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Fly The Friendly Skies (Or possibly a fifth addition to the original Airport film series) The receptionist ended her call from the boss in the head office then looked to the man sitting in the waiting area and told him his meeting was next. Tim Benson set the copy of "London Life" down then got up, smoothed his suit and snapped the handle of his briefcase. He nodded, smiling as he passed the receptionist then began the climb up the half dozen steps behind the desk in the large waiting room and entered the left door of the large double doors centered on the well carpeted walkway. Another receptionist waited at her desk inside. Tim was immediately led into the inner sanctum through another set of double doors that led into the main corporate office. An older British man met him at mid-point then shook his hand. Tim noticed the well combed grey hair and the Saville Row suit as the man ushered him to one of the leather chairs in front of the palatial desk. Tim's hair was well combed and pulled back but the sight of even a short pony tail did not impress. The office was lined in heavy paneling, books lined the shelves and a large floor globe stood near the bank of windows that overlooked central London from the twentieth floor. The day was overcast, a drizzling rain was threatening. Tim heard the leather chair creak as he took his seat and when Ulster Grant, one of the upper London CEO's made his way behind his desk, the only other sound to be heard was the ticking of a large, ornate Grandfather clock standing guard along one of the burnished oak walls. Mr. Grant took his seat then reached for a manila folder. Everything seemed in perfect order. Tim was up for his latest job promotion, a career advancement as a corporate pilot for this very company he'd been at for the past fifteen years. The job had basically been settled, Tim was in his mid thirties and now rotating into the upper positions that the older pilots were planning on leaving for their retirement. This job interview was only a get-to-know-you handshake affair. Tim's licenses and credentials were all up to date including his time in the new corporate 747. The company owned three. He'd been on the Chicago to New York route mostly and sometimes on extensions to Los Angeles and San Francisco as he built his time. After two runs to Hawaii Tim was now certified "world class" and had well earned his new captain's status. "You started flying in the States as a... crop duster," Mr. Grant mused at looking at the start of the report before all the real records began to pile up in several pages of print. Single engine cargo, then from VFR to full IFR ratings then the multi-engine classification, then a few more ratings and finally the ATP (air-transport-pilot) along with larger craft and finally jets. "Ah, yeah. Yes sir. Got started as a kid. I worked the line pumping gas and then worked with the spray crews in the summer for extra hours. I figured it was easier to fly than it was to haul chemicals and flag fields and there was more money in it. But making a living twelve feet off the ground, you either get good fast or you ain't around long," Tim recalled with a well earned sense of satisfaction. "I liked flying and figured I could do more with it so I got my ratings and started flying basic charter." "And here we are," Mr. Grant said as he paged through the file. "Never married?" "No. Never seemed to have the time I guess," Tim answered. But then he noticed Mr. Grant wasn't smiling. "I have my ratings for our latest heavy jets as well as current ratings in all the rest in the fleet. I'm looking forward to moving up and continuing on," Tim added with confidence. But it didn't change Mr. Grant's expression. Mr. Grant got up from his desk and moved to a bar. He took out two stout crystal glasses, added a few ice cubes then poured a measure of single malt Scotch into each of the glasses. He handed Tim a drink then went to his desk and dug out a cigar from a wooden humidor stationed on his desk. Tim watched as he clipped the tip then lit the cigar with a wooden match, lighting the tip and getting it glowing before taking the first puff. The glowing match in the ash tray sent a filament of smoke wafting up from the desk as Mr. Grant took his glass and cigar to the large windows. He took a sip of his drink then surveyed the weather. "You're from Chicago? I hear you get cold winters but not so much dreary rain and of course none of our London fog," Mr. Grant said trying to diffuse his mental picture of a very real problem. "Yeah, been there for ten years now. Winters are cold but you get used to them. I don't care for the rainy days either," Tim said after sipping the stout whiskey and blowing the taste out with an open mouth. He preferred beer, Miller's finest instead of hard liquor. "Ungh... Where is this going Mr. Grant? I was told this meeting was just a courtesy visit and that this was a done deal," Tim gasped slightly. Mr. Grant returned to his desk. He mentioned a man named Nigel Wiggens, another named Colin Squiggs, and a couple others. Tim had met several of the upper level men and women in the company but the crux of the problem was that Messers Nigel and Colin had been at a club in London and had seen Tim in uncharacteristic drag! It was a weekend