The B Team

Climbing As We Fall

“Rusty?”

The ferret grabbed for the microphone hanging beneath the dash of his truck.

“Yeah?”

“Can you be over at the intersection of A and K in about ten minutes? I've got an inbound for you for the south ramp, a pickup for Motorola.”

Rusty gulped down the last of his burrito. A young fur of twenty, he'd only been on the job for a few weeks. “Sure thing,” he said into the microphone as he jammed the truck into gear with his other paw. “I'll be there in five.”

“It'll be a C-130,” the radio voice of his dispatcher said. “Motorola will pick up south of Native American Air. Have him tie up on the outer row, and watch out for the fuel truck. He'll be re-fueling.”

“Got it, I'm on my way.”

“Control, clear.”

“Unit two,” Rusty said into the mic as his foot found the accelerator. He was at Tio Taco near the corner of Recker and Warner, a few blocks northwest of the airport. He'd need all of those five minutes and then some to get to the ramp at Williams. His foot pressed the accelerator into the floorboards.

# # #

There had been four of them. Tim had recognized Mr. Tanuki, and had been introduced to the other three. The males were both Akitas, large broad-shouldered canids in splendid, matching business suits. From what Mr. Tanuki implied they were the muscle furs for the operation, there to handle baggage and provide security for he, his guest, and the Intermountain crew. And then there had been his guest. Kimiko Chiyoko, to be precise, a small gray mongoose who had bowed deeply to him with a slight frown until it had been explained to her (in Japanese) that he was her pilot. Then her smile had appeared, all those dazzling teeth seeming to light up the ramp at Centennial.

Kimiko, Mr. Tanuki explained, was an up and coming starlet from Tokyo. That would explain the apparel, Tim thought, doing his best to ignore the evening dress, the flowing hair, and the suddenly inquisitive brown eyes.

In his turn Tim explained that he would be the entire crew for this first flight, a quick overnight to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. There he would hang out in town while Mr. Tanuki and his entourage attended the first of several meetings with crewfurs for the film they were developing. Introductions made, Tim had weighed and loaded baggage on the King Air. Inviting them aboard, Tim quickly but thoroughly explained emergency egress procedures to his passengers, showed them where refreshments were stored, demonstrated the various comfort items available to them, and gently but firmly admonished that there was no smoking allowed on board the aircraft.

All this was dutifully relayed to Ms. Chiyoko, who nodded enthusiastically throughout, never taking her eyes from the marmot whose shoulders practically filled the cabin.

Ensuring that his passengers and their belongings were safely secured, Tim slipped gracefully (for a fur of his size) into the port side seat on the flight deck, and within a few minutes both of the Pratt turboprops were whining in delight, ready to assume their duties.

Four foxes and a cougar stood in the cold evening air near Intermountain's hangar and watched the lights of the King Air climb away from Centennial.

# # #

It was hot in Phoenix. Joe ruminated briefly on that interesting aspect of being a pilot as their trusty mount waddled slowly down taxiway A at Williams Gateway Airport in Mesa.

Two nights ago he had been in his home town, watching the snow fall. Last night they had been in Columbus, Ohio enjoying clear, cool weather. The snow storm they left in Denver had stalled in the plains of Kansas, Nebraska, and the Dakotas, they had flown over it on their way to the nuclear waste dump in Washington. Tonight in Phoenix it was a balmy eighty degrees under clear, hazy skies.

It was dark and getting late. The big coyote sighed quietly as he reached for his cell phone. He was tired, dog tired in every sense of the aged expression. They had been late for their pickup in Seattle, and late getting off from there, hence late arriving at Williams Gateway airport near Phoenix. The reason for that had been the medevac call. Some fur had been grievously injured in an industrial accident somewhere in the catacombs of the Hanford facility, and had needed immediate trauma center attention. The commander of Matthias Field, a bird colonel, had personally persuaded Joe to persuade Intermountain's home office to let the U.S. Army charter The Bitch at the drop of the proverbial hat to transport the patient to Seattle / Tacoma.

“We aren't rigged for medical evacuation,” Joe had observed, thinking of the patient and his litter on the floor of the cargo bay.

“No problem,” the colonel had replied, “we'll send the ambulance and medical team with you. They can drive back.”

