Jack Murphy revved the engine of his canary yellow Cessna as he maneuvered the plane onto the active runway. Itching to get into the air, he watched anxiously for the flag that would signal clearance for takeoff. Murphy gazed into the azure sky and saw Art Gordon and his red Piper Cub, already aloft, doing loops around the traffic pattern. As much as he hated to admit it, Murphy had to admire Gordon’s piloting skills. Enjoy it while you can Gordon, thought Murphy, this one is gonna be your last.

    On this pristine flying day, the Del Vista Mar Air Show had attracted a predictable crowd—aviation buffs, airplane hobbyists, aging sky jockeys, aspiring pilots and Top Gun wannabe’s. All had come to see a conventional aeronautical performance; but today they would witness something rare—actual air-to-air combat.

    The flag fell. Murphy punched the throttle, turning his small plane into a streaking golden dart that gobbled up half the runway in seconds as it gained takeoff speed and popped into the air. Short moments later it had reached a cruising speed matching the Piper’s.

    Now to show them some real flying! Murphy pushed the Cessna’s throttle forward, boosting his airspeed to overtake the tiny red blip looming ahead.

    Everything seemed normal as the two aircraft raced through the sky in the bright December sun. The relaxed crowd of onlookers watched the airborne action, sharing small talk as they enjoyed the freshness of the day and the expert performance of the veteran pilots. Conditions were CAVU—pilot jargon for clear above, visibility unlimited. On such a day, an accident seemed out of the question.

    Only this won’t be an accident. Murphy grit his teeth and bore in on his target.

    To the observers, it looked like routine touch and go practice—each plane would land, accelerate again for takeoff, then return to repeat the landing/liftoff cycle. But as his Cessna chased Art Gordon’s Piper around the pattern, steadily gaining on the red plane with each rotation, Jack Murphy’s mind festered with vengeful thoughts.

    Time to settle old scores! Murphy goosed his throttle and shot ahead—rapidly eating away the safety margin between the two planes. Sensing danger, a few observers elbowed their companions and pointed to the converging aircraft.

    Steadily, the Cessna closed in on the slower Piper, reducing the gap between them to a few feet of turbulent air. Then closer...closer...until the Cessna’s propeller sat only inches from the Piper’s tail rudder, threatening to gnaw into it like a buzz saw. Many onlookers gasped while others looked away, anticipating the unavoidable collision.

    But without warning the red plane broke sharply to its right—abandoning the traffic pattern in a scarlet streak. Art Gordon steered the bird through a wide sweeping turn and maneuvered in for a dramatic, if unorthodox, landing.

    Suddenly deprived of its prey, Murphy’s yellow Cessna also veered out of traffic, making an awkward-looking turn as it angled toward the landing strip. But Murphy’s surprise at Gordon’s deft evasion tactic caused him to overlook a Beech Bonanza, now turning to land and...

    KA-BOOM!! The planes exploded, raining scraps of ruined fuselage onto the airstrip’s taxiways, scattering the onlookers who now frantically scurried for cover.

    For a long moment, shock and confusion reigned. Gradually, the agitated crowd’s clamor turned to stunned silence. Finally, fifty-seven pairs of eyes settled on an overweight man, standing alone, still holding his remote control box. Jack Murphy returned the crowd’s stare, taking in the mixture of puzzlement and anger on their glaring faces.

    A voice broke the silence.

    "Bravo, Jack! That was stellar flying!" Art Gordon’s tone dripped sarcasm. "You managed to wipe out poor Feldman’s Beech, and smash your own plane too. You fat moron!"

    Murphy fought for calm. But, when his words came, he spat them. "Moron? I suppose I’m the one who shot out of traffic and screwed up the whole flight pattern?"

    Gordon was in no mood to be lectured. "I left the pattern because I had no choice, Jack. You were about to drive up my ass!"

    The crowd circled the embattled men as their voices escalated. Off to the side, unnoticed, Jerry Feldman held the shattered fuselage that only a moment earlier had been his treasured Beechcraft. His eyes welled with tears.

    Murphy, red-faced, wagged a corpulent finger at Gordon. "You’re a lousy pilot, Art. If I closed in on you, it was because you slowed down for that stupid breakout maneuver."