with no alcohol near any flight times but this personal proclivity was apparently beyond company policy. Nigel and Colin had seen and identified Tim at the club. Tim had seen them as well but he didn't interact and was soon away from the crowded club and in a black taxi being driven out of there and back to his hotel. Tim didn't have to admit anything. There was already a phone picture on file. Of course there had been rumors, snide remarks, there always is these days. Tim was short and slight and not on the burly end of the male spectrum so he was an easy target. And he rarely dated and was a bit of a loner, two more strikes against. He put up with the teasing when it happened from time to time but preferred to let his massive talent speak for itself. And he had talent, otherwise he wouldn't have made it this far. It's just that with a "blue-chip" company it was soon explained. "They didn't want any waves in the pond." Of course there are discrimination laws, laws in abundance now, but in the true brutal reality of the world and in business the old rules still apply. It's not what you know, it's who you know. And for those that remain to get along, you go along. Fifteen years down the drain. Tim felt the grief now and the burn of the last of the full shot of Scotch as he drained the glass then set it on the top of Mr. Grant's polished oak desk. An entire career ended all because of an unfortunate "hobby," At this point he didn't much care about the cold glass leaving a ring. He smiled and finished the pleasentries then left the office with three months severance but still, out of a job. It was a bit funny, him being discharged. Especially after the company cost to pay for Tim's training and certifications pertaining to his upper level job. But none of that mattered now. The night club started as a gay bar but over the past thirty years had become one of Soho London's hottest venues. This was the only club Tim had gone to and he figured he'd get by and have a little fun on one of his stays in London with some of the locals he'd met on his trips. At the time he was building his overseas trips as co-pilot and then PIC (Pilot In Command) of a Gulfstream IV. He liked visiting London three times or so every year. Tim wasn't fond of English beer, too close to room temp and too heavy, no fan of even Guinness. He talked the maid at the hotel out of a handful of those little airline style bottles of whiskey enroute to his room with a couple cans of Coke Classic so he could sit and ponder what next. Not a happy evening as he switched on the television then sat on his bed and reached for his briefcase. All his stuff was already packed in his travel bags for the return trip home in two days. He'd have to book a return flight now. Commercial. Tim looked through the company brochure and some of his flight charts and other flight material and books and things and came across his flight data card, one that hangs around the neck from a company sash. He also came upon a golden ticket! Now, he'd been fired but this was an unrestricted ticket home if he could catch a flight. And being a former employee he couldn't be refused holding this ticket, it was one of the company perks. He searched his briefcase and looked over another company brochure. A return flight was available, and on one of the new 747's, probably the very one he would have been flying. And then he had the strangest thought. Mrs. Cobblepotts ! He actually chuckled at the thought. He picked up the phone. Two days later, early morning, a black taxi rolled along the London streets near Bond Street and Piccadilly Circus. The cab pulled up to the curb. Tim exited, paid the driver then began walking the long shop lined street. He finally stopped at an old style white painted shop called " Cobblepotts: Exclusive Women's Fashions." A few similar shops lined both sides of the street but this one was a classic and the best. Tim had been here before and had shopped online, he knew Mrs. Cobblepotts. Not only that, a full service hair salon was built onto the side of the shop. An inside walkway joined both establishments. Tim had always had longish hair but it was always well kept and always in a tight pony tail. His long hair had been a company gripe but only one of the few measures Tim rebelled against. The little bell at the top of the white wooden door tinkled at Tim entered the shop. "Was it cream and three sugars or only two?" Mrs. Coddlepotts asked. Two fingers up was the reply as she poured the Earl Grey tea into the bone china service. It was early and the place was quiet and apart from two older women checking the wares, empty. Polished floors in places and pale white carpet around the entrance with pink pastel paint, feminine draperies and a vintage French Provincial look throughout the store. She'd learned of Tim and his "hobby" and strangely enough she didn't mind and they got along famously. Mrs. Cobblepotts, widowed not long ago kept charge of her still going but alas, flagging business. It would be a real shame once this place was gone. Women of today didn't dress anymore and her styles were more than slightly out of date, vintage fashions still abounded here. The older women customers were fewer now with Father time taking care of most of them, the nursing homes the rest for those that couldn't