Three quarters of an hour and several telephone calls later Matt gave the go-ahead. The ambulance turned out to be a well-equipped six-by-six truck and a team of three, doctor, nurse, and driver. The truck drove itself on board and Slam borrowed some of the U.S. Army's chain to secure it to the floor of the cargo bay after consulting his weight and balance schedules. With help from Joe and Lola the vehicle, the patient, and the three fur medical team had been secured for departure. They had been gear up from Hanford at 1445, an hour and a half behind schedule.

While they had hustled up to Seattle / Tacoma Matt had made telephone calls to Motorola in Mesa and to Sta-Comm in Seattle, re-scheduling the pick-up and delivery times for the cargo The Bitch would be flying down to Arizona. The shipper and customer had been very agreeable, especially after having the reason for the delay explained to them. Coming to the aid of others still meant something out west, it seemed.

Late afternoon saw them securing the load in Seattle, and they had been gear up from Sea/Tac about an hour before sunset, fully two hours behind schedule. The sun had set over the western horizon as they flew south along the Cascade Range, the haze and low angle of the sunlight causing the snow-covered peaks to seem to hover in the air before and below them like huge, angular dirigibles. It had reminded Joe of the artwork of feudal Japan, the mountains shrouded in mystery and magic. He had shaken his head with a slight grin, quietly amused at himself. Millions of dollars of modern airpower under his paws and he was daydreaming about old Akita Samurai and their imagery.

The approach to Williams Gateway's shortest runway had been routine. Visibility had been CAVU, clear and visibility unlimited all the way down, and they had taken the visual approach to runway twelve left. Lola had flown the approach from the right seat and done an excellent job, greasing on the landing. Unfortunately, they hadn't been able to kill their forward momentum enough to make the mid-field turnoff after the first three thousand feet of runway, so they had rolled out all the way to the southeast end at taxiway P, and were now making their way back northwest bound on taxiway A to the ramp.

“So what do you think?” she had asked.

“Good landing,” he had replied without thinking.

She had giggled briefly, an intoxicating sound, even on the intercom.

“No, silly, I meant about the torque numbers on number three.”

He had looked at her briefly, across the flight deck. “The numbers are within normal parameters,” he'd said evenly.

She had studied the taxiway before them without turning her head. Somewhere out there a “follow me” truck had been waiting. “But you must admit,” she'd said, “those kinds of fluctuations are abnormal.”

“They are within proscribed tolerances,” Joe had said tiredly. She had been going on about this since yesterday afternoon.

“I know,” she had said with a slightly defensive tone. “I'm just saying that the other three don't do that.”

Joe had sighed quietly. “Look Lola, number three is the highest time turbine we've got on The Bitch. It's bound to exhibit some abnormalities the others haven't developed yet.”

She'd glanced at him quickly, her smile fading. “I'm just saying...” she'd said uncertainly before turning her attention back to the taxiway.

Immediately following her statement Slam, seated behind them at the navigator's position, had exclaimed “There's the truck!” A bright yellow pickup with yellow strobes flashing had approached them from the port side and turned in front of them, a large “Follow Me” sign attached to its tailgate. They had followed it into the ramp complex. Parking and shutdown had been routine, they had been on the truck's auxiliary power unit before the final prop had stopped turning.

Now ensconced in relative silence, Lola's concerned expression flitted about in the corners of Joe's mind as he flipped open his cell phone.

“God dammit,” he grumbled to the empty flight deck. The display was blank. The battery was dead.

# # #

While the crew of Intermountain's only airworthy C-130 was unloading in Arizona, a reunion of sorts was getting underway in the Latrans household in Colorado. Three adult females were clustered around the coffee table in the family room, two on the sofa and one in the wingback recliner, while the two Latrans pups lay on pillows on the floor, watching TV. Janie sat elbow to elbow with Annie, while Rachel sat up straight in the recliner. The females spoke quietly, and the sleepy pups were oblivious to their conversation, captivated by the cartoons that were slowly putting them to sleep.

Janie had known Rachel almost as long as she had known Annie. Back in the day when she and Annie had partied together Rachel had been the “straight girl,” the sober voice of reason. Rachel had not indulged herself with the vices that had almost been the destruction of her sister, and had pretty much written Annie, then Sharon, off as a loss when Janie had come into the picture. Janie's salvation had overflowed into Annie's life, but by that time Rachel was on her own fast track.

