Rating Day
It’s cold. Hawk of winter cutting through me like I imagine it does in the windy city.
Camouflage Gore-Tex keeps me warm. Tar-tinged cigarette smoke mixes with my cold breath forming a cumulonimbus cloud. Hangs in the air. I’m walking on a virgin white blanket of frost. Glitter diamonds dancing on its surface distract from the pain. Ankles killing me. Stepped off the bed, buckled on contact. Didn’t snap. Must’ve been the mosh pit. Bacardi 151—too much of it. Should be on crutches. Can’t take them into work. Too many questions. Didn’t get much sleep. Couple of hours—maybe. Fiancée in town from out of state. Been together since freshman year of college. Gladys graduated—I didn’t. She’s alone in my Air Force dorm room… not necessarily a good thing. We’re in a strange place. Correction— I’m in a strange place. When I left for Basic Training—we’d said all the things: Pledged fidelity. Made a Pact. We’d make a go of life together. Marriage. Kids. The whole nine. She’d finish college. I’d clean up-- and complete something. Wrote every week. Visited me at Lackland AFB upon graduation. Left for Tech school having felt her body again. Heaven. Couldn’t imagine another woman. Furthest thing from my mind. Somewhere along this journey I crossed the line. Broke my word. I’m a rolling stone—she’s Nancy Drew. Need work to be over before Nancy gets to snooping. Snow crunching underfoot snaps train of thought. Look back to study molds of my boots breaking through pristine powdered ice forming a path that leads all the way back to my dorm. Abominable Airman. Frigid wind whips my head forward. Roar of two A-10 Thunderbolt Warthogs taking off in quick succession reminds me of where I am. Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri. Some call it misery. Home of the B2 Stealth Bomber. Hangers are open. Each massive black bird peeking out reminds me… it’s rating day. If I pass this final test. I’ll be a fully certified air traffic controller. My eyes find the radar approach control facility. Nondescript in every way. Looks like a post office without windows. Before I step inside—better pray. |
NICHOLAS CORMIER III
is a veteran of the United States Air Force. He graduated from the University of Texas at Arlington, studied Art with a concentration in Film and a minor in Theatre, and holds a Masters Degree in Business Administration from Texas State University. Nicholas owns Runner Films, a film and video production company. He regularly advocates for mentally ill veterans, including those with substance abuse issues—living on the streets of Los Angeles. |
Rooms dark and empty—except for me, my rater—and another controller. Only light comes from radar scopes. Each scope denotes a position. Each position requires a rating. Thoughts of previous rating days rifle through my mind. Arrival—got lucky that day— not too many planes in the pattern. Surveillance Approach—easiest of all. MOA (Military Operations Area—AKA where the dogfighting happens) haunts me. Failed that one. Damn T-38 trainer jet left its assigned airspace. Didn’t catch it in time. Nearly brought my career to an end. Passed the second time. Lastly—Approach. Two controllers came to this base with me from tech school. Got their secret clearances same time as mine. Both washed out on Approach. Now they’re pushing pencils. No clearances needed. Swore it wouldn’t happen to me. I’m the damn valedictorian after all. This ain’t that. Final exam. Approach Control rating day. No simulator. Real Tin.
Beads of sweat collect between ledges of tension rippling across my forehead. Alcohol leaking out of my pores like a stopped car that’s had the AC on too long. I can taste it. Like salted rum. Afraid they’ll smell it. Ashen black skin. Purple bags under eyes. Staring at a screen. Watching the radar sweep. Neon green pendulum swinging clockwise on a bullseye. One plane in the sky. Crawling. Cessna flying IFR (Instrument Flight Rules), heading to Charlie Oscar Uniform—otherwise known as Columbia Airport. Altitude three thousand feet. Traffic’s expected to be heavy. Belly full of butterflies. 18 months of studying three-hole punched pages bound by a white binder. Looks like an overstuffed grade school Trapper Keeper. Way bigger than the bible. 7110.65. Encyclopedia of flight rules so boring only the FAA could write it. More Mountain Dew fueled nights than I can count. Nearly got it memorized. Greenish glow from the scope burning corneas like Lasik surgery before they got good at it. Equipment so old transponder codes drop. Makes the cardboard bridge on classic Trek look like CGI. Splitting headache. Kind that makes you pinch between your eyes.