travel anymore. But no doubt, the place was a crossdressing nirvana! They sipped their tea and Mrs. Cobblepotts followed along with her note pad as Tim made his choices. Full vintage sturdy white foundations lined the racks and frothy taffeta and nylon and satin slips, camisoles, petticoats and the lot frothed, folded on the shelves. Women's skirts and classic satin blouses lined another row while classic house dresses and day dresses of rayon and nylon and satin fully tailored and fully lined filled still more hangar space. There were hats and ribbons and accessories of every kind and there was even a full range of classic pantyhose in all color and style and the ever present collection of classic ladies nylon stockings, all sheer and plain knit, not a mesh pair in the entire store all neatly stacked in sized and colored rows in their neat plastic packets. All hose in various sizes and long length in shiny, slippery regular reinforced heel and toe and others fully fashioned with various heel treatments. Classic. Another department held all types of women's shoes, some daytime classics, with others the sought after hand made high heeled stilettos. Mrs. Cobblepotts had learned long ago to cater to men as the women customers became fewer. And besides the men usually bought and spent more. "I hope you're enjoying your latest trip to London," She said with her grandmotherly smile as she finished her tea. But during the visit she noticed Tim's angst. He mentioned his situation which saddened Mrs. Cobblepotts but she kept her spirit cheerful as they continued through the store. "I'd like most all of this shipped to Chicago. But the rest?... I think I'll change here if that's okay Mrs. Cobblepotts ?" He said to her as she smiled back at the huge business Tim had just generated with his selections. A kid in a candy store. "Yeah, I think I want to do it. Today, the whole way. Is Ms. Elise still next door doing those real hair sets?" he inquired. Back at the counter as she collected the tea cups for the silver service she mentioned that her long time friend Elise was gone now but her eldest daughter had taken over the shop. Tim felt the rush he hadn't felt in ages. Not many knew him in London town, his job was done so it wouldn't matter and as far as Chicago? Well, Tim had other plans already in the works for that. This idea would be the spit-in-the-eye to the sniggering peers and a flick on the nose to those of the upper crust. Of course Mrs. Cobblepotts exclusive fashions was full service. Dressing rooms were put aside and a bath was started in the large full bath in the back near a makeup vanity area as Tim's items were gathered for immediate use and to ship home. Of course Tim presented his gold American Express card to a grateful Mrs. Cobblepotts, including the tab for the salon visit and all taxes. The morning tea however was on the house. The salon visit took nearly as long as the outfitting but two and a half hours later another black London cabbie pulled up in front of the shop. Tim exited, this time purse in hand as he clicked on his high, black patent leather stiletto heels as Mrs. Cobblepotts smiled and waved goodbye. The driver wasn't sure at first. An upper class lady leaving an upper class store in an upper class location dressed like that was rare these days. He noticed the dangle earrings and pearl necklace, the smooth look, the strict, tightly styled feminine vintage hair set. He noticed the heavy vintage makeup and even through the glass partition he could smell the heavy floral perfume. Tim had the driver return him to his hotel suite. He returned with his bags and briefcase now carried by a porter. The bags were loaded and Tim got back into the cab. "Take me to Heathrow driver. South end, corporate gate if you will," Tim asked in a not so feminine voice. The driver looked at Tim once again with slight wonder but then nodded as he rolled along. A fare was a fare. The loud click of the stiletto heels was evident on the floor as Tim entered the far end of the secondary business terminal concourse. He could feel every stitch he was wearing now, he could feel his makeup and taste his gloss red lipstick and he could smell the perfume that surrounded him as he pulled his wheeled bag by the handle, the briefcase now stacked through the handle while his black purse dangled from his right forearm. A few people took note. A few men noticed the shiny smooth nylon clad legs. The long camel tan car coat, the pastel silk scarf over the tightly set hair and the white gloves holding the handle as he minced and wiggled to the company counter to turn in his bags for his flight. The nylons zipping their "shick-shick-shick" metronome along with the white taffeta underskirts whispering loudly against the nylon lining of the tailored woman's skirt. The lady at the desk was about to refuse Tim admission but once she noticed his corporate gold ticket he tapped on the counter she had no choice. And in seeing Tim's corporate flight badge he held behind the ticket with his white gloved hand that was it. Tim began his walk into the boarding area and disappeared into the elevated enclosed walkway that led to the door of the waiting 747. A stewardess met him at the door. She looked Tim over, not sure at first but yes, this was a man dressed exquisitely in vintage fashion