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    Crashing? Can we still make Atlantic City?
    Crashing? Can we still make Atlantic City?
    Crashing? Can we still make Atlantic City?
    Ebook79 pages1 hour

    Crashing? Can we still make Atlantic City?

    By Christopher David Petersen

    ()

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    About this ebook

    This is a true accounting of one of my flying adventures over New England(US).

    All seemed right until all seemed wrong... Flying at night, over water, in clouds with heavy rain, is not a good time to lose engine power.

    Thankfully, I had Bob along.

    3k word, short story

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherChristopher David Petersen
    Release dateDec 8, 2011
    ISBN9781465709080
    Crashing? Can we still make Atlantic City?
    Author

    Christopher David Petersen

    Christopher David Petersen (1963 - 20??). Born and raised in Connecticut. As a child, I was always daring and reckless. Never one to let common sense stand in the way of a great adventure, my bold feats of stupidity were legendary... Huckleberry Finn would have been proud."Surprisingly", that same spirit carried over into adulthood, as I sought out entertainment that included: scuba diving; ski Mountaineering; mountain biking; Rock, Ice and Mountain climbing; flying planes; golf, motorcycles, the stock market and of course, experimentation with various alcoholic refreshments.Later in life, writing became an extension of my deep desire to experience "new and exciting worlds". I have written several books, but none have been published through any formal channels... I've heard the process is long, painful and laborious, the thought of which sickens me. My foray into e-publishing came after a friend suggested my works could fetch dollars instead of dust inside my sock drawer... a righteous observation. My recent publications are the result of this advice. Further adventure/suspense novels are soon to be released.An engineer by trade, I have worked all over the U.S. and usually write in my spare time... that is when I'm not enjoying a bottle of Scotch and a quality cigar. I am a naturally long-winded individual, so writing is what happens when I can't get anyone to listen to me anymore...I love all kinds of genres but gravitate more towards suspense. There is nothing like the build up to a great climax... What a rush!

    Read more from Christopher David Petersen

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      Book preview

      Crashing? Can we still make Atlantic City? - Christopher David Petersen

      Crashing? Can we still make

      Atlantic City?

      Christopher David Petersen

      Copyright 2011 Christopher David Petersen

      Smashwords Edition

      It was a cold fall day in New England. I remember it clearly. There was a heavy overcast that blanketed the entire northeast. The cold air felt raw and distinctly uncomfortable, but I didn’t care ‘cause I was now an instrument rated pilot. I was a hero in the sky. Only a select few general aviation pilots ever move to this lofty status. Oh yeah, I could handle anything now that I had just obtained this new license the day before.

      Moments before the flight, I had called Flight Services and received the weather for my route of flight: heavy clouds, ceilings beginning at 800 feet; rain, heavy at times; strong headwinds along my route of flight. Yes, today I was going to put this new license to the test.

      We’re you scared? You ask.

      ‘Course not… and besides, I had Bob with me.

      Who’s Bob, you ask?

      Only the bravest, most level-headed, clear thinking gambler this side of the Hudson River. Bob was my best friend. He and I did everything together. We flew planes together, climbed mountains together, golfed, mountain biked, drank… boy did we drink, chased women… Hmmm, I better stop there. Wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression of me.

      Anyway, Bob decided that I was a skilled enough pilot to make the trek from New London, Connecticut, all the way down to Atlantic City, New Jersey, to gamble. With that kind of endorsement, what could possibly go wrong, right?

      Ok, so there we were, minding our own business, taxing down the taxiway when the engine decides to sputter on us.

      What the HELL was that? I asked Bob.

      Probably nothing, Bob reassured me.

      Phew… Thankfully I had Bob along to add clarity to an otherwise serious anomaly. Many hours spent riding as a passenger made him uniquely qualified to offer this expert advice. Besides, he wasn’t about to let a little thing like an unreliable engine stand between him and that casino.

      How much you bring? I asked Bob.

      Clutching his small rounded paper bag, he raised it aloft and announced, Forty bucks!

      Quarters… you’re brought forty dollars in quarters? I asked incredulously.

      Dimes and nickels… I’m saving the quarters for beer, Bob shot back instantly.

      Hmmm, sound logic, I replied, in mocking tone.

      What else could I say? After all, it was money. It’s not like I was going to turn around just because he brought denominations that seemed ridiculous to everyone but a three year old.

      I lined up on the runway, advanced the throttle to full and adjusted the rudders to keep the plane on the centerline. Rolling down the runway, I heard the engine suddenly cough, then surge. I looked over to Bob for consultation. Nervously, he held his eyes forward to avoid consultation. He was a true master of avoidance. The engine stabilized, I was at my takeoff speed and Bob was determined to gamble, so I pulled back on the control yoke and lifted off into the wild gray yonder.

      Climbing through five hundred feet, we hit a passing snow shower.

      Huh…  Snow, Bob remarked nonchalantly. And early this time of year… nice.

      Nervously, I looked over to Bob and said, Hey, numb nuts… snow’s nice for skiing… bad for flying.

      I’m sure it’s nothing, Bob replied with confidence.

      Moments later, we entered the clouds and I transferred my view from outside the cockpit, to inside the cockpit. I now had to rely solely on the instruments for flying the plane. Scanning the gages, I was like a finely tuned machined, flying with absolute precision as we continued to climb higher. As I headed west toward New York City, I climbed to four thousand feet and leveled off.  Aside from a torrent of rain that nearly tore the wings off my plane, everything seemed fine.

      Six-Tango-Lima, turn heading 180 degrees and hold at Deer Park, ATC barked over the loud speaker.

      Looking down at my map, Air Traffic Control was instructing me to turn away from my original route of flight and hold at an imaginary point in space, fifteen minutes away.

      NYC Air Traffic Control was notorious for this kind of maneuvering. The larger traffic took precedence over smaller traffic. If you were in their way, they simply rerouted you out of their way and forced you to hold somewhere on the edge of Timbuktu. This meant one thing and one thing only… Atlantic City was now in jeopardy.

      Ah, but I was too smart for them. I had a plan.

      Center, this is Six-Tango-Lima. Request flight change. Now landing NYC, I confidently retorted.

      I figured that landing planes take precedence over planes passing through. I figured that they would now HAVE to direct me to the airport for landing. I was so smart. I even smiled at my ability to out think my adversaries.

      Roger, Six-Tango-Lima… proceed to Deer Park and HOLD, ATC dryly ordered.

      BASTARDS, they’re onto me, I said to Bob. We’re going to have to hold over Long Island for a while until they can route us past New York City.

      How much longer will it take? Bob asked, with obvious concern that someone was eating into his gambling time.

      Don’t know… an hour, maybe two, I replied. …and with these headwinds, it could take longer.

      OK, wake me up when we get there, Bob said.

      With that, Bob wadded up his jacket as a pillow and rested his head against the side

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