Rachel and Sharon were the offspring of two furs of old northeast family, and had grown up completely different. Where Rachel had been the bookworm and straight-A student, Sharon had been the fun-loving, free-wheeling, devil-may-care girl who was popular with all the boys. So Rachel had grown up to be a lettered achiever in college and eventually a vice president with General-Teradyne, and Sharon had... well, become Annie.

Rachel had kept her distance from Sharon through all the mess with drugs, sex, the whole party scene and, most especially, her first marriage. She was simply unable to be a part of that, it was beyond her biological makeup to even understand it. Yet she had always loved her little sister, had always prayed for her deliverance, and had always done what she could to watch out for her. So when she had gotten word from G-T's security group that somefur was asking a lot of questions about her sister, she had naturally gone on the defensive. And when she had found out who was asking questions, and why, she had hopped a corporate jet to Denver to find out for herself what the Hell was going on.

But first they had needed to catch up on family. It didn't take long.

“How's mom?” This was a loaded question. Since her marriage to David Kensington, their mother hadn't spoken to Annie.

“Good,” Rachel replied. “She's still able to get around OK on her good days. On the bad days her orderly does what needs to be done.” For the past year Rachel and Annie's mom had been requiring the presence of a live-in nurse. At eighty years of age, she was finally slowing down a bit.

“Does she...” Annie's expression finished the question. Her eyes implored of her sister.

Rachel shook her head in the negative. For all the years since her sister's brief marriage to the drug addict, their mother had not been able to speak the name of her younger daughter, let alone ask after her welfare. Rachel's eyes were full of love and tenderness for her sister. She knew what a knife in her sister's soul this subject was.

Sharon Winning whimpered just enough for the others to realize what they were hearing. And then a steel curtain fell around her, she took a breath, and became Annie Latrans. Life was what it was. The younger red fox took another breath, deeper this time, shook herself briefly, and carried on.

“Who,” Annie wondered aloud, “is Harrison Clement the Third?” She had not been present at the meeting between Joe, his mother, and his mother's lawyer.

“I don't know,” the older red fox admitted. “But according to my security furs, those who work for him have been asking a lot of questions about you, and Joe, around the DC area.”

Rachel Winning sipped from a tall, thin glass full of Diet Coke. “All I know is that this hack is pulling all kinds of strings and floating a lot of cash to get information about you, Sissy, and that he or his hired furs have been in touch with Dax. As soon as I found out about that, I knew there would be trouble. I confronted Dax about it, and he fed me a bunch of bullshit. I came here as soon as I could." Another sip, and then a follow-on opinion. "That canid never was worth the fur of his own tail.”

“You spoke with him?”

Rachel nodded. “Briefly. I told him what I knew, that someone was trying to get him to see you, and I encouraged him to ignore the information he had, to stay in Virginia.”

Annie grinned in spite of herself, thinking of the scene on the porch of her home. “You warned him?”

Rachel grinned as well. “You can't stuff a blade through a telephone line, Sissy.”

“Why'd he come out here, then?” Janie asked.

Rachel shrugged. “I warned him off. He didn't buy it, I guess.”

Annie's grin faded and she blinked, momentarily looking away from her sister and towards her pups, and then back to meet Rachel's eyes. "He seemed... I don't know. Sincere."

The cougar and the older fox both snorted in contempt. "You know better than that, Annie," Janie added, also looking at the drowsy pups on the floor.

A short silence stretched between the three furs. Then Janie looked at her best friend. “What was the name of the lawyer Maria hired?”

Annie shrugged. “I don't remember.”

“Harrison Clement the Third, one and the same,” Rachel interjected. “The same fur who was fishing for information about you back east is almost certainly the one your mother-in-law is working with. He's based in Pasadena, California. His practice is mostly with wills, estates, and probate. His record in the courts is fairly strong.”

“Pasadena?” Annie asked sharply. “That's where Joe went the night we were out there.”

Janie nodded. “There you go,” she observed sagely.

“Indeed,” Rachel countered. “This fur is as slick as an oil spill, and just as detestable. From what my security guys have uncovered, he's responsible for the story that got Dax out here.”