    The two were now close enough to trade more than insults. A tall man quickly stepped between them, raising his hands. He was Phil Barnes, President of the Model Aviator’s Club of Del Vista Mar Retirement Village. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please," Barnes implored, "Let’s not get our blood pressures elevated. Accidents happen. Only property was damaged here; broken airplanes can be repaired. Our friendships are more fragile."

    "This was no accident, Phil!" Gordon’s fists were doubled, his neck crimson. "The son-of-a-bitch tried to bring me down deliberately. I want a meeting of the governing committee right now and I want his license revoked!"

    "Of course you can lodge a formal complaint, Art." Barnes kept his voice calm. "But, can’t we resolve this informally? Take a day or two to cool off, then we can talk about the need for sanctions."

    For a moment, Jack Murphy had the impulse to punch Art Gordon—hard enough to stop his damned Pacemaker. Fighting the urge, he jammed his hands into his pockets.

    Gordon continued to rant. "You can try to make peace, Phil, but I’m pressing charges! I want his fat butt banned from this club and out of aviation!"

    Murphy opened his mouth intending to give Gordon a cussing out that would be remembered for years. But the crowd, their eager faces expecting a fight, made him pause. Why give them the satisfaction? Abruptly, Murphy turned and began walking to his car. Gordon continued to hurl taunts, but Murphy trudged on, the insults bouncing off his back. He wanted desperately to get Gordon’s goat; maybe cause the smug bastard to blow a gasket.

    But nothing like that happened. Gradually, sensing an end to the day’s fireworks, the disappointed crowd dispersed, leaving Jerry Feldman alone on the field. Head slumping forward, Feldman gently cradled in his arms the remnants of his demolished airplane.

* * *

    The dingy, rust-pitted Mercury coasted into its parking slot at Residence Hall 104 and slowly groaned to a stop.

    Jack Murphy turned off the ignition, opened the door and grunted with effort as he extracted his overweight body from the vehicle. He squinted at the beaten down car, trying to picture it new and shiny. He had purchased it in 1985; on the same day he and Edna had moved into their condo here at the Village. They were sixty-two years old then, dreaming of a happy retirement. For a time at least, they’d had one.

    Murphy lumbered up the sidewalk and used his key card to unlock the secured door. Things had changed since he and Edna arrived that first day. He passed the recreation hall, pausing to look in at the game tables. In those early years, he had ruled the Hall in Ping-Pong and Chess, defeating all challengers. Then a new man arrived. The man was agile, good at games, good at winning. He stripped Murphy of the championship crowns he’d been so proud of. The man was Art Gordon.

    Murphy shambled past the communal dining hall, site of the weekly dances. He smiled, remembering all the happy nights he and Edna spent in that hall. Her Cha Cha skills helped them dance off with more than one "Tops In Terpsichore" award. But too soon their dancing ended. Edna contracted ovarian cancer. Despite the best care, she was gone in six months. Music and laughter died with her. Murphy buried his beloved and, for a year, struggled with depression. At times, craving the sweet release of death, he nearly joined Edna. Then, a miracle happened. He met a beautiful widow—Charlotte Stevens—and found love again. Charlotte, her disposition perpetually sunny, was full of life. They enjoyed a blissful two years. But the new man, Art Gordon, wooed her away and spoiled it all.

    Murphy stepped into the elevator and punched "4." The doors closed and he was alone in the little traveling cubicle as it slowly creaked past the second and third floors, finally lurching to a stop. He walked the thirty-one paces to his door, unlocked it and entered. His flat had the disheveled look of an old man’s place, with the exception of one room—his hobby workroom. That room was immaculate and filled with memories.

    After his discharge from the Army Air Corps in 1945, Murphy worked 30 years as an electrical engineer. In his spare time, he tinkered with models and electronic gadgets. Murphy was ecstatic to discover remote controlled airplanes, a hobby that married his twin passions—models and electronics. He immersed himself contentedly in the make believe world of models; a micro world he could control. Unlike people, whose moods and mental landscapes shifted like sand, models were safe...and controllable.

