In last week’s episode, The St. Paul embarked on the first leg of her relief mission to Tanzania. In this week’s episode, the slow speed of the airship allows for significant planning to take place enroute…
The wind was light, and Captain Pruitt angled the bow of the St. Paul up slightly to begin the long slow crawl to altitude. They would begin crossing the Bitterroot and Rocky Mountain ranges in three hours, and he guided the airship to the upper end of her optimal performance range. The St. Paul was rated for operations up to 20,000 feet, but at that height, the thinning air would force her to use more fuel to maintain sufficient aerodynamic lift.
The navigator, Lieutenant Singh, performed calculations on a complex-looking screen that showed their route’s geography overlaid with current weather conditions and David listened with interest as Singh discussed various routes through the mountains with the captain. They agreed that 10,000 feet, depending on local conditions, would be sufficient to avoid any unnecessary turbulence.
The quartermaster soon put David to work, clearing all the breakfast dishes and cleaning up the galley. Ranell took the time to explain precisely what his standards were. “This should become automatic for you, after every meal, Mr. Wilson,” he said in a stern but friendly manner that communicated clearly to David that keeping the galley in good order was now an official part of his duties.
Ranell glanced at his watch before he said to David, “You keep working on this. I have some calls to make.” Then he went forward to the main cabin, slipped on his XR glasses, and began one of those strange, one-sided conversations with what seemed like the empty air around him.
David was nearly done with the galley and wondering what he was going to do next when Ranell called him from the main cabin. “Mr. Wilson, if you would grab your XR glasses and come forward, please, I have some guests who wish to say hello to you.”
Say hello to me? David thought, who would want to say hello to me? Nevertheless, he dutifully brought his XR glasses and slipped them on as he entered the relatively large, open area of the cabin. Now he could see Ranell’s guests. One was a tall, distinguished-looking black man wearing an expensive gray suit with a stiff white collar and silk tie. The other was a small, mousy-looking woman with shoulder-length brown hair that appeared unkempt as if she had just removed a hat. She wore a long-sleeved patterned work shirt with some sort of tattered tan scarf around her neck. They both smiled broadly at David and greeted him as he came in.
David had no idea who they were.
The man rose to greet him, but instead of offering a virtual hand that could not be shaken, he placed it over his heart and said, “What a wonderful surprise it is that you have become a member of the crew.”
The carefully modulated voice and British accent were familiar to David somehow, but when he stammered, “I’m sorry…” his lack of recognition was apparent.
“Oh dear, please forgive me.” The man reached down to operate some unseen control. Suddenly, his avatar transformed into a first-century Jewish priest in full rabbinical costume. “We met a few days ago during your RLV session,” and added by way of introduction, “Amos Nyamwange.”
“Professor Nyamwange!” David recalled vividly the two-hour long session with the Sanhedrin Council as they interviewed him regarding his Pandeist beliefs. “And you must be Dr. Artz?” he asked the second avatar.
Barbara Artz just smiled and waved to David from where she was seated. Strange sounds were coming from the direction of her chair, like the faint droning of insects and the movement of other people in the room.
“The Rabban selected Mr. Wilson personally to record the worldviews of people we meet on this expedition,” Ranell explained. “He is also our new steward.”
“Splendid!” Nyamwange transformed back into his business suit as he returned to his seat. “I do believe you will find that to be a fascinating experience. I look forward to reading your reports and gaining your perspective.”
“Speaking of your reports, Mr. Wilson,” Ranell continued thoughtfully, “I thought it would help your work if you had a better understanding of where we’re going. I was just explaining to my colleagues the route we expect to take across Africa once we complete our rendezvous with the Galeka.”
With a gesture of Ranell’s hand, a three-dimensional globe emerged from the crew table they were all seated around. There was a not-to-scale image of the St. Paul located just off the northwest corner of Africa. With another gesture, a yellow tracking line grew from the image of the St. Paul and extended southeast towards the interior of the continent. “Once the St. Paul stows the new fuel tank and loads the cargo of BarrelSafe Shelter tents, her range once again will be limited to approximately 1600 miles. This line represents the limit of that range. Our job is to identify facilities within this area,” he slid one end of the yellow line up and down, describing a broad arc across the surface of the map, “where we can secure fuel and ballast, as well as food and other necessities.”
