight was the planes: Some were in various stages of repair; others looked brand new. There was everything from large bizjets to single-engine two-passenger light-sport airplanes . . . and warbirds. Brad was not a real warbird fan, but he recognized a few from World War Two, Korean War, and Vietnam War movies, and most looked as if they had just come off the assembly line. “Man, I don’t even recognize some of these jets,” he said.

“You’ll become very familiar with all of them and probably get type rated in a few of the more popular warbirds,” Hoffman said. He nodded to one of the showroom-quality planes. “That’s one of our favorites: an Aero L-39 Albatros. This one was from Romania. For a fraction of what any other single-engine jet costs, guys can pick one out and have it dismantled and shipped here from Eastern Europe. We check them over, rebuild them, paint them, train the owner, and they’ve got themselves a real nice jet that’s easy to fly and relatively inexpensive to fly and maintain. A lot of guys race them at the Reno Air Races.” He nodded to his right. “There’s the avionics shop, my office, the publications room, and the employee break room. Down that corridor are the company offices. The customer welcome area, pilot store, and Accounting are on the other side of the hangar.”

They made their way through the crowded hangar, through a dimly lit corridor, and past several rooms until they came to a door almost in the middle. “I didn’t want to put you at either end of the hallway, Brad, because of the smell from the main hangar on one end and the smell from the paint shop and composite layup shop on the other,” Hoffman said. “I don’t think you’ll notice the smells from either side, but if you do, let me know and we’ll figure something else out. You can even stay at my place until we get better digs. I have a spare bedroom available, when the grandkids aren’t using it.” He nodded down the hallway. “The employee locker room and bathroom is three doors down—I hope you brought towels, because I forgot to bring any.” He opened the door. “Here you go.”

The room was large, but the usable area was very small because the place was choked with boxes, tires, shelving, a large workbench, and aircraft parts stacked to the ceiling. Along one wall was a single bed with spring-and-wire foundation with a roll of thick foam material, linens, and a pillow atop it; next to it was a two-drawer dresser. The room was lit by a single bare bulb affixed to an ancient-looking ceiling fan. There was a simple folding-table desk on the other side of the bed with a desk lamp and power strip.

“I know it’s not the Ritz, Brad, but until we figure something else out, it’s the best I can do,” Hoffman said. “At least you can’t beat the price.”

“I’m sure it will be fine, sir,” Brad said, trying to sound cheerful.

“I don’t think you’ll be bothered by any smells in here from the tires and whatnot,” Hoffman said, “but if you are, let me know. Now, this is still a storeroom, so the other employees will have access to it between seven A.M. and five P.M. or so, so plan on being up and around by then. They won’t mess with your stuff, but just in case someone doesn’t get the word that I will squish them like a bug if they so much as look at your stuff, I’d secure your laptop in your locker.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The office manager, Rosetta, brings donuts and makes coffee for the employees at seven A.M. in the employee break room, but the donuts disappear pretty fast, so be warned,” Hoffman said. He nodded at the desk. “There’s a slip of paper there with the access code to the wireless router for your laptop, and a temporary user name and password to the company’s employee site and calendar. Take a look at your calendar, the linesman course, and the employee handbook online before we get started tomorrow morning. We do most of our internal communications on the secure area of the website. If you have any access problems, let me know in the morning. Your course books are all online too.” He handed him a cell phone. “Your new phone, all programmed with the important numbers. We use the phone quite a bit around here, especially for last-minute tasks, important calendar changes, and when you’re out of earshot of the paging system. Business use only, please.”

He stuck out a hand, and Brad shook it. “Welcome to Warbirds Forever, Brad. Your dad tells me you’re a good pilot and a hard worker. Too bad about the Academy. I graduated from there in 1970. I can look back on it now and say it was a good experience, but at the time I remember thinking, ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ But we’ll give you an experience here that I think you’ll enjoy, and a lot closer to home.”

“Thank you, sir,” Brad said. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Good to hear. See you in the morning.” And he lumbered out of the storeroom, the flimsy plywood door rattling loudly on its hinges even after it closed.

Yeah, Brad thought as he looked around, what in hell am I doing here? But then he put things in perspective: the space he had was similar in size to his bedroom in the trailer he lived in for years without complaint; he had a job, and he was going to learn to fly a few of those hot-looking airplanes back there in the hangar. This could be an incredible opportunity. He had no doubts that he could fly well enough to please Hoffman. Plus, the boss seemed like a really nice guy.