“That I had a terminal disease?” Annie asked, almost smiling.

The other red fox nodded. It was quiet for a few moments in the Latrans home, only the sound of Nickelodeon emanating from the TV battling the silence. Joshua and Marie were asleep on the floor.

Presently Janie smiled and spoke to the older of the two foxes. “I'm glad you're here, Rachel.”

“Me too,” Annie interjected quickly, passionately. “Especially now.”

Something about those last two words grabbed the attention of the General-Teradyne VP. Placing her glass carefully on the end table next to the recliner, she asked “What's so special about the moment?”

Annie Latrans looked at her paws in her lap briefly.

“Go on, tell her,” Janie encouraged quietly.

The younger red fox looked first at the cougar, then at her sister. Emotion made her eyes glassy.

“Oh...” Rachel said quietly.

Annie nodded. “I never told him,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Until two days ago. Just before he left.”

“Rotten timing,” Rachel observed.

Annie nodded again. “I know.”

Rachel Winning sighed.

“There's more, Rach.”

The fox's eyes met. The older motioned gently with a paw, encouraging her sister to continue.

“You remember the kit I lost with Dax?”

A nod.

“There was another...”

A sharp intake of breath greeted this. And in the ensuing minutes Annie Latrans realized just how much her sister really did love her.

# # #

“Jesus, she really does look like a torpedo, doesn't she?”

Jerry Kitt grinned at his companion, nodding. “Without wings she's just a tube with fins at one end.”

Marco Petrone chuckled, looking through the glass into Intermountain Charter's main hangar from the second-floor office of the chief mechanic. Below him, the C-130 known as “Numbers” huddled in embarrassment. Minus her wings, she looked nothing like the load-lifting aircraft she had been designed to be.

Furs crawled within, upon, and around her. The wing box modification was well underway, and there would be no sleep at Intermountain until this upgrade was complete. And while furs clawed about in her mid-section, as many more were hard at work beneath her tail feathers replacing skin, stringers, and the ramp mechanism. It was like a holy pilgrimage, these furs drawing together to make what was unworthy whole again. Again the striped civet marveled at the passion Matt Barstock was able to instill in his furs and the crews they contracted.

“When are you supposed to be finished?”

The brown bear swelled with pride. “This chunk of iron will be on the line in less than one hundred hours.”

“The Hell you say,” Marco laughed.

“You just be here in ninety six hours to start the inspections,” Jerry replied without humor. “And bring a change of clothes.”

“What?”

“Because if I know Matt, he's shopping for more cargo airframes as we speak. He's got contracts, and we don't have the engines to strap the loads to. So I expect that we'll have some more half-baked assortments of spare parts falling out of the sky on us, with Matt taking cigarette lighters to our tails, trying to get us to fix them before the engines cool.”

Marco laughed again. “You guys,” he chuckled, “are what keeps the FAA going.”

“Tell me about it,” Jerry said slyly. “Look, here comes the big dog now.”

Below them, the bulk of Matt Barstock stepped from the port side hatch of the transport and strode towards the offices below them.

# # #

The voice was gruff in its impatience. “What?”

“Fred Bostick is on line two.”

The Labrador grinned at his calico girlfriend. “Ah... Thank you, dear.”

Matt continued across the reception area into his office. Plopping down in the chair behind his desk, he grabbed for the telephone pawset and punched the button next to a red blinking light.

“Matt Barstock,” he answered.

“Matt, Fred Bostick. Got a buyer interested in the two aircraft you have for sale. I’ve got an offer ready in paw. Would you like me to fax it to you?”

Matt squinted one eye as he grinned to himself. “Two aircraft? I only listed one with you, Fred.” He might get a better price if he sold them separately, instead of as a package deal.

“I know Matt, but you also practically clubbed me over the head with the hint that you had a Citation available, too. I have a buyer with a solid offer for both. Do I bother faxing it, or do we haggle about it over the phone?”

Matt grinned. Horse trading was his third-favorite thing to do, and haggling over prices and conditions was a big part of that. Matt never went with the first offer, and always beat heartily upon any deal until he felt like it had been massaged and manipulated to his liking. Fred was a known quantity, ethical and industrious, exactly the kind of fur Matt liked to negotiate with. Sales folk always had a margin that could be impacted...