My job. Watch the birds. Make sure they don’t crash. Assist controller’s job is to pull flight progress strips. Stack them in the bay to my right. Help me keep track of what’s in the air. Strips come from Clearance Delivery. Best way to explain it is—planes file a flight plan. Those plans get sent to a computer. Sounds like a fly spitting morse code when it prints. Assist tosses strips as the birds leave our airspace.
Watch Supervisor doubles as my rater today. He’s got the whole picture—and the hottest wife in our outfit. Kicked back. Slumped in his chair holding the voice tube attached to his headset while whispering sweet nothings in her ear. Cut his teeth controlling traffic at Kunsan Air Base in Korea. Has the easy-going air of a guy who effortlessly glides from pussy to pussy. Clark Kent—without the glasses. Nothing too super about him. Goes by Echo Foxtrot. We use initials, not names in ATC. His job is to make sure I do my job. Doesn’t talk much. Won’t be helping me on this exam. Assist goes by Tango Charlie. His wife’s cheating on him. Didn’t hear that from me though. Wears a crew cut. Spiked kind that makes white guys look balding. Funny. Fidgety. Former partier. Seems distracted. Wants to say something. If he squeals on me for smelling like a brewery it’ll be in the form of a joke. I’ll laugh it off. Room goes silent. Damn headset’s digging into my ear.
You smell that? He asks under his breath.
Nah... Smell what?
Think Echo Foxtrot’s been sippin’ the old hooch during break? He asks, miming taking a drink.
Can I concentrate, please?
You ever feel like everyone knows something they’re not telling you?
Nah man, don’t feel that way.
Would you tell me if Devorah was cheating on me?
Really Brother? Before my rating?
Would you tell me?
Reluctantly I say with a sigh:
Look man. I’ve heard some things.
Like what?
Like maybe she might be fucking a dude in town.
Deadening quiet follows. Drops his head. Eyes reddening from manly mistiness. Voice cracking slightly as he utters—more to himself than me.
My daughte… Don’t want to lose my daughter.
Few weeks back I sat in the same seat I’m in now, another controller wanted to know if his wife was cheating on him too. I’d calculated back then that matters of the heart weren’t to be intervened in. Gave me that same feeling I have now. Uncomfortable. Seeing grown men contemplate these things makes me think that maybe that’s why the military exists in the first place. Some dude’s wife cheated on him. Made him fighting mad. Had to take his power back by killing. These guys weren’t that guy. Air Force is a thinking man’s military. These guys are Hamlet.
Best to let sleeping dogs lie, I’d told him.
Seemed satisfied with that answer. Had three kids. Made me think that maybe being a man meant looking past that shit to keep your family. Maybe those men made the same promises I had. Planned on keeping them. Guess leaving their wives is akin to losing their children. Where I come from one can’t look past that kinda shit without being perceived as a punk. If these were men—what am I? Broke my promises. Hell… what do I know? I’m only twenty-one.
Cue Morse code. Flight plans start to sing.
Whiteman Departure—Spirit 21 Heavy with you climbing to three thousand, says the bat-winged bomber.
Grip my handset. Lean into the scope. Thumb thumping white rectangle that lets me talk to planes. Voice tube between my fingers. Adrenaline kicks in. I’m ready—have to be. Hoarse from a night of screaming along to my favorite band. Scratch my throat… and speak.
Spirit 21 Heavy this is Whiteman Departure. Ident.
Sound of my voice pulls the assist controller out of his daze. Our eyes find the plane’s faint signature. Orange rings emanate, revealing position.
Radar contact three miles north of Whiteman. Turn right heading zero niner zero. Climb and maintain eight thousand, I reply with authority.
Establishing radar contact is the name of the game. Means I’ve assumed control. Not lost on me that I’m controlling a nuclear bomber.
Spirit 21 Roger. In the right turn climbing to eight thousand, plane responds.
Airspace goes up to eight thousand feet at Whiteman. Any higher and the plane gets handed off to Kansas City Center. My trembling hand lands on the track ball buried into the console. Looks like a Magic Eight Ball without the eight. Moves like a computer mouse. Numeric keypad allows me to initiate handoff. Kansas City’s got radar contact.
