In last week’s episode, David began his duties as the steward aboard the St. Paul. In this week’s episode, David goes aloft for the first time as the Response Team members make their way by commercial air …
The distinctive whine of the turbines inflating the ACLS pads was followed by a cloud of dust billowing out from beneath the St. Paul’s gondola. Fully loaded now, close to her maximum capacity, the diesel fuel’s weight in her new tank kept the ship anchored to the ground, requiring the ACLS to lift the St. Paul’s bulk as she hovered on a cushion of pressurized air.
From where David sat in the main cabin, he could hear Captain Pruitt on the radio saying, “Tower, this is November-seven-niner-eight-Lima-Mike. We’re ready for departure.”
At that moment, the rising dust from the ACLS system obscured David’s view of the cheering and waving ground crew he’d been watching through the cabin’s large window.
Both pilot and co-pilot were busy with instruments, and it seemed like Captain Pruitt was listening to some radio traffic coming through his headset when he responded, “Roger tower, St. Paul eight-Lima-Mike clear for takeoff.”
With that, the mighty craft began sliding forward across the ground, leaving the cloud of dust behind and clearing David’s view from the window once again. He watched as the countless rows of igloos began passing by faster and faster. The St. Paul received eighty percent of her buoyancy (or aerostatic lift) from helium, but to take flight, she had to gain an additional twenty percent of aerodynamic lift like a regular airplane, from air passing over the hull due to her forward momentum.
Unlike with a commercial jet airliner, the acceleration David felt was barely noticeable, and the takeoff distance was very short. In fact, David was unaware that the St. Paul had even left the ground before Captain Pruitt disengaged the ACLS. The noisy whine of the turbines gave way to the muted, distant low-pitched hum of the four V6 diesel engines powering her thrust-vectoring propellers.
They were heading west to take advantage of the free lift offered by the prevailing wind of the Umatilla Aerodrome. As the barren sagebrush and tumbleweed desert gave way to the ubiquitous crop circles that comprised this heavily agricultural area, the St. Paul, still ascending, began a long slow turn to the east.
The Columbia River came into view. David’s focus was torn between the city of Hermiston that they were leaving behind and the incrementally slow approach of the clouds above. He thought about the virtual reality tour the Rabban had given him. I wonder if he’s watching us now? David assumed he must be.
Travis Craigen was energized by the familiar elation he always felt before a deployment. He’d fidgeted restlessly as the fifteen-passenger van struggled to transport the seven members of the Response Team and their jump bags. They carried very little gear since most of their specialized equipment was already stowed aboard the St. Paul.
As a rule, the six men on the team tended towards the large size, while the single female was considered the only Response Team member who could fit comfortably in the airline seats in the coach section. This might prove to be a significant advantage during the twenty-nine-hour flight they were facing.
Even though there was a smaller airport nearby, the most practical itinerary involved driving the entire team three hours to Portland, Cascadia, to catch a JetBlue flight departing to JFK Airport in New York. From there they would board a Qatar Airways flight to Doha, and then board yet another plane heading for the Julius Nyerere International Airport in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. They would arrive at 7:15 am local time. It was going to be a brutal flight.
Once at the airport, the team unloaded their jump bags and stood in a loose group while Craigen made final checks. “Duet One, you up Scooter?”
“We’re up, Rattle,” Thibido replied with his slow gravelly drawl.
“Duet Two, you good?”
“Good-to-go Rattle.” This came from Raquel Kedzierski. She was the oldest member of the team and wore her hair pulled back tight in a ponytail with a PIRA baseball cap. No one seemed able to pronounce her last name, so they usually called her “Curly.” Kedzierski glanced quickly at her apprentice Raynal Georges and then back to the Rattle with a quick thumbs up.
“Duet Three?”
Nick Jones didn’t bother to look at his apprentice, Kayson Wright, because he already checked him before leaving the Umatilla Aerodrome. He’d gone so far as to dump out the contents of the young man’s jump bag and toss out some unnecessary items and snacks. Jones wasn’t much of a talker, and he just nodded affirmation to Craigen.
Craigen nodded back. As he reached for his cell phone, he asked the whole team, “Passports?” And all the team members placed their hands on their passports to double-check.
The phone stopped ringing, and someone picked up on the other side. “Hello?” Craigen asked, “Yes, this is the Rattle for the St. Paul. The whole Choir is at PDX.” He waited a moment, “Yes, seven pax. We’re good-to-go. Wheels up at 15:00 hrs. local.”
Craigen waited a few more moments on the line. “Yes. Yes, that’s right,” he responded to some unheard questions. “I’ll contact you again when we’re wheels down at JFK.”
With the call complete, Craigen put his phone away and turned back to the team. “All right.” There was a look of excited satisfaction on his face, and he clapped his hands together, “Now let’s check in with Jesus.”
Wordlessly, the Response Team members joined hands, and the Craigen began to pray, “Father, we just want to thank you for this opportunity to share in the bounty you’ve blessed us with. We just thank you for the opportunity to help our brothers and sisters in need. Watch over this team, Father. We just ask you for travel blessings and to keep this team safe. Amen.”
Six voices intoned together, “Amen,” and the Response Team entered the revolving glass doors of the Portland International Airport.