Fate

Lieutenant J.G. Dennis Crane, US Navy, knew there was something wrong with the girl. She couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old. The set of her features and blankness of the eyes spoke of a mental disability. Perhaps that’s why her words had frightened him much more than he cared to admit, even to himself.

He’d sat on the bench, waiting for the bus that would take him to the airport. The girl was next to her mother and had stared at him. Something seemed to lurk in the child’s eyes and it reminded him of what his brother, a medical student, had once told him: Nature compensates. When you lack one of the senses, nature somehow sharpens the others, or makes it up in some form.
The girl had stared at him and said just three words:

"You’re gonna die."

The mother had turned and apologized. She’d tried to shift the girl’s attention away, but the child repeated the sentence.

"You’re gonna die."

He couldn’t get the words out of his mind, especially now when he would be flying. Of course his fears didn’t make any sense. Commercial flights were the safest thing in the US. After all, this was 1963.

He was only going from his R & R in Las Vegas to his base in San Diego. Still he’d had this unnatural fear of flying since childhood when his parents had cancelled a vacation because of his terror. He’d never dealt with it, just avoided airplanes.

He’d planned to leave Las Vegas three days earlier, rent a car and drive. But there’d been this young blonde tourist from Utah. He’d met her on the day he was supposed to leave. Killer eyes and a body to match, she’d held the unspoken promise of erotic nights in the city of sin. He’d stayed and she hadn’t let him down. But now he had to pay the piper. His orders called for him to report for duty today, and flying was the only way to do it.

He walked to the American Airlines counter and bought his ticket. The airport speakers played the number one hit of the day; “Louie Louie” by the Kingsmen. He tried to sing along but his upper lip shook and he couldn’t do it. He checked in his sea bag and kept a small duffle as a carry-on. He took deep breaths and cracked his knuckles to steady his shaking hands. It didn’t work.

Dennis remembered an article he’d read in the military newspaper, the Stars and Stripes, about airline safety, about how one day they’d have to search every passenger’s bags. Didn’t seem possible yet it made sense. He carried a thirty-eight caliber in his own bag. No problem there, he was a naval officer and authorized. But is that how it could end? Some nut job with a gun on his airplane?

Half hour before boarding – he felt like running, just get out of the airport, rent a car, report late, it didn’t matter. Nothing could be worse than this, or could it?

Dennis went to the airport bar and ordered a double scotch. The constant kachink of the slot machines, a sound unique to Las Vegas airport, seemed to mock him. He kept hearing the child’s words.

"You’re gonna die."

He downed the scotch practically in one gulp. It helped a bit. By the time he boarded the Boing707 he was pleasantly buzzed – but it wasn’t quite enough. His heart pounded so loud he was sure the guy in the seat next to him could hear it. He tensed his hands to keep them from shaking, grasped the armrests so tight his finger joints creaked.

“Hey, you alright, buddy?”

Dennis opened his eyes and looked at the passenger next to him. The man was pleasant enough even with the plaid jacket and bad comb-over. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a used car lot.

“Uh, yeah, I guess. I just don’t like this.”

“What, flying? C’mon, pal. It’s the safest thing in the world. I do it all the time. I’m a salesman, fly four or five times a month. Know what you got to watch out for?”

Dennis didn’t reply. His stomach churned as he felt the plane moving.

“I’ll tell you what you got to watch for, them cab drivers, that’s what. Mark my words, buddy, more people killed in taxis than airplanes. Besides, you know what?”

Dennis turned away from the window. He didn’t want to see. He wished he had gotten an aisle seat. He shook his head at the man. No, he didn’t know what.

“Well, I’ll tell ya. When your time’s up, that’s it. It’s up and there ain’t no use frettin’ about it. Know what I mean?”

The plane stopped and the captain’s voice came on the speakers. It sounded tinny like the intercom on Dennis’ ship.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen. This is Captain North from the flight deck. We are having a slight instrumentation malfunction. Nothing to worry about, it will soon be cleared up. Departure will be delayed by about twenty minutes or so. Meanwhile the flight attendants will pass complimentary drinks. On behalf of American Airlines we apologize for the delay and expect to take off soon.”

Dennis had another double scotch. He wished he hadn’t eaten such a hearty breakfast this morning. The booze worked better on an empty stomach. Still he closed his eyes and managed to doze.

He suddenly woke to screaming jet engines and the sensation of being pinned back in his seat. His entire body jerked, thankfully restrained by the seat belt.

You’re gonna die

“Hey, take it easy, buddy. It’s just taking off,” the other passenger said.

Dennis stole a glance out the window. The runway sped beneath the wing. The plane continued accelerating, left the ground and climbed steadily. He kept a death-grip on the armrest. Didn’t most accident occur on take off and landings?

“Geez, buddy. You ought to listen to them hippies. You know, mellow out? What do you do, anyway?”

“I’m in the navy,” Dennis replied.

“Now that would scare me. Can’t swim a stroke. That’s why I was in the army instead.”
There came a sudden bang almost under his feet. They had hit something.

“Willya relax, buddy. That’s the landing gears retracted.”

The flight didn’t last more than an hour and a half. Dennis couldn’t remember time passing so slowly since his last root canal. Every bump, every little air pocket brought a tightening of muscles like numerous Charlie-horses running amok in his body.

Finally he looked out the window and the ground seemed closer. His stomach started taking a dive until the captain announced they were on final approach to San Diego International. Landing – he wasn’t out of the woods yet.
The plane landed and taxied to the gate. The flight had been as eventful as a domino game in a nursing home. When the doors finally opened, Dennis grabbed his bag and stepped out in the terminal.

Bright sunshine poured through the big windows. He felt like kissing the dingy carpet covering the ground. It was a great day to be alive.

Dennis made his way to the baggage area. He passed a color painting of a jetliner in flight. Below the aircraft, the date spelled April 6th, 1963. He whistled another hit of the year: Up on the roof, by the Drifters. The tune came easily. His stomach felt fine.

He retrieved his sea bag, walked out the exit and flagged a taxi. The cab veered toward him with screeching tires and stopped a few feet away, one front wheel up on the sidewalk. Dennis grinned as he remembered what the passenger had said: Watch out for them cabdrivers. That’s okay. He’d take his chances as long as he was on the ground.

The driver got out and opened the trunk. Dennis threw his bags in and got in the back seat.

“Where you going, mister?” the cabbie said.

“San Diego naval base.”

“Yeah, sure. What ship?”

“USS Tresher.”

Author’s Note: The submarine USS Tresher sank with all hands on board during a training dive on April 10, 1963. There were no survivors.