“Well, I’d rather haggle face to face over drinks, but since you’re in Roanoke and I’m in Columbus, I guess it’ll be by phone. So, what do you open with?”

“Four million, five hundred thousand for both airframes.”

Matt gave a short laugh.

“That might get you a ride in the Citation. C’mon Fred, don’t try to lowball me. Get real.” Matt frowned. Fred Bostick was one of the best brokers in the business, and had gotten to be so by being fair to both buyer and seller. Matt felt a bit put-off by the low bid.

Fred cocked his head a bit to the side as he considered his next bid, and then decided to lay out his thoughts before making the offer. “Look Matt, I know your G-IV hasn’t seen much use of late. You’ve been using your Citations for bank check delivery runs and light cargo. You’ve sold off all your other corporate-style iron. As I told the prospective buyer, you’ve refocused your business and you’re changing your fleet to reflect that. I know both your birds are in top shape. Jerry Kitt wouldn’t let you keep them any other way, but the market is pretty slack right now. Lots of birds are out there for sale, so what sets these aircraft apart from the crowd? What’s special about them that I can tell the buyer? I’ve got the goodies sheet you sent on the G-IV. What about the Citation?”

Matt put the pawset on his shoulder and steepled his fingers in front of him. Fred knew his business well. It was a shame he wasn't Air Force. Matt's best friends and business associates were all old Air Force transport furs, MAC and TAC veterans who were more interested in turning a prop than in turning a profit. Fred was a professional broker, and as such was unaffected by homages to past glories or recollections of past adventures. Matt might have preferred to deal with old warhorse heroes, but that didn't mean he could afford to ignore and avoid dealing with twenty first century sales furs. The Labrador took a deep breath.

“The Citation is a three. A very solid bird. It's the third jet Intermountain acquired. The engines are in their mid-teens, and the panel’s a year along after a modernization upgrade with full MFDs. The G-IV is immaculate. All up to date. The engines are six hundred since MOH.”

Here the Labrador paused for effect. “Now get this,” he said almost breathlessly, baiting the hook. “Some might want this G-IV, just because of what I’m about to tell you. Some might never want it, for the same reason.”

Fred’s ears perked up, and his tail flicked once. “Now you have me curious. What’s special about the G-IV?”

Matt Barstock smiled at the tone of the broker's voice. He might have him. “Zig Zag has flown on it. We flew her and a gentlefur friend down to Knoxville and back a while ago.”

Fred grinned and his tail flipped back and forth several times. The buyer had told him about their company’s adventures with the tiger-striped skunk. The price Billy Panelli was willing to pay had just gone up.

“Interesting. Anecdotal, but interesting nonetheless. Okay, I believe I can get the customer to come up to around, say...” Fred did some quick calculations on a calculator. “How's seven point two five sound for the both of them?”

Matt didn't miss a beat. “So-so," he replied easily. "What I’d be interested to hear about is what can come with that price.”

Fred grinned even wider. He knew how much Matt Barstock loved to barter for things. He’d anticipated that, and when Billy had faxed the monetary offer, he’d asked the tiger to also include some services and items they might be willing to give along with the cash.

“Well,” he began. “How’s this? A one year corporate agreement. Any cargo work the buyer is offered is opted to Intermountain, provided the cargo is larger than what a Kingair can carry. Intermountain reciprocates by opting any passenger work they can’t handle to the buyer’s company. If it works out well, the buyer is willing to discuss making it permanent.”

“Keep talkin’,” Matt said amiably while opening the bottom left drawer of his desk. That contract item could mean anything from an occasional medium cargo to a huge freight contract, but it was a nice little perk.

“Dead head service,” Fred continued. “Provided a seat is open and the buyer has an aircraft headed that way. Again, one year to start, and reciprocal.”

From his open drawer Matt removed a heavy glass bottle. “Fine. Okay Fred, enough with the back scratches. What about tangibles?”

Fred gave a quiet snort. Matt was good at this game, but Fred knew him well. He played his ace card.

“The buyer recently upgraded some aircraft to glass panel. They have three MFD screens left over, and a fully GPS-equipped Avidyne integrated flight deck system.”