but nonetheless a man dressed as a woman. Evidently Tim's story hadn't circulated just yet. But it was about to. For as the stewardess was about to turn him away he handed her his golden ticket, first class of course. He didn't get a seat in the vaunted upstairs where the elite took their places but he was allowed front passage in the center aisle of the main floor. The plane wasn't full, few corporate flights are, part of the advantage of the upper class en- route to their gold star destinations. Tim heard the ding of the bell then heard the enclosed walkway being withdrawn. The stewardesses closed and sealed the door then instructed all passengers to read the safety information provided at each seat. There were maybe fifty passengers in all for the direct to Chicago flight. They settled down and buckled in then gave their placards quick notice before take off. The return would leave Chicago then jet to New York City and then back to London later in the day but that wouldn't be Tim's problem. He heard the engines spool and felt the heavy jet begin to roll and finally rotate into the sky. He had been looking through a magazine to avoid talking to others as the plane rolled for take off. But by now he'd already seen others looking and whispering. An hour later as the jet winged it's way across the northern Atlantic ocean a few folks were sleeping, some chatting while others watched movies or played video games while others simply looked out the windows. Tim sat alone in his front center row. He finally took off his pastel silk scarf and put it in his black leather purse along with his gloves. He set the purse on the chair next to him on his folded ladies car coat. He smoothed his skirt in his seat and took the glass of champaigne the stewardess had poured from her cart. She moved off pouring more champaigne and making drinks. Tim turned down the offers from a large snack tray. The stewardess took note of his long red salon nails as he held his drink and sat back to relax. But a few rows back a few of the men in suits had gotten together. The snickering and giggles began. Tim grimaced but kept his measure, letting them have their fun. Other women were whispering about the outdated fashion and giggling their giggles and the stewardesses of course were off to the side having their own conversation. But most of that stopped when one of the CEO's from upstairs came down to request another snack tray and some hot hand towels. Tim fiddled with the in-fight television and looked through the movie choices then settled on a book he'd started earlier. The flight continued. A mid-day lunch was delivered and the whispers for the moment stopped. Lunch had also been delivered on trays to the flight crew as well. A double cheeseburger and french fries for the pilot, a chicken sandwich and potato salad for the co-pilot and a French dip sandwich and chips with a side salad for the navigator. The pilot and co-pilot's only restriction, they must not eat the same dish for safety's sake. Tim began to feel the lacing of his white satin corset, the tightness of the white satin paneled panty girdle and the weight of the silicone forms in his white long line brassiere. All brand new clothes, starched, fresh and tight. He felt the bra straps, how the lace trimmed white nylon full slip slid against all the foundations and he could feel the sturdy garter straps pulling taut against the welts of his vintage classic nylon stockings. The men sitting off to the side noticed the long, smooth hairless legs and the seams of the Manhattan heeled stockings and they noticed the reinforced feet as Tim had kicked off his shoes and set them aside. They noticed the blue satin hair bow pinned to the side of Tim's now cut and styled vintage hair set, the curls stiff with hairspray and not a hair out of place. They also noticed the floral scent of his perfume. Of course Tim looked fabulous, but he made no attempt to feminize his moves or raise the register of his voice. This was for him to relish, the unease he was causing. And nobody could do anything about it. Putting up with the titters from the crowd was just a known quantity he'd been through before. But totally by chance things were going to become interesting and soon, very soon. The bright sunlight shone through the windows of the cockpit midday as the crew took lunch. The navigator slid his papers to the side and he tucked the linen napkin over his collar readying to eat. The pilot watched the sky and listened to the lazy radio traffic. Not much to do but just sit and watch the world go by this high up and this far out. The co-pilot just finished working his checkerboard schedule of numbers on his sheet from the arc of travel between Europe and America. He checked his number then adjusted the waypoint destination on the heading switch. The auto pilot still armed allowed the plane to turn a few degrees left as the co-pilot dialed his numbers. Setting aside his papers the pilot shook out his linen napkin and started his lunch as well. A bit of pilot chatter began, regular stuff but by then word of Tim being onboard and looking like a classic June Cleaver, heels, hair set and all started them chuckling and then laughing out loud. It was uproarious fun, that is it was until the co-pilot laughed when he should have been chewing his chicken