“My goodness,” said Nyamwange, leaning forward in his chair. “You shall certainly be passing over some bleak country.” The flight path Ranell was proposing crossed the Western Sahara, the northern portion of Mauritania, and a wide swath of Mali, “I don’t have any connections in these regions, old boy. Let’s concentrate on the furthest limit of her range. How far can the St. Paul reach?”
“It always depends on the weather,” Ranell explained, “but using 1600 miles as a planning factor gets us somewhere around Burkina Faso or southwest Niger.”
“Well, if you don’t experience difficulties over the deserts, then Ouagadougou is certainly your best bet,” Nyamwange offered. “It is the capital of Burkina Faso, with a population over twenty million people. You will certainly be able to find what you need there.”
“We thought about that.” Ranell shook his head slowly, one elbow propped on the table with a hand on his chin in concentration. “But I think we’ve got some airspace issues there.”
Captain Pruitt listened to the conversation from the nearby cockpit. He turned over the controls to First Officer Foote and stepped into the main cabin. He leaned over the workstation, rotating the map image slightly before expanding the view with a gesture of his fingertips. “Lieutenant Singh tells me there is a big airport here.” His finger stabbed a spot on the map. “Ivan, can you pull up the airspace data?”
From his workstation, the navigator overlaid many lines of technical data, including an image that looked like a big upside-down wedding cake right over the center of the city.
“The St. Paul is a big aircraft,” Pruitt explained, “and this is the Class B airspace over Ouagadougou.” He pointed to the upside-down wedding cake image. “We’d clog up her airways with our size and slow speed. It might be better if we could find someplace nearby, preferably with some wide-open spaces for landing.”
“Hmm…” Nyamwange considered the problem. “I might have a former student of mine still living in Niamey.” He indicated a much smaller city across the border in Niger. “He’s a decent chap, let me make a few phone calls to see what we can do.”
For the second leg of the St. Paul’s journey across Africa, the team sought Dr. Artz’s advice. She was the assistant senior programs manager as well as the primary Ebola lead for the Liberia office of Samaritan’s Purse. She was currently on temporary assignment in the Democratic Republic of Congo due to the recent Ebola outbreak. In that region, she suggested the best resupply point was the city of Bangui in the Central African Republic.
The location was ideal because it was located right at the border of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Even though it was also a relatively large city, she knew of an airstrip located outside of town to the northwest. She’d used it as a staging area for her own operations and was familiar with both its location and the people operating it. In her estimation, it wouldn’t be difficult to resupply there.
The meeting went on for several hours until Dr. Ranell looked at his watch again and apologized, “Oh my goodness, I forgot the time. It must be nearly midnight there now.”
Both avatars made motions indicating that they were willing to continue. “Nonsense,” Ranell continued, “both of you, get some sleep. We have plenty of time to work on this.”
David stretched his back and gazed out of his viewport at the forested sides of the growing mountain range before him, lit merrily by the bright light of a noontime sun in a cloudless sky.
Once the avatars for Nyamwange and Artz had departed the ship, Ranell roused David from his chair and directed him back towards the galley. “It’s nearly time for lunch,” he explained.
They went to work preparing the meal. Ranell opened one of the refrigerated compartments and withdrew a whole head of red cabbage. “Do you know how to wedge cabbage?” he asked.
David shook his head, so Ranell patiently explained the process. A large part of their day was devoted to preparing meals and cleaning up afterward. David didn’t know much about food preparation, but Ranell seemed to delight in the process and his skills as a gourmand were exceptional. After laying wedges of roasted cabbage next to the roast beef sandwiches they’d prepared, Ranell added some hand-made chips and a warm chocolate chip and macadamia nut cookie. The presentation was superb. Ranell handed two trays to David. “We’ll eat after the pilots.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Doing what? Making sandwiches?”
“No, I mean all this. Working on the airship, doing logistics and disaster relief? All of it, y’know.”
Ranell glanced forward to where the crew was waiting for their lunch. “Well, that’s a pretty big question, and I don’t think I have time to do it justice right at the moment. Let’s just say that a long time ago I realized that my highest calling was to be in the service of others.