Matt was silent a moment. He felt like punching the air, but he didn’t want the fox on the other end of the line knowing the deal was made. The display screens and avionics suite would be a godsend for Numbers, their up and coming C-130. At the moment she was basically a VFR aircraft with no radar, minimal and aged IFR avionics, and original flight instrumentation. Matt screwed the cap off of his bottle before he spoke.

“Well, I think you’re in the right ballpark. I’d like to meet the buyer to settle the deal and sign the paperwork.”

“Sure. How about I get them up to Columbus for a meeting and we all have dinner?” Fred was satisfied that the sale was made. Matt didn’t usually ask to meet someone unless he was ready to do business.

The Labrador nodded to himself. That was the way he liked to do business, drinks and dinner. “Sounds good. Let me know when, and I’ll pick the where. Now, who is the buyer?”

“Kentiger Executive Air Service out of Lexington, Kentucky. Billy Panelli is the co-owner who’s doing the purchase.” The fox's voice suddenly ratcheted up a notch and increased in speed. “Whoops, got another call. I’ll be in touch as soon as I find out when he’s available. Bye Matt.” *click*

The line went dead as Matt sat there gaping at the pawset. He slowly put the bottle on the desk in front of him, all thoughts of a celebration having evaporated from his mind.

Up on the second level, Marco Petrone turned away from the window he was still looking out of to glance at the brown bear seated at his desk.

Jerry Kitt was in turn staring at the open doorway of his office, through which some of the most blatant and expressive profanity either of them had heard in a while wafted.

“What's eating him?” Marco wondered aloud.

# # #

He was still staring at his cell phone when she found him.

“Hey,” she said softly, her drawl a tad thicker than usual.

Joe Latrans looked up from his position in the port side seat of the flight deck and turned as much as he could to face her. The center panel blocked his attempt, so he found himself staring over his right shoulder at her.

“Hey,” he replied distractedly.

“Slam says were unloaded.”

“Is he buttoning up?”

“The ramp should be coming up as we speak.”

They both looked at the indicating lamps in the center panel between the two pilot seats on the flight deck. As they watched, the “ramp and door open” lamps extinguished.

“Fair enough,” Joe said tiredly, and yawned.

Lola looked at him for long moments, even as he turned again to look at his phone. She started briefly when he flipped it across the flight deck to land in the flight case behind the starboard seat. He then sat staring out the forward panes of the windshield, looking at the horizon, looking at nothing in particular.

“Damn thing,” he muttered.

“What?” she asked.

“My damn phone is dead. I can't call home.”

Lola stared at the back of the coyote's head. “Do you know what time it is, Joe?”

She saw the coyote shrug.

“It's almost twenty two thirty.”

This elicited no response.

“You ought to get some sleep, Joe.”

There was a trace of irritation in his voice. “I ought to.”

As if of their own volition her paws found his shoulders. Gently at first, she began kneading them, working her paws in small circles as she felt the tension in his shoulders, and then felt it begin to ease under her ministrations. He did not flinch, or move to prevent her from her work, so she gently continued.

Joe was on his last half-ounce of energy. It had been all he could do to keep up with the aircraft coming down to Arizona. He had asked Lola to fly the approach. Hopefully she had seen it as a training opportunity, instead of what it was. He was too damn tired to make a good job of it. He yawned again, unconsciously leaning back into the paws of the fox-coyote hybrid behind him.

“You ought to get some sleep, Joe,” she repeated softly, her drawl thick in his ears as her warm breath washed over the side of his head. Her muzzle was very close to his right ear.

He nodded slowly, a buzzing in his ears. I'm almost there already, he thought.

Joe closed his eyes, and immediately an apparition of his wife appeared before him. She was beautiful, beckoning to him with both paws, her tail wagging energetically behind her in delight. The red fox smiled coyly in his dreams, the tips of her fangs just visible. He felt and saw her charcoal-colored paws on his shoulders, and moving down across his chest. He felt her body pressed against the back of his head, felt and smelled her warm breath on the side of his muzzle as she spoke to him.

“I'm here for you, Joe.”

He felt her warm lips against the side of his muzzle, felt her paws exploring delightfully. And just before his mind exploded Joe remembered the written words of his father: Clear air, strong wings, a powerful engine, and the love of a good lady.