filet sandwich. A surprise then a gasp and coughing choke quickly stopped silent as the co-pilot began to choke on his sandwich! The others were still laughing and making their limp wristed gestures but then the pilot and navigator became alarmed! "Get his damn belt off, the whole harness!" The elder pilot Ed Grimms yelled to the Navigator Bill Fairborne. The struggle began. The co- pilot Eddie Walters was yanked from his seat and the pilot quickly began the Heimlech movement, but to no avail. It wasn't long until Eddie was on the floor and his pulse was checked to be found silent. The panic continued because during the rush and stress and physical effort to try to save Eddie, Ed Grimms suddenly grabbed his chest! He grimaced in pain, already turning pale, his lips turning purplish as he grimaced with closed eyes. The navigator tried to help him down but Ed died on his feet only offering a wide eyed death rattled grimace at the end as he too fell dead! Bill looked around the now silent cockpit in a daze and all seemed well but there was a problem. A real problem because Bill Fairborne was only the navigator and not a pilot! He got on the secure intercom and called the head stewardess. After calming head stewardess Joyce Ristall down her and the navigator managed to put the bodies aside and stash them in the up front crew sleeping lounge. Bill shook both bodies once again and checked for pulses again but by now both men were already growing cold. "What are we going to do!?" Joyce quietly yelled in a woman's frenzied grimaced scream. And then the radio alerted. "Overseas corporate, one-one-seven-whiskey-Alpha," the radio blared. Bill plugged in his headset to answer. "We have an emergency, we want to declare an emergency," he ordered. The flight service in London, still the closest before the hand off to US flight control listened to the story. "You were past notification point then we noticed your latest check is off, you're ten miles south, out of place for your next waypoint. You'll have to recalibrate, can you do that?" they asked. Bill grabbed the paperwork from the co-pilot's side. He studied the sheet then saw the new waypoint numbers. "Just a minute, let me reset," Bill said nervously as the stewardess looked by anxiously. She watched as Bill carefully dialed in the new numbers. The plane turned lazily to the right and on the new heading. Bill blew a sigh of relief. His job wasn't to fool with the controls but he did understand waypoint navigation but that was pretty much it! He clicked the radio and continued his emergency. There was no one to fly the plane now! Tim was only singled out for ridicule, he had a company boarding ticket and had shown his former employee card at the desk but nobody ever took notice he was a pilot! Not only that he was supposed to be one of the few to replace the retiring older pilots, like pilot Ed Grimms who only had a month left in service. Bill could only mention a plane full of the elite all in suits and a few with wives and older family members jetting non-stop to Chicago on a company trip for routine meetings. "London central. One-one-seven-whiskey-alpha heavy. You will have another waypoint set in forty minutes, an hour later we will have to hand you off to New York central. Can you do that? Keep the way points and change radio channels?" the radio asked nervously. "I...I guess I'll have to. But what are we going to do!? We have enough fuel to fly all day but somebody's got to land this tub or we're all dead!" Bill blathered knowing full well he was now totally alone. Stewardess Joyce cried into her hands and shook her head at the realization they were now aboard a ghost ship! Tim had finished his French dip sandwich with pickle and potato chips or "crisps" as the English call them. He was just finishing the last of his Coke on ice then dabbed his lips before sliding the tray away. Most of the sniggering had stopped but now Tim could hear the stories, the made up nonsense coming from the few men to the left rear, stories even worse with the help of the free alcohol. He turned to glance and sure enough noticed his old buddies from the club, Nigel and Colin. They had added a couple other smirking jerks and were still looking Tim over. But Tim by now couldn't care less. He was thinking of other things and with no future here, fuck it. It was a free ride with a free meal and champaign and that was it. Joyce left the cockpit closing the door behind her then passed quickly by. She took the curved staircase to the upper deck to inform the CEO of the entire company! "The co-pilot is dead? He choked on a what!?" the large older man in his Saville Row suit guffawed. " well, I'll send condolences, have the pilot..," Joyce continued whispering urgently. "What do you mean the pilot is dead too! Heart attack!? Who's flying this plane!? The navigator? Navigators aren't pilots!" He shook her shoulders then rushed downstairs and into the cockpit to see the navigator sitting quietly in the captain's chair looking over the myriad glowing gauges and flight controls but not touching anything. The plane still flying on course and true the sun lower on the western horizon now, scant radio traffic but nothing for him as he waited to hear back from London central. Bill turned to see the CEO looking on with the look of impending