Ranell picked up another tray and raised both eyebrows meaningfully, “Perhaps this is a subject you should reflect on?” He glanced again toward the waiting crew.
“Oh, right. Sorry. I’ll get these handed out.”
Step lively now, David. Lieutenant Rodriguez’s mocking voice whispered softly in his ear. You’re in training to become a butler.
David bit his lip. He didn’t like serving officers.
Lunch complete, Captain Pruitt directed Lieutenant Singh to take over for him in the pilot’s chair. Before getting up from the table, Pruitt indicated to David that he had something to say.
“Mr. Wilson, I’m going to bed now.”
David was somewhat confused because it was just after one o’clock in the afternoon, but if the captain wanted to go to bed, that was fine. What’s the issue?
“As the senior pilot on this airship, I have to be the most rested member of the crew. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” David was accustomed to officers working different hours than enlisted men.
“On this ship,” Pruitt continued, “we follow a six-hour-shift schedule which splits the day into four six-hour watches. We do this to maximize the rest time for our three-person pilot team. In the United States, the FAA mandates that all pilots sign a form stating that they received the opportunity for eight hours of uninterrupted sleep prior to departure.” Pruitt still had more to say, but David was catching the gist of where this conversation was heading.
“The problem is that FAA regulations were crafted for commercial airlines, in which even flights between 8,000 and 9,000 miles that are considered ultra-long-haul typically only last between twelve and twenty hours.”
Ranell brought Captain Pruitt a cup of heated milk, mixed with vanilla and spun so that there was froth on top, and sprinkled with cinnamon and cloves. Then he joined the two men at the table for the discussion.
“Thanks, Doc.” Pruitt accepted the cup graciously before returning to his explanation, “Our parent agency, PIRA, received the St. Paul and her five sister-ships as a donation from the Global Multimodal Logistics Corporation. GML operates all types of cargo transport systems, including sea shipments in dry, insulated refrigerated containers and bulk cargo transports, as well as land-based trailers and rail freight.”
David didn’t bother to inform Captain Pruitt that the Rabban had already shown him all this.
“In addition to significant numbers of fixed-wing and rotor-wing aircraft, they also operate the world’s largest commercial airship fleet, with over thirty years of experience in fifty-eight countries and across six continents. The reason I’m telling you all this is because I want to give you an idea of how much time and effort it has taken to develop the in-flight rest plan for a ship like this. I intend to stay aloft for six days, with only four short stops to take on fuel and ballast.”
“The St. Paul operates somewhat more like a sea-borne cargo vessel rather than a commercial airline,” Ranell added.
“Exactly, Doc” Pruitt said. “Like everything else about the St. Paul, we are a hybrid ship in more ways than one.”
Pruitt took a slow sip from his cup, “Now that I’ve given you some of the background, let me come straight to the point.” David nodded. He could tell from the captain’s demeanor that whatever came next would be important.
“You must understand the wake-up criteria.”
David nodded again. He had experience with something similar in the Army.
“While aloft, I am the master of this ship, and anything out of the ordinary must be brought immediately to my attention.”
“Yes, sir.”
Step lively David! Lieutenant Rodriguez mocked.
“And yet my uninterrupted rest is of paramount importance. Do you see the dilemma?”
“So what you’re saying is that if I knock on your door, it had better be important?” David phrased the statement as a question.
“Exactly!” Pruitt nodded with clear signs of satisfaction.
“Typically, either the acting pilot or co-pilot will be the one to wake Captain Pruitt up.” This came from Lieutenant Singh, who was making his way forward to the cockpit. “So, this likely will never become an issue for you.”
To David, Singh’s demeanor was haughty and his comment seemed rude. Leave it to the lieutenants to make snotty remarks.
“However, there is more to our watch schedule that you have to know,” Captain Pruitt continued. Together with Ranell, the two veteran airshipmen described a complicated six-hour crew rotation consisting of four watches and their correspondent rest periods.
David did his best to understand the ship’s schedule, but the numbers and times became too much for him, especially when they discussed how local time zones would always be used, rather than Greenwich Mean Time. David appreciated the information they were providing. But it felt like the numbers they were pouring in him were leaking out his ears. This is making my eyes glaze over. He was feeling comfortable now. “I think you guys have some kind of numbers fetish! What shifts do I work?”
