A Time for Patriots

“Leaving one-zero thousand, climbing to one-two thousand, Three-Four Lima,” Frank responded. He pushed in the mixture and propeller controls, fed in power, and started a shallow climb.

“Do we have to go on oxygen now?” Kara asked.

“Only if you feel you need to,” Frank replied. “Go ahead and get the masks out.” The portable oxygen bottle and the three masks were in a canvas bag behind the pilot’s seat, so it was easy to open it up and get the masks out. Kara swabbed the inside of each mask with an alcohol pad, making sure to wipe hers twice — she always thought it was a veritable germ breeding ground.

As soon as they passed eleven thousand feet, the turbulence began. They felt an occasional light bump at ten thousand, but now it was a consistent light chop with an occasional moderate bump, and the higher they climbed, the worse it got.

“Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake Center, how’s your ride?” the controller asked as they leveled off at twelve thousand feet.

“Light, occasional moderate turbulence,” Frank reported. “When can I go back down to ten thousand?”

“Not until after Battle Mountain, sir,” the controller replied.

“Can I get VFR on top at ten-five?” “VFR on top” was an option for pilots on an IFR flight plan to fly at VFR altitudes — even-numbered altitudes plus five hundred feet flying westbound — if they were clear of clouds.

“Negative, Three-Four Lima, that’s below my minimum vectoring altitude in your present area,” the controller responded. “You’ll have to wait until you get into Battle Mountain Approach’s airspace. Maintain one-two thousand.”

“Maintain one-two thousand, wilco, Three-Four Lima,” Frank replied. His only other option to fly at a lower altitude out of the turbulence was to cancel his IFR flight plan, but he didn’t feel comfortable with that until he was around those thunderstorms — the mountain ranges in this area were pretty high, and if he lost contact with the ground, he’d be in a world of danger.

“Dad, I don’t feel so good,” Jeremy said. His wife immediately found an airsick bag, opened it, and gave it to her son. The turbulence was gradually increasing in intensity — it was now getting close to continuous moderate turbulence with an occasional jolt that made their bodies strain against their shoulder harnesses.

“Can we get out of this turbulence?” Kara asked.

“Not for another twenty minutes or so.”

“Twenty minutes?”

“ ’Fraid so.” He looked out his left window and was surprised to see how close he was to the thunderheads — probably less than twenty miles now, the minimum recommended spacing. The turbulence was undoubtedly being caused by the spillover from the tops of the thunderstorm anvil pounding at them from above — the spillover could toss hail and ice as far as twenty miles or more from the center of the storm. “Those thunderstorms are moving a lot faster than forecast.” He looked at his GPS navigation device — sure enough, they were fighting a fifty-knot crosswind. The storm was catching up to them.

For a moment Frank thought about turning back toward Elko. But that would really screw up their schedule. And if they had to spend more than one night in Elko — the forecast for tomorrow had the thunderstorms moving back in and staying for days — he could get reprimanded for missing that much work. He could take an airline flight from Elko to Oakland, but that meant more money wasted, and then he would have to take the airlines back to Elko to get his plane. Turning around was an option, but not a very good one.

“Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake, are you still VMC?” the controller asked.

“Affirmative, Three-Four Lima,” Frank responded. “We’re getting a little bit of rain.”

“How’s your ride?”

“Light, occasional moderate,” Frank lied. It was more like continuous moderate, with more frequent bumps hard enough to make the top of his headset hit the headliner.

“The closest cell is at your ten o’clock, fifteen miles,” the controller said. “You may need to turn southeast to avoid it.”

“Roger,” Frank replied. “Can you vector me around the cells? Can you keep me away from the cells?”

“Three-Four Lima, turn left heading one-seven-zero, vector for weather, maintain one-two thousand, clear to deviate as necessary to stay VMC if possible.”

“Heading one-seven-zero, Three-Four Lima.” Now they were paralleling the storm, actually flying away from their destination. If the controller was making a strong suggestion to the pilot to turn back toward Elko, this was it. But the storm seemed to know it. Now that they were on a clear avoidance track, the storm seemed to awaken, transforming into the snarling ugly beast it really was and turning to pursue. But the storm had one more trick up its sleeve first.