death on his grim face. The radio barked again. "London central. One-one-seven-whiskey-alpha?" "Whiskey alpha here. Have you gotten us help?" Bill griamced but quickly waved off the CEO as the radio continued. "Waypoint station, heading 11532=identify and ident please." Bill entered the latest numbers and being so close the plane continued on without the slightest turn this time. "Bill Fairborne? This is Lance Conroy. I want you to go to radio two and select frequency 122.3, can you do that? Then I will talk to you," Lance said calmly. "Yes, give me a moment," Bill said as he grabbed another headset and dialed in the second radio. The sound came over the cabin speakers. "Mr. Fairborne, do you have any flight experience, any at all?" Lance asked. "No, none," Bill returned. "Alright. No need to panic. You're in a brand new 747. It's got all the latest equipment. As you must know it has the ability to land itself," Lance assured. "But that's for near zero clearance landings computer only I don't know how to run all the equipment up here let alone activate it," Bill blathered. "We don't really have a choice now do we Mr. Fairborne," Lance went on. Just then stewardess Joyce returned to look shoulder to shoulder with the CEO who turned and instructed. "We've got a lot of top people onboard, get out there and start looking for someone who has flight experience, anything that may help." Joyce then hurried away. Bills nerves increased. "Now after your next waypoint correction you need to be handed off to New York control, they will direct you to a landing spot. However, the plane will need to burn off most of its fuel so you may be directed to continue to the Chicago area. We feel this is much safer than a fuel dump procedure and it will allow extra time to work the situation," Lance continued to explain. Bill knew how to handle another waypoint but was unsure of how to complete the handoff to US airspace. He was assured it was just radio work and no flying. Lance instructed Bill to have a cup of coffee and to relax as best he could for the moment. Lance lit a cigarette and looked into the late day sky over London as another flight service controller came near. Even he noticed Lance's doubt. Back in the cockpit Bill takes a sip of luke warm coffee with a shaky hand. In the cabin Joyce moves about talking to several different men. More whispers started only they weren't the collective jokes aimed at Tim this time. The words "doomed" and "crash" and "we'll all be killed" began to poison the air. Tim looked up as Joyce approached. She wasn't smiling. "Um, Miss?" she said forcing a smile. "It's Mrs., Mrs. June Cleaver," Tim guffawed joking with a smile. "No you d...don't understand. We're having a spot of trouble." She then did a recant of the disaster in the cockpit and that there was no one left to fly the plane. Tim chuckled like a winning lotto player, he had to stifle his laughter as Joyce cringed looking on. "Well, well, well. You need a pilot huh? Just so happens I am a pilot, didn't know that did ya," Tim said looking directly at Joyce. She didn't believe him until he opened his briefcase and pulled out his flight charts and fully certified qualifications and diploma copies and his flight licenses. And he had worked for this very company for the past fifteen years! Tim noticed they were still only half way over the Atlantic heading west as Joyce patted him on the shoulder and bustled off to the cockpit. The flustered CEO quickly returned to see June Cleaver in full swish drag! He had already heard about the man in the dress on board, the one who'd caused all the commotion but now all eyes were quickly focusing on Tim, without a hint of slander or derision in sight. "Fly your plane, land it in Chicago." Yeah, I guess I could do that. But what's the point?" Tim began. His job was gone the future with the company gone and he was still saddled with his little "problem" that was now in full view. If he did nothing it would all be over soon. He could ponder the universe while he polished off a few bottles of their in flight bubbly and laugh at all the other passengers who would soon be begging and groveling. Payback. A bit of that might suit him well Tim thought. And at the planes current position he still had over five hours to think, but fuel tanks would need to be adjusted soon, and waypoints converted and charts reviewed and the weather too en-route. But not just now he thought as he crossed his nylon clad legs with a silken zip and smoothed his skirt as the CEO looked on. "What do you mean fired! Wait a minute, that little guy, the short pilot. You! Yeah, I rode with you a couple times. From Chicago, that Gulfstream IV trip hop to New York and then London. You did alright. What luck having you aboard now then." The CEO sighed with a smile. "Not so fast moneybags!" Tim returned with complete confidence, after all this was a brand new plane, you could still smell the plastic that that had been on the seats! The CEO grabbed Tim's license and a satellite phone. "Give me the home office, yeah Mr. Grant and chop-chop, be quick about it. He made the connection. "Two things: Pull the Tim Benson record and then you're fired!" "Certified for our new 7-4-7's it says. All the ratings," the CEO returned as the call ended. "But fired over company policy. Well I didn't