Pruitt and Ranell shared a look that conveyed some unspoken message.
“Ah… you and I operate on a slightly different schedule,” Ranell came to the point somewhat hurriedly. “Our job is to prepare the meals during the changing of the shifts. “We must have breakfast ready at 0700, lunch at 1300, dinner at 1900, and a midnight snack at 0100. So, the two of us will have to be up and around at least an hour prior to these times to get ready.”
Now it was very easy for David to understand. There were just four critical times he had to keep in mind: six AM, noon, six PM, and midnight.
Captain Pruitt took over from there. “Using the six-hour-shift schedule, I will fly as the pilot for six hours and then go to bed for six hours.” David had to work to follow the schedule in his mind. “When I wake up, I will occupy the co-pilot position. This allows me to move about the cabin and attend to other matters if necessary. And then, I will take over again as the pilot for the next six-hour shift. Therefore, I work for twelve hours and rest for six, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any time the St. Paul lands or takes off, Captain Pruitt will be on duty as the pilot, regardless of the shift that event occurs in.” Ranell elaborated. “That’s part of the wake-up criteria.”
“Right,” Captain Pruitt held up a finger as though making a point. “I just finished the morning watch, I’ll pilot next during the midnight watch, followed by an evening watch, and then I’ll be piloting again on the afternoon watch when we make the Canaries.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Now you’ll need to set up your wristwatch to adjust for the changing shifts based on local times. If the watch you are wearing is not suitable for that, I believe you were issued a standard PIRA crew watch?”
David had been issued the watch; it was still packed in his jump bag.
“Be sure to put it on.” Captain Pruitt glanced significantly at David’s bare wrist. “Lieutenant Singh will help you program it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Very good, Mr. Wilson. Now, as I stated previously, I’m going to bed.”
“Yes, sir.”
After the captain went to bed and the galley was cleaned up, Lieutenant Singh called for David. “Mr. Wilson, may I speak to you on the flight deck for a moment?”
David hurriedly stopped at his cabin first to grab his PIRA crew watch. He’d looked at it a few times but couldn’t figure out the complicated buttons and settings. He held it up proudly as he stepped on to the flight deck. Singh was waiting for him. “Here it is, LT.”
Singh rounded on David, and fury flashed in his eyes. “Just what exactly did you think you were doing back there?” he demanded.
David was baffled. He tried holding up the watch again in explanation.
Singh pressed his face close to David’s. He kept his voice low so that only those on the flight deck could hear it. Nevertheless, Singh’s anger washed over him like a physical assault. “You just had two of the most talented and experienced operators in the history of aviation sit you down and try to explain the simple basics of crew rotations, and what do you do? You roll your eyes at them and say they’ve got a numbers fetish? Are you kidding me?”
David tried to explain that he was joking.
Singh wasn’t buying it. “If you’re overwhelmed, you come talk to me and I’ll break it down so that even you can understand it!”
In the distance, David could hear machine-gun fire coughing sporadically. The guns are starting to talk, just like last time. His body went rigid, and he stopped speaking entirely as he stared into the flashing black eyes of Lieutenant Singh.
Don’t you just want to smash his stupid face in, David? Why don’t you try telling him he’s wrong? Go ahead, the voice of Lieutenant Rodriguez mocked him, go ahead and tell him he’s wrong and that you were just joking. I’m sure he’ll understand.
Singh seemed infuriated at David’s silence, as if he expected David to assist with his own belittlement. David spared a glance at First Officer Foote. The senior officer could clearly hear every word of the dressing down David was getting, but he just sat there, quietly staring into the night’s sky as he piloted the St. Paul.
Nobody wants you here, David. The machine-gun fire grew slowly louder, his heart raced wildly, and David wiped his sweaty palms on his flight suit. But David choked down the emotion. He’d had his chance, but it was too late to get off now. He was stuck on this ship with another insufferable lieutenant. You look scared, David. This idiot probably thinks you are scared of him. Just like you were scared of me.
I was never scared of you! David thought angrily, as much to Lieutenant Rodriguez then as to Lieutenant Singh now. And don’t think you’re scaring me now. Just like before, David determined to keep his mouth shut and just focus on the job he had to do. He had no choice but to keep it together and try not to throw this punk out of a window.