    Murphy gazed approvingly at his workbench where his latest creation sat, nearly finished. It was a faithfully detailed WW II fighter plane, a P-40 Warhawk, its painted cowling depicting an angry shark’s mouth with menacing teeth. The miniature looked just like the real P-40 that Murphy, then all of 20 years of age, piloted in the Great War. He’d never felt more alive than when he was master of the controls of that old war beast, feeling its power. The power to soar, to "slip the surly bonds of earth" as the poem said; the power to attack and destroy America’s enemies.

    Now Murphy had only one enemy: Art Gordon.

    His stomach growled. Murphy headed to his kitchen. Grabbing beer, chips, mustard and cans of Vienna sausage, he waddled into his den and sank heavily into his favorite TV chair. He slurped down one beer and popped open another. He ate compulsively, engorging the food, then belched and stared at his mustard-stained shirtfront, its buttons barely managing to restrain his bulging stomach.

    The phone rang. Murphy hastily wiped his hands and lifted the receiver.

    "Hello?"

    "Jack, it’s Phil. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news."

    Murphy frowned. The committee? Already?

    "It’s the Governing Committee, Jack. Art Gordon kept ranting and ranting, and...well, you know how he can be. We needed a way to shut him up."

    "So, what’s the verdict? I’m to be shot at sunrise?"

    "Nothing that drastic, fortunately. But they voted unanimously to suspend your flying privileges for six months and you’ll have to make restitution to Jerry Feldman...for the loss of his plane."

    "Jeez, Phil. Six months! Damn."

    "It could have been worse, Jack. Gordon wanted you permanently banned. Don’t worry, though, the time will fly by."

    "Yeah, sure...the time will fly." But now Gordon’s fixed it so I can’t.

    "Oh, and Jack...there’s just one more thing."

    "Yeah?"

    "Gordon and his cronies were laughing it up at the meeting. They’ve come up with a new nickname for you. I don’t think you’re going to like it."

    "Don’t stall, Phil. Let me have it."

    "The nickname is...Midair. Now don’t take it too personally. It’s just their idea of a little joke."

    "Thanks, Phil."

    Murphy banged the phone down hard enough to crack the plastic. Gordon wins again—like always. Midair Murphy! I’ll never escape that stupid name!

    Suddenly desperate for any kind of diversion, Murphy clicked on his television, using the remote to flip through the channels. But his brain kept buzzing with sadistic visions of what he’d like to do to Art Gordon. After a few seconds of aimless channel surfing, he cut the power and stared numbly at the dead monitor. Then, as if an alien force had remote control of his brain, a video screen lit up in a back channel of his mind. He was powerless to stop it. In bitter moods, this was a memory taped he played often: Art Gordon beating him at Chess; Gordon beating him at Ping-Pong; Gordon introducing himself to Charlotte Stevens, slyly asking his permission to "spin Charlotte once or twice around the dance floor." And now the tape had an added feature: Gordon taking away his license to fly.

    Murphy finished his beer and popped the tab on another. He turned away from the T.V. monitor and faced the blank wall. Click. His mental movie projector switched on again—this time featuring a 3-D Technicolor tableau of Art and Charlotte, pretending to be friends—secretly becoming lovers.

    Struggling to erase the tormenting images, Murphy rubbed his tired eyes fiercely, only stopping when the pain became unbearable. Damn you, Gordon! You heartless bastard!

    Suddenly Murphy halted his rant. Heartless? He was struck by the oddness of the phrase...and something even odder. If his Pacemaker were somehow disabled, wouldn’t Art Gordon actually be heartless?

    Murphy’s lips twisted into a lurid grin. An idea stirred at the back of his eyes.

* * *

    One week later, after he’d made all the necessary preparations, Jack Murphy was back at the flying club’s airstrip. His presence drew curious glances, a few "what’s he doing here" stares, but Murphy knew he had every right to be there. His suspension didn’t prohibit observing. At the moment, he was faking nonchalance, pretending to watch two planes perform acrobatics.

    In the week following his suspension, Murphy hadn’t been idle. First, he’d made a gift of his own prized P-40 Warhawk to Jerry Feldman, as restitution for Feldman’s lost plane. Feldman was delighted. Next, he’d read everything about Pacemakers he could get his hands on. He’d learned some interesting things and could barely contain himself when he stumbled across these words in a medical journal: "Strong electromagnetic fields have potential to alter the proper functioning of Pacemakers because these fields generate EMI (electromagnetic interference). EMI can blind a Pacemaker to the heart’s rhythm and can cause a Pacemaker to cease functioning. EMI can also cause a Pacemaker to send pacing beats when the heart does not need them."