instate that! I have real business to do, it must have come down from personnel and got lost in my paperwork. You're re-hired," he assured. "It's a bit late now don't you think? My secret is out, this well, little outfit was just to prove a point, to do my own thing for a change. How about those guys," Tim thumbed to the group of hecklers in back, notably Nigel and Colin, the instigators and cause of Tim's problems who were now hiding behind magazine covers and slouching in their seats. I couldn't return to work in a hostile work environment now could I?" Tim returned a stern look even through the lipstick. It wasn't long until Nigel and Colin were front and center in front of the CEO. Joyce appeared with an expensive briefcase. The CEO took it and took a seat on Tim's row. He opened the case and found the corporate checkbook then started writing a check for one million pounds sterling, just for starters. "Timothy... Benson isn't it?" the man asked as he filled in and then wrote his name in nice script across the bottom signature line of the gold check. He pulled the check loose and offered it to Tim. "You don't have to come back, consider it a performance bonus. Just land the damn plane now would you?" By now the rest of the passengers were beginning to crowd the front of the plane. Tim had words with the CEO, a short list of grievances. With the wave of a finger Nigel and Colin were now out of work! Anything else?" the CEO urged quizzically. "Maybe some Tums and a couple of asperin, I ate a bit much for lunch and I gotta tell you this corset isn't helping," he said as he squirmed in his seat not looking like a take-charge pilot in the least and with a still relaxed smirk on his face while all others about were on other satellite phones planning their wills and funerals while the rest wrung their hands and of course groveled. The funny part was the disaster in the cockpit that came about as yet another unheard joke, another jibe against Tim and his like. But now Tim was in the cat-bird-seat as it were. And in all the hub-bub Tim chuckled once again thinking of Mrs. Cobblepotts now at home with her cats and sipping tea and chuckling herself about Tim's appearance in full vintage regalia at the London airport and on his flight. "Take the check!" The CEO urged as the plane continued getting closer and closer to the East coast of the United States and to some very needed attention. "I thought I might say a few words," Tim interuppted. "It's a big world with a lot of people who think different thoughts and do different things. I know of guys back home that collect that Nascar shit and do the Man Cave bit but they aren't looked down on now are they? And look at you Mr. Huddleston!" Tim said to the vaunted CEO Conrad Huddleston. "I've seen you maybe a dozen times and not once with a nice tie. You collect ugly ties then?" Tim tried to make his point. And not mentioning he had better help out and be quick about it he ended the terror and relented. He stood up, smoothed his skirt but kicked off his five inch black patent leather pumps. "Give me your shoes," he said pointing to Nigel. "What do you want with my shoes?" Nigel quizzed. "Who cares why! Give him your bloody fucking shoes!" Huddleston barked. "I don't want your check Mr. Huddleston," Tim said as he turned. "Might be a bit of payback though to let all you sinners go down. Then with nobody at the controls this thing would just roll up into a big, nasty, smouldering ball at the end of a Chicago runway. Lucky for you all that I ain't ready to go just yet, not that way anyhow." "What do you want with my shoes?" Nigel blathered. "I can't run rudder peddles in heels," Tim said as everyone blew out a sigh of relief and went limp. Tim quickly slipped on the shiny brogans two sizes too large but serviceable. "Get everyone back into their seats, they're messing up my weight and balance all up front like they are," he ordered Mr. Huddleston. "And somebody make some fresh coffee, huh?" Tim said as he got up in full "June cleaver" regalia and clomped forward into the cockpit. "Enter the last waypoint? How's the fuel looking?" As Tim settled into the pilot's seat. He hiked his skirt and with the shoulder harness straps on clipped into the five point harness. Bill didn't mind giving up the pilots seat one bit. He quickly returned to his navigation station. Joyce brought fresh coffee as Tim settled Lance down and after changing the waypoints he got the handoff from London central. "Ah, New York central, New York central, this is one-one-seven-whisky- alpha, 747 heavy switching to local navigation and control...we'd like to continue our en-route IFR clearance to Chicago, Midway..." Tim said as he took over like a kid on a familiar bike. He looked back to smile at Bill and gave a wink to stewardess Joyce. "Man, this is some plane. Always love the new stuff," Tim mused as he ran his hands over the controls, balancing the fuel, setting waypoints, adjusting radio settings and watching the sun set in the far distance at points west. Chicago, heck already getting dark there," he mused as he sipped his hot fresh coffee and watched the world go by. He even played with the radio tuner to see if he could get an old Minneapolis rock station he used to enjoy. Back upstairs in the CEO suite Huddleston was back on the satellite