-CAP

Kim and I drove over the black asphalt stretch of Interstate 80 that connects Lincoln to North Platte, Nebraska.  A weather front was washing over the Midwest from the west, and rain splattered loudly on the roof of the rental car most of the way.  It reminded me of many other trips I had taken down this road, toward Denver to ski, toward California to spend summers from college, toward home.  It always seemed to rain. 

I liked the rain.  It washed away the smell of the interstate and the corporate farms that rolled away from us to the horizon in all directions.  It made the air smell fresh and clean and earthy. 

After doggedly hovering directly above us almost the entire drive out there, the rain finally stopped.  Like always, the air had an electrical ozone smell right after; copper-like, like the way a penny tastes on your tongue.

            That sensation hit me as I climbed out of the car once we reached our destination.  I stretched, working the road out of my spine and breathed deeply of the damp and cool fresh air.  I was momentarily lost in the memory of a thousand other times smelling that same air.  A rush of images of children splashing carelessly through puddles, running home on rainy days, or just sitting on the porch, watching it come down, maybe comforted by a mug of hot cocoa. 

That energy from the storms I had been in still flowed through my veins, and now that same energy rejuvenated me and oxygenated my blood, finding its way to old and familiar parts of my brain.  It was part of me.  I had almost forgotten about it. 

We came all the way out here, half way across the state, to see one man, the man Kathy had found for me.  I had gotten a message from him only a few weeks prior and had set up this meeting. 

Jim’s message had said simply:

“Mr. Styner, Kathy Hubble passed on your request to me regarding the aircraft accident near Hebron. I was on the CAP ground team that night in February.  I would be happy to talk to you about the incident.”

When I read that, I could hardly breathe…this man had been there, actually been there, on the ground?  He had seen the plane?  Maybe he had seen mom.  To have the chance to talk to him was more than I could have possibly hoped for. 

I spoken to Jim Nitz a few weeks prior and had arranged to meet him.  Jim also gave me information to contact two more searchers who were there, Jon Morris and Larry Russell.  The truth about that night was indeed out there, and waiting for me to gather it. 

So now I was here.  Walking across the parking lot, I had to keep myself from jumping into the new puddles with both feet.  I was after all, an adult. 

We entered the restaurant which was called the Whiskey Creek Steakhouse.  It was almost noon but there weren’t very many people.  The rain kept them home, I guess.  A young and pretty hostess greeted us and I arranged for a big red vinyl clad booth surrounding a sturdy wooden table in a quiet end of the place.  We slid in and looked over the menu, sipping ice tea. 

The flat Iron steak called to me.

            I spotted Jim immediately when he walked into the restaurant.  He looked very much like I pictured.  He was and older man, but he carried himself with a humble and nondescript air, which was befitting of him.  He looked around and I waved when he caught my eye.  He ambled over and we rose to meet him.  He greeted us with warmth and friendship and we sat down and easily chatted for a little while.

            My steak came while we made small talk.  I cut a small piece of it and popped it in my mouth.  I immediately remembered why Nebraska beef is known as some of the best in the world.  The succulent juices spread across my tongue, making me know what I left behind when I left here, so long ago.  I still dream about that steak, and it was just a from mid-range steakhouse. 

The waitress came to check on us after a bit, cutting us away from the small talk and when she left, I took the opportunity to get to the point.

            “What happened?” I asked him.  He shifted his eyes down for a moment, and shook his head slightly.

            “I’ll tell you,” he said, looking right at me with dead seriousness.  “It was no night to cash an airplane…”

Jim opened the front door to his house in Lincoln as he got home from the Tuesday night CAP meeting, weary from the long day.  A full shift at the tire shop where he worked as an assistant manager starting at 8 AM, combined with the evening CAP meeting took it’s toll a bit, but he wasn’t complaining.  He took off his coat, hung it on a hook on the wall, and made his way toward his bedroom and his calling bed.