    As the crowd shifted its attention to the action in the skies, Murphy was ignored, just as he’d known he would be. He inched forward and casually placed his gear bag on the ground near a gray canvas duffle that bore the stenciled initials "AG." When the moment was right, he would swap the control box in his gear bag for Art Gordon’s box. Though outwardly identical—both labeled LexAir model 2340—their inner workings were crucially different. Murphy had rigged the duplicate control box to emit a powerful electromagnetic energy surge the instant the person holding it selected the "High" throttle setting. And if, by strange coincidence, that person happened to be outfitted with a Pacemaker...EMI would do the rest.

    The challenge, of course, was to switch the boxes without being seen. This would require a diversion. Murphy felt a wicked tingle, thinking of the distraction he’d arranged. Before giving the P-40 to Feldman, he had manipulated its control mechanism—fixing it so the plane would respond improperly to climb and dive commands. Feldman was next in line, anxiously waiting to take his new P-40 aloft for the first time. He looked over at Murphy, his face as gleeful as a young boy’s. Murphy forced a return smile. Sorry old pal, you’re not going to like this, but I had no choice.

    He watched as Feldman taxied the P-40 into takeoff position. As the go-ahead flag signaled clearance, the shark-faced plane took to the air and began a smooth climb out, but then...abruptly, it reversed its climb and veered sharply to the right, accelerating in a wide arc.

    "Jeez, what the hell’s up with this thing?" Feldman looked perplexed.

    Suddenly, all eyes gravitated to Feldman as he struggled to make the controls respond. Several onlookers, including Gordon, raced to his side to offer help. Murphy’s eyes darted left, then right, and in two seconds he’d made the switch. It went perfectly. Clean, quiet and no one looking. He smiled at his success, but was immediately startled to hear a man yell, "Look out! Hit the deck!"

    Jack Murphy stood motionless, reacting slowly as everyone around him dove for cover. He swiveled to look behind him and hadn’t even time to scream as the P-40 Warhawk, its propeller grinding at 6500 rpm, drilled into his face. He was driven off his feet by the force of the impact. The mangled plane, its angry shark’s face covered in blood, continued to snarl, sputter and flop on the grass like a wounded animal.

    "God, Jerry, kill the power! The power...shut it off!" Art Gordon took command, yelling at Feldman, who fumbled with the control switches. Finally, the P-40’s spastic gyrations halted.

    "It, it was an accident! I lost control somehow." Feldman looked stricken, on the verge of shock. "I...I don’t understand. Jack just gave me this plane and the...the remote controls wouldn’t respond! I couldn’t steer it!" His eyes reddened.

    Gordon went quickly to Feldman’s side, draping an arm over his shoulder. "Now, now, Jerry. Get a grip on yourself. Accidents happen. Don’t blame yourself for this."

    Then he barked, "Someone call a doctor!"

* * *

    Jack Murphy’s horrible death cast a sinister pall over the Del Vista Mar Retirement Village. Everyone believed Feldman would be exonerated and the authorities would officially rule the death an accident, but the macabre nature of the event stunned the community. An informal period of mourning began. The model aviators would not fly for awhile, out of respect for their fallen comrade.

    Except for the one man who felt no compulsion to grieve for Jack Murphy. On the day following the accident, Art Gordon was alone at the airstrip, preparing to fly his Piper.

    Gordon placed his shiny red plane on the ground, zipped open his gear bag and removed the remote control box. In his excitement, he failed to notice its slight increase in weight.

    Gordon saw no irony in the fact that he owed the open skies this day to Jack Murphy’s strange demise. He switched on the power and taxied to the takeoff point.

    He flipped the toggle switch to takeoff position and watched as his plane made a perfect liftoff.

    Grinning broadly, Gordon guided the little red plane through a series of his favorite acrobatic maneuvers— Chandelles, Immelmans, Inverted Loops.

    Art Gordon toggled the throttle control to "High."

Contact the Author - Cclark1993@aol.com