Spirit 21 contact Kansas City Center on One Two Five point Seven, I say, easing back into my seat.
Spirit 21 going to Kansas City, bomber replies.
Three planes approach from the south in a triangle. Assist grabs strips. I make radar contact speaking to each aircraft entering the airspace. They’re staggered. First one at eight thousand. 2nd at six thousand. 3rd at four thousand. Three miles between each. Four planes enter from the west. Another from the north. Six more planes enter the airspace at varying speeds. All overflights passing through. Means like that song— I just have to keep them separated. There’s a bird screaming from the east. Must be a fighter. Yup. F-16 coming in for a landing. Look to my assist. Count my strips. That’s 14 planes. 15 with the jet. My eyes dart around scanning altitudes and speeds.
Razor one Check. An Aircraft’s microphone goes hot. Garbled static follows.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
That’s five birds chirping while flying in unison. Shit… Flight split up. Means the Fighting Falcon’s got four jets with him wanting to break formation. They’ll need to be radar identified. Told to squawk a code. Then vectored in for landing.
Nightmare scenario for me.
Since beginning training—I’ve only split three. Imagine five fighters capable of flying at Mach 2 bearing down on your runway calling you up less than ten miles out. It’s kinda like trying to hold back a gallon of piss after you’ve already let a few drops out. Better get to a bowl fast or else there’ll be a mess. That’s air traffic in a nutshell.
Whiteman Approach this is Razor One we’re 8 miles east of the field requesting flight split up for ILS full stop.
Clearance delivery’s buzzing like a hornet’s nest. Printers spitting flight progress strips like tickets in stacks out of your highest scoring game of Skee-Ball. Assist struggles to keep up. I’m deep into the screen. Twelve more planes creep into the airspace from all directions. That’s 27. Echo Foxtrot jumps to his feet standing behind me with clipboard in hand. Busiest I’ve ever been. Career’s riding on what I do.
Razor 01 copy, I say trying to buy time.
That’s not proper Phraseology, Echo Foxtrot says writing a note on his clipboard.
Tango Charlie scribbles furiously on strips. Several sectors call to coordinate and point out planes for handoff. Watch supervisor and Assist handle those while I rattle off series of greetings and instructions in spit fire succession. Survey scope. Draw lines in my mind ensuring separation if flight paths cross. I’ve got the picture. Glued to my radar. White light starts flashing. Ringing follows. Outside call coming in. Assist answers.
Your girls on the phone.
You shitting me?
Nah, seems pretty insistent.
Why’d you answer that?
It was flashing.
Fuck! Tell her hold on, I exclaim loudly.
Ok… Here’s the plan. I’ll peel off Razor 01. Check in with the five planes. Separate remaining four F-16s. They’ll need one thousand feet separation or thirty degrees between them to come in. Could always slow them down too. Nah. Scratch that. I’ll split with the thirty degrees—shoot them across the airport and vector them in. Here goes nothing:
Razor 01 and Razor 01 only turn left heading one niner zero descend and maintain three thousand vectors for ILS final approach course.
Razor 01 roger turn left heading one niner zero leaving eight thousand for three thousand, the fighting falcon replies.
Better answer the line.
Babe—I’m in the middle of my rating.
Who's Diane?
Hung up on her. Panicked. She’ll call back. Hearts pounding. Twenty some-odd pilots’ voices in my head—all wanting different things and hers is the loudest. Keeps echoing in my mind. Who's Diane? Who's Diane? Fuck! Lost the picture. Concentrate. See video game in my mind. Controllers flood in from the breakroom. Echo Foxtrot gives them the rundown. Spotlights on me. Show time. I’m in the weeds.