phone. "Look Grant, you want your job back? Then do what I tell you. No! He wouldn't take the check. But find out what he does want. It can't be that hard. He had to fill out forms for his job over time didn't he, you know the get-to-know-you stuff? Yeah. Make this happen. I'll be in touch," the CEO ordered with satisfaction as the call ended. All seemed well in his world once again. New York was given a wide berth but the city was quite visible below as the jet made it's way over the mountains and plains heading westward. A couple more uneventful hours passed and soon lake Michigan appeared off to the right as Tim turned left and got on the radio for clearance to land. "No! I don't want to sit up front anymore," Bill said turning his head in disagreement. "I need you to sit in the co-pilots seat. Don't touch anything till I tell ya, okay. I need you to run the flaps for landing and to call out the numbers and maybe help with the brakes. No problem," Tim assured. Tim checked his airspeed then dropped the landing gear. Airfield in sight in the distance, landing lights beginning to shine through the dusk. Radio traffic chatter in the background, a buzzer and a warning light quickly clicked off by Tim as he returned to holding the stick. "Left hand, flaps ten percent. Click it once," Tim ordered. Bill complied. "Another click on the flaps now, watch the numbers, keep us in the green," Tim said as the plane floated closer to the runway. Slight crosswind but no problem. Throttle back, click the flaps full now," Tim ordered. "Three greens on all the gear lights," Bill added, "flaps set." The huge jet began to settle, the audible voice began, "mMinimums, minimums," as Tim teased the speed brakes slightly. Then the countdown started. Tim worked the controls floating the huge plane in. "One hundred...fifty, forty, thirty, twenty, ten..." The wheels could be heard scratching the runway as Tim greased the plane down for a perfect landing. And once the main gear was down the nose wheels contacted just like designed. Speed brakes off Tim hit the thrust reversers and held on as the plane roared and slowed quickly. Instead of just stopping on the runway and ejecting the safety slides he simply slowed and turned on the approach and continued down the taxiway to the corporate charter hangar. The press and news cameras were already there as Tim set the parking break and switched all the switches in the cockpit down. The engines twirled to a stop as Tim exited his seat. Yeah he made the paper, the first one at the open door being photographed for the morning paper as a hero pilot. Waving like the Beatles on their first arrival in New York but looking like a June Cleaver and back in his heels he looked more like Christine Jorgensen waving and smiling before he minced down the steps. It was a modest cab ride back to his apartment. He called to end his lease and said to the landlord his job promotion didn't go as planned. But he had enough to move, Tim almost never spent any real money. With no family there weren't many bills apart from his "hobby." A couple months later a few things had happened and Tim got a phone call from a familiar British voice. A new Chevy pickup turned off the highway and down a wide gravel road that twisted lazily through the pine and spruce forest. Tim finally rolled into a private farm like lot on some valley acreage hidden deep in the Black hills. There was a private gravel strip suitable for small aircraft on site. The house was a two story farm house built in log cabin style. There was even an outdoor kitchen and hot tub and a large pool situated just off the well supplied patio. The barn nearby was similar sided as the house. Tim entered the side door then activated the large hangar door. The lights went on to reveal a large concrete floored garage-hangar complete with a brand new prop jet spray plane and a new Piper cub parked off to the back and a new work truck and enough equipment to restart a small spray operation. As the note on the windshield said, "Just in case you want something to do." Signed Conrad Hiddleston. Everything paid for by the corporation in grateful thanks. Back at the house all was totally normal but upscale to a point he figured he may have to take some time to get used to, but he was game for the challenge. Then upstairs a fully feminized boudoir appeared behind a white bedroom door complete with white French Provincial furniture, pastel pink walls and elegant white carpeting, and even a lighted vanity. The bathroom was pastel pink and the walk in closet was filled to the brim with all the vintage things Tim could ever need. The dressers were filled as well. And with enough privacy in the middle of nowhere he could test drive all that chiffon finery to his hearts content now, even take a swirl around the patio. He took note that most of the fashions had come from Cobblepotts: Fine Fashions, no doubt she had been assigned. And with much of her wares now here it was a certainty she was now enjoying a well deserved retirement of her own. He had enough severance and savings to take his early retirement even at such a young age but kept the idea of flying again in mind should he ever wind up short on funds. It was a new chapter for Tim Benson now. He wasn't sure what he would do in the long run but either way he was set.