Brad set up his laptop, but since it was pretty late—and he had a couple beers at his going-away party—he decided to go to bed and get up early to log in and check his schedule. He unrolled the roll of foam on the bed. It looked like engine or parts packing material, several inches thick and fairly clean. He wedged the corners through the wires in the bed to keep it from rolling itself up again, wrapped it in a sheet, then made his bed. He did indeed bring towels, so he was all set. He set his watch’s alarm for six A.M., which should give him plenty of time to shower, check his schedule, and head out for donuts and coffee. He had brought energy bars and beef jerky, which would have to serve as meals until he had a chance to borrow a car and do some shopping.

He walked down the hallway with his toiletries kit and a towel and found the locker room and bathroom with no problem. He found his locker, already marked with b. mclanahan on white cloth tape and black Magic Marker. About twenty other lockers had names on them. The bathroom and showers were extremely clean. He was actually starting to feel at home here—it was very much like the dorm rooms he had seen at the University of Nevada–Reno, except for the aircraft parts stacked to the ceiling in his room, of course.

The spring-and-wire bed made a horrendous creaking and groaning sound as he settled in. He would have to find a piece of plywood to strengthen it, maybe even find a thrift store or swap meet to get a better bed. But he was too tired to let the creaking bother him, and in minutes he was asleep.

“What in hell is going on here?”

Awakened from a deep sleep, Brad nearly flew straight up out of bed. The light snapped on, and Thomas Hoffman was standing in the open doorway, fists on his hips. “Wha . . . what? Mr. Hoffman? Why . . . ?”

“It’s five A.M., McLanahan!” Hoffman thundered. “Why aren’t you up?”

Brad checked his watch—it was indeed a little after five A.M. “I . . . I was going to get up at six, sir,” he said. “That would give me plenty of time to . . .”

“You didn’t log in and access your calendar, did you?”

“N . . . no, sir. I thought if I did that at six I’d have time to log in, check the calendar, and get up and get ready by the time the others showed . . .”

“Son, the other employees get here by seven, they’re at work by seven fifteen, and they go home at four thirty,” Hoffman said. “You, on the other hand, have several months of preparation, training, and testing ahead of you before you can even think of following their schedule. Your day starts at five A.M., mister, and it goes until all your work is done. I assume you didn’t review the employee handbook or look at the linesman’s training presentation, either?” Brad’s expression gave him his answer, and he shook his head in exasperation. “You arrived late yesterday, so you’re several hours behind. Your first day on the job and you’ll be hustling to catch up.

“Okay, here is what we do,” Hoffman said loudly, taking a menacing step toward Brad. “The priority is making sure all the ground vehicles are fueled up and oil checked, but before you do that you have to watch the linesman’s PowerPoint presentation to learn how to use the fuel pumps, vehicles, and equipment, and then you have to pass a written test, and then you have to inspect the fuel filters in the gasoline, avgas, and Jet-A pumps before you service the vehicles, and you have to do all this in less than two hours, before the mechanics, customers, and clients arrive. Once the mechanics arrive, you help them get parts and supplies, help move airplanes, anything they need. Then Rosetta has employee, airport security, and schoolhouse paperwork for you to fill out. In between helping the mechanics, you need to prepare for your written systems, performance, and procedures test in the Cessna 182. But if you hear your name paged and you don’t respond in the blink of an eye, I’m coming hunting for you, and you don’t want that, believe me. Any questions?”

“Y-y-yes, sir,” Brad stammered. “How do I know how to inspect the fuel pumps?”

“It’s all in the PowerPoint you were supposed to watch last night,” Hoffman said, looking as if the top of his head was going to explode. “Besides, your father told me you were experienced on the flight line—I hope he wasn’t blowing smoke up my butt. Now, you’ve got ten minutes to get into your uniform, make me a pot of coffee, and get ready for your linesman’s test. The ground vehicles need to be serviced by seven.”

“Make coffee? But where do I find the . . . ?”

“Son, I showed you where the break room was last night, and all break rooms throughout the entire planet are the same: they have coffeemakers, sinks with running water, refrigerators with coffee, and cabinets with coffee filters, cups, stirrers, sugar, and all the other stuff. I’m sure you can figure it out. If you can’t even figure out how to make me coffee, what makes you think you can fly one of my airplanes? Now get moving!”