CAP meeting nights were always long, but he enjoyed them.  He had been involved with the Civil Air Patrol for many years, but never got tired of seeing the eager young faces of the cadets who had joined, fueled by the dreams of adventure and hopes of making it out on a real search some day.

They were good kids.  The group was good, in general.  After more missions than he could count, he never got tired of it.  Their job was important, and he knew it.

            It took a particular kind to be a CAP cadet.  These kids were young, some of them; ages 12-21 was the minimum to join.  But they all had a common pride and professionalism about them, regardless of their age.  Even the young ones had it.  They put effort into their uniforms, they worked to become good in drill, and they participated equally in events…all with a full measure of enthusiasm.  They were fascinated by all aspects of aviation and would listen intently to everything they were told.  It was really something to see, and it made him proud.

            The CAP was originally sanctioned by the Air Force primarily to help locate downed planes.  More and more however, they had been getting involved in disaster relief and aerospace education as well, plus community service projects.  It all kept them busy.  Over ninety-five percent of all aircraft searches in the inland United States were performed by CAP teams, and a fair number of those crashes occurred in the Lincoln Composite Squadron’s sector.  For an all volunteer group, they were exceptionally well equipped and well trained to do any of their jobs.  Even the younger members who had been around for awhile had a feel of veterans to them. 

            He climbed into his bed and switched off the lamp on the table.  It seemed that his head had just come to rest on the soft warm pillow as he faded off when he was startled awake by the telephone next to him.

            He reached over and picked it up, fumbling a little in the dark.

            “This is Jim,” he mumbled.

“Commander, we have been requested to assemble the teams,” the voice on the other end said.  “Scot says they’ve located an ELT in our sector, and they’re pretty sure it’s a missing plane.”

            Jim switched on the lamp again, and shook off the cobwebs.  An ELT signal?  That was no joking matter.

“Hold on,” he said.  He found a piece of paper in a drawer on the nightstand and made some notes as the caller spoke.  He repeated the information back to the speaker, then hung up.  He sat up and hung his legs over the edge of the bed and stretched his neck back and forth for a moment.  It was an ELT report, all right. 

He looked at the clock.  11:30 PM.  The night had just started. 

He got up stretching again, and put his fatigues back on.  They were still warm.  He grabbed his gear bag, pulled his field jacket back on, and headed out the door into the cold night, back toward the CAP Squadron headquarters at the Lincoln Air National Guard Base from where he had just come an hour ago.

A half an hour later, Jim pulled into to the sodium arc-lit parking lot outside the CAP headquarters.  Jon Morris was there when he pulled into a spot by the door.  Jon, a Lincoln cop and CAP veteran, was one of the search team leaders.  Jim killed the engine and slid out of the car and into the cold night.  He and Jon greeted and walked together into the cinder-block building and up to the control center. 

Jim had telephoned Jon after he had learned of the ELT signal, so Jon was already up to speed.  A family was missing.  The night brought back a familiar feeling for Jon.  Several weeks prior he had been out on another search for a family.  It was complicated by the fact that the airplane’s owner had loaned the plane to his friend.  The friend had a wife and three kids with him on the flight - the same make up as the owner’s family, who also had a wife and three kids.

They found the plane quickly, just off a highway.  It had impacted a tree line and burned.  Inside they found the charred remains of the pilot and his family – five bodies in all.  Based on the FAA information, they had thought it was the owner and his family and began to list them as the victims, but of course they turned up alive in short order. 

It was a wired sensation – joy at knowing the people you thought had been killed were alive, then the realization that there was still a dead and burned up family out there in the trees.  It was a common kind of sensation it that line of work, however.  One he never got use to.  He didn’t figure tonight would be much different.

Jon and Jim made their way up to the briefing room.  Team members were arriving and waited for their orders as they assembled their gear and checked equipment.  Harold came in and made his way over to the table where Jim and Jon were going over their communications protocols for the search.  He rolled out a map on the table.