Beads of sweat collect between ledges of tension rippling across my forehead. Alcohol leaking out of my pores like a stopped car that’s had the AC on too long. I can taste it. Like salted rum. Afraid they’ll smell it. Ashen black skin. Purple bags under eyes. Staring at a screen. Watching the radar sweep. Neon green pendulum swinging clockwise on a bullseye. One plane in the sky. Crawling. Cessna flying IFR (Instrument Flight Rules), heading to Charlie Oscar Uniform—otherwise known as Columbia Airport. Altitude three thousand feet. Traffic’s expected to be heavy. Belly full of butterflies. 18 months of studying three-hole punched pages bound by a white binder. Looks like an overstuffed grade school Trapper Keeper. Way bigger than the bible. 7110.65. Encyclopedia of flight rules so boring only the FAA could write it. More Mountain Dew fueled nights than I can count. Nearly got it memorized. Greenish glow from the scope burning corneas like Lasik surgery before they got good at it. Equipment so old transponder codes drop. Makes the cardboard bridge on classic Trek look like CGI. Splitting headache. Kind that makes you pinch between your eyes.
My job. Watch the birds. Make sure they don’t crash. Assist controller’s job is to pull flight progress strips. Stack them in the bay to my right. Help me keep track of what’s in the air. Strips come from Clearance Delivery. Best way to explain it is—planes file a flight plan. Those plans get sent to a computer. Sounds like a fly spitting morse code when it prints. Assist tosses strips as the birds leave our airspace.
Watch Supervisor doubles as my rater today. He’s got the whole picture—and the hottest wife in our outfit. Kicked back. Slumped in his chair holding the voice tube attached to his headset while whispering sweet nothings in her ear. Cut his teeth controlling traffic at Kunsan Air Base in Korea. Has the easy-going air of a guy who effortlessly glides from pussy to pussy. Clark Kent—without the glasses. Nothing too super about him. Goes by Echo Foxtrot. We use initials, not names in ATC. His job is to make sure I do my job. Doesn’t talk much. Won’t be helping me on this exam. Assist goes by Tango Charlie. His wife’s cheating on him. Didn’t hear that from me though. Wears a crew cut. Spiked kind that makes white guys look balding. Funny. Fidgety. Former partier. Seems distracted. Wants to say something. If he squeals on me for smelling like a brewery it’ll be in the form of a joke. I’ll laugh it off. Room goes silent. Damn headset’s digging into my ear.
You smell that? He asks under his breath.
Nah... Smell what?
Think Echo Foxtrot’s been sippin’ the old hooch during break? He asks, miming taking a drink.
Can I concentrate, please?
You ever feel like everyone knows something they’re not telling you?
Nah man, don’t feel that way.
Would you tell me if Devorah was cheating on me?
Really Brother? Before my rating?
Would you tell me?
Reluctantly I say with a sigh:
Look man. I’ve heard some things.
Like what?
Like maybe she might be fucking a dude in town.
Deadening quiet follows. Drops his head. Eyes reddening from manly mistiness. Voice cracking slightly as he utters—more to himself than me.
My daughte… Don’t want to lose my daughter.
Few weeks back I sat in the same seat I’m in now, another controller wanted to know if his wife was cheating on him too. I’d calculated back then that matters of the heart weren’t to be intervened in. Gave me that same feeling I have now. Uncomfortable. Seeing grown men contemplate these things makes me think that maybe that’s why the military exists in the first place. Some dude’s wife cheated on him. Made him fighting mad. Had to take his power back by killing. These guys weren’t that guy. Air Force is a thinking man’s military. These guys are Hamlet.
Best to let sleeping dogs lie, I’d told him.
Seemed satisfied with that answer. Had three kids. Made me think that maybe being a man meant looking past that shit to keep your family. Maybe those men made the same promises I had. Planned on keeping them. Guess leaving their wives is akin to losing their children. Where I come from one can’t look past that kinda shit without being perceived as a punk. If these were men—what am I? Broke my promises. Hell… what do I know? I’m only twenty-one.
Cue Morse code. Flight plans start to sing.
Whiteman Departure—Spirit 21 Heavy with you climbing to three thousand, says the bat-winged bomber.
Grip my handset. Lean into the scope. Thumb thumping white rectangle that lets me talk to planes. Voice tube between my fingers. Adrenaline kicks in. I’m ready—have to be. Hoarse from a night of screaming along to my favorite band. Scratch my throat… and speak.
Spirit 21 Heavy this is Whiteman Departure. Ident.
Sound of my voice pulls the assist controller out of his daze. Our eyes find the plane’s faint signature. Orange rings emanate, revealing position.
Radar contact three miles north of Whiteman. Turn right heading zero niner zero. Climb and maintain eight thousand, I reply with authority.