“We have been informed from Scott that they received FAA notification of an overdue private plane en route to Lincoln earlier tonight,” he said.   

 “An Air Force SAC EC-135, code-named Looking Glass, just picked up a distress signal about 45 minutes ago which may be our guy,” Harold continued.  “It looks like it’s along the same flight plan.  The CAP search plane is up and in communication with Looking Glass, but they have not detected a signal yet.  The Air force guys have offered to stay on station for awhile to support us."  

T"he FAA has checked all airports along and within 50 miles of the flight path an have not detected any inadvertent ELT activations,"  He continued.  "The area where the signal was detected is very remote an there are no likely spots for them to have set down outside an airport."

He looked around.  "So they may have crashed."  he said.  "If they did, as close as we can tell, the crash site would be somewhere just southwest of the County line.”

He slid his finger on the map along our route and Jon and Jim quickly scanned the map for possible search areas.  They agreed that 15-20 miles away along the flight plan would put them at right around the Lancaster County line near the border with Saline County.  That seemed like the best place to start.  They scanned the map some more, making note of roads and other possible access points.

“I contacted Don in Omaha when I got here.  He’s on his way down,” Harold said.  “He’s probably 15 or 20 minutes away.”

That was good, Jim knew.  Don had a DF unit.  The DF, or Direction Finding unit, could locate the precise direction of a beacon, and was very handy to have, particularly when your search area is darkened fields and woods accessible only by farmer’s roads.  It didn’t have a really long range, but once you were close, it’d bring you right to them.  Without it, they’d have to rely on signal strength as detected from the CAP plane which would be flying above the search area.  It could nail down the general area, but wasn’t good at telling you exactly which way to go.

Jim looked at his watch, and then made a loud announcement to the team:

“Okay, listen up!” he loudly said.  All of the search members immediately stopped what they were doing and focused on him.

“This could be the real thing, people,” he said.  “if there is a downed plane out there, we estimate that the wreck is somewhere near the Lancaster/Saline county line.  So, we will initiate our search in that area, near Crete.”

He surveyed the teams.  The looks were anxious, but motivated.  For some of these cadets, this was their first mission.  But he had trained these men, and knew they were ready to go.

“Team one and two is with me,” he said.  “Team three will be with Mr. Morris.”  He pointed at Jon.

“Maintain good contact at all times and watch out for each other.  It’s going to get past freezing out there, so make sure you have all the right gear.”  He made one more look at the teams, and then looked at his watch.

“Do one more gear check.  We mount up in fifteen minutes!”  He concluded. 

He and Jon went through their own gear quickly, then descended the stairs and out to the parking area where the trucks sat.  They fired up the trucks to get them warm and did radio checks. Everything was working.  Don had shown up by that time carrying the lunchbox looking DF unit, with the funny looking antennae sticking out.  Don took his place in Jim’s truck, which would act as the lead vehicle.  The rest of the team divided up into their assigned vehicles and waited to go. 

Jim had decided to first head towards the small town of Crete, just inside the Saline County line to begin the search.  With the help of the CAP plane, they should be able to find the signal by the time they got down there and could be brought closer to the vicinity of the crash, at least.  The Directional Finder would tell them right where to go after that.

Jon walked up to Jim.

“I called my buddy, Larry Russell, at the Sheriff Department.” Jon said.  “He is standing by with his chopper if we need it.”

Jim was heartened.  All the help he could get on a night like this was appreciated.

“Yeah, tell him to come along,” Jim said.  “He can meet us in Crete.”

            “Will do,” Jon said, and went to his vehicle.

            Jim got a radio check with the CAP search plane.  The plane couldn’t see anything from up there, but had just begun to hear the signal very faintly.  They couldn’t tell where it was exactly, but they were on it.

            That was the kind of start to a mission that he liked to hear.  Things were rolling smoothly.

            “Let’s mount up, people!” he hollered to the teams. 

             Time to go.