Establishing radar contact is the name of the game. Means I’ve assumed control. Not lost on me that I’m controlling a nuclear bomber.
Spirit 21 Roger. In the right turn climbing to eight thousand, plane responds.
Airspace goes up to eight thousand feet at Whiteman. Any higher and the plane gets handed off to Kansas City Center. My trembling hand lands on the track ball buried into the console. Looks like a Magic Eight Ball without the eight. Moves like a computer mouse. Numeric keypad allows me to initiate handoff. Kansas City’s got radar contact.
Spirit 21 contact Kansas City Center on One Two Five point Seven, I say, easing back into my seat.
Spirit 21 going to Kansas City, bomber replies.
Three planes approach from the south in a triangle. Assist grabs strips. I make radar contact speaking to each aircraft entering the airspace. They’re staggered. First one at eight thousand. 2nd at six thousand. 3rd at four thousand. Three miles between each. Four planes enter from the west. Another from the north. Six more planes enter the airspace at varying speeds. All overflights passing through. Means like that song— I just have to keep them separated. There’s a bird screaming from the east. Must be a fighter. Yup. F-16 coming in for a landing. Look to my assist. Count my strips. That’s 14 planes. 15 with the jet. My eyes dart around scanning altitudes and speeds.
Razor one Check. An Aircraft’s microphone goes hot. Garbled static follows.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
That’s five birds chirping while flying in unison. Shit… Flight split up. Means the Fighting Falcon’s got four jets with him wanting to break formation. They’ll need to be radar identified. Told to squawk a code. Then vectored in for landing.
Nightmare scenario for me.
Since beginning training—I’ve only split three. Imagine five fighters capable of flying at Mach 2 bearing down on your runway calling you up less than ten miles out. It’s kinda like trying to hold back a gallon of piss after you’ve already let a few drops out. Better get to a bowl fast or else there’ll be a mess. That’s air traffic in a nutshell.
Whiteman Approach this is Razor One we’re 8 miles east of the field requesting flight split up for ILS full stop.
Clearance delivery’s buzzing like a hornet’s nest. Printers spitting flight progress strips like tickets in stacks out of your highest scoring game of Skee-Ball. Assist struggles to keep up. I’m deep into the screen. Twelve more planes creep into the airspace from all directions. That’s 27. Echo Foxtrot jumps to his feet standing behind me with clipboard in hand. Busiest I’ve ever been. Career’s riding on what I do.
Razor 01 copy, I say trying to buy time.
That’s not proper Phraseology, Echo Foxtrot says writing a note on his clipboard.
Tango Charlie scribbles furiously on strips. Several sectors call to coordinate and point out planes for handoff. Watch supervisor and Assist handle those while I rattle off series of greetings and instructions in spit fire succession. Survey scope. Draw lines in my mind ensuring separation if flight paths cross. I’ve got the picture. Glued to my radar. White light starts flashing. Ringing follows. Outside call coming in. Assist answers.
Your girls on the phone.
You shitting me?
Nah, seems pretty insistent.
Why’d you answer that?
It was flashing.
Fuck! Tell her hold on, I exclaim loudly.
Ok… Here’s the plan. I’ll peel off Razor 01. Check in with the five planes. Separate remaining four F-16s. They’ll need one thousand feet separation or thirty degrees between them to come in. Could always slow them down too. Nah. Scratch that. I’ll split with the thirty degrees—shoot them across the airport and vector them in. Here goes nothing:
Razor 01 and Razor 01 only turn left heading one niner zero descend and maintain three thousand vectors for ILS final approach course.
Razor 01 roger turn left heading one niner zero leaving eight thousand for three thousand, the fighting falcon replies.
Better answer the line.
Babe—I’m in the middle of my rating.
Who's Diane?
Hung up on her. Panicked. She’ll call back. Hearts pounding. Twenty some-odd pilots’ voices in my head—all wanting different things and hers is the loudest. Keeps echoing in my mind. Who's Diane? Who's Diane? Fuck! Lost the picture. Concentrate. See video game in my mind. Controllers flood in from the breakroom. Echo Foxtrot gives them the rundown. Spotlights on me. Show time. I’m in the weeds.
END