Аннотация: A Melancholic Tale Based on True Events for Kids and Adults.
Far, far beyond the sea, in the city of Nashville, in the state of Tennessee, there lived a little airplane. On the nose of the airplane, there was a three-bladed propeller, and on its wings and tail, its name and year of birth were inscribed: "ALEX - 2010".
The little airplane stood on three delicate legs under an iron canopy at John Tune Airport, among forty other small airplanes just like it. The airport was hidden away from tourists and locals on an island surrounded by the swift Cumberland River.
The airplane had a friend - the three-ton fuel truck. It delivered gasoline for all the airplanes living on that island. It had no name, and all the airplanes simply called it 'Fuelie".
To be honest, the fuel truck considered itself a friend of "Alex", but the airplane didn't share the sentiment. He was too proud to be friends with a "barrel on wheels".
"Alex" was self-absorbed and haughty; he thought of himself as the most important on the airport because he was the youngest and fastest among his peers.
The other airplanes weren't particularly friendly either. Most of them were boastful. Every evening, when people left the airport, the airplanes would brag about their flights to each other. "'Fuelie'" sadly listened to them and waited for them to mention that it was him who had refueled them. After all, his job was important too because without fuel, these braggarts wouldn't be able to fly.
There were also modest airplanes at the airport. They were not very numerous, and they were old. Over the course of their lives, these airplanes had seen many different airports. They flew over seas and mountains, forests, and sandy deserts. Once, they too had been young show-offs, but several decades had passed, and their engines no longer worked as reliably as before. Their cockpit instruments had become outdated, preventing them from flying in bad weather. The old airplanes flew rarely and not very far. When they returned, they never told their old comrades or the young braggarts where they had been. They only occasionally exchanged comments. This usually happened in the deep of the night when the veterans woke up to listen to their elder - a fully metallic, silvery fighter plane that had fought against enemies many, many years ago.
This airplane was unique.
They referred to it as "Mustang P-51", yet its name wasn't adorned on its wings. There was no need for such embellishment. In the entire Western Hemisphere, it stood alone.
"Mustang" took flight less frequently than the others, but when it soared through the skies, it captured the hearts of those who witnessed its aerobatics. Even the boastful "Alex" stood in awe.
At times, the silver war hero was inclined to share tales of its battles. During those moments, both the veterans and the younger ones would rouse themselves. No one ever interrupted its narratives; everyone listened with rapt attention.
On a frosty morning at the end of February, two pilots approached the modest "Alex". One was a young man in his twenties, and the other was a septuagenarian instructor. They circled around the aircraft, and the young man briefed the instructor on the pre-flight inspection procedure for the airplane. The silver-haired pilot commended his student, posed a few questions, and then signalled towards the Fuel Truck.
The airplane harbored dissatisfaction, believing there was an abundance of fuel within its wings and deeming it unnecessary to summon the "burly barrel on wheels" before each flight. It remained oblivious to the humans' plans, confident in its ability to manage any flight without assistance.
As the fuel truck pulled up to the front of the airplane, the young man wielded a refueling nozzle, clambered onto Alex's wing, and unsealed the fuel tank cap.
"Could you at least clean your sneakers before setting foot on me with them?" grumbled the discontented airplane. "Pilots, mechanics, and even passengers with dusty shoes often traverse my wing, inadvertently scuffing the letters of my name with their footwear."
The young man overheard the airplane's discontent, a sound akin to the hum of the attitude indicator gyro. He contemplated whether he had forgotten to deactivate the battery power following the pre-flight check, leaving the instrument panel still operational.
Before long, the airplane embarked on its journey from the airport, vanishing into the clear winter sky.
The melancholic fuel truck ruminated, "Well, both pilots extended their gratitude to my driver, Michael, for moving just thirty yards from my parking spot to "Alex'. Michael didn't even leave his seat, yet they still acknowledged his efforts. The airplane, however, didn't even flicker its lights in appreciation. It merely initiated its propeller and, while maneuvering out from beneath the canopy, enveloped me in a gust of scorching exhaust gases. Nevertheless, I continue to hold affection for 'Alex,' despite its ingratitude."
'Alex' returned to its parking spot quite late, and once the pilots vanished into the darkness, it commenced recounting its flight, disrupting the conversation among its fellow aircraft,
"I touched down on four different airports today. One of them was completely deserted, devoid of any aircraft or signs of life."
"Like it's such a big deal, probably landed on a dirt strip. I landed on a busy highway in Canada three days ago. Now, that was a landing," retorted "Jane-1995".
"You're a brainless hang glider, not an airplane. You should've taken full fuel tanks like I did today, then you wouldn't have to dodge cars and soar over road signs," "Alex" casually interrupted Jane's story and continued with its own tale. "The runway where I landed had a solid surface. Black asphalt, not a crack in sight. I overheard the old man telling the young man during the approach that this runway was built by drug dealers twenty years ago. This aerodrome is hidden in the Smoky Mountains, far away from any settlements. Smugglers not only constructed an asphalt runway atop the mountain, but they also built a road leading to it."
"A rookie pilot shouldn't be distracted during the approach," doughtily commented "Henry-2001".
"You're right, unless you're an instructor and you're doing it intentionally," replied "Alex" with the demeanor of an aviation expert.
"Why don't we fly to that aerodrome?" inquired the twin-tailed Bonanza "Maria-1986".
"That's the same question the student asked the instructor," "Alex' answered. "The instructor said that even though the drug traffickers were arrested five years ago, both pilots and locals still fear approaching that place."
"Why would that be?" questioned 'Henry', skepticism tinting its voice.
"They say they found many graves around it, with the remains of unknown people," "Alex" responded.
Alex's fellow aircraft listened attentively, and he was quite pleased with himself.
Jane felt offended by the conceited airplane and hesitated to say anything for a while. However, she gathered her courage and exclaimed, "You are a heartless hand glider yourself! You insult your flying brothers and sisters, interrupt us, and always try to show that you know more than anyone else."
'Fuelie" had been listening to the conversation among the airplanes. It had never seen gliders before and was quite curious why these winged boys and girls, with propellers on their noses, considered gliders brainless and heartless. Earlier, the unassuming truck had abstained from participating in the discussion among its cherished airplanes,
"Hey, guys, why don't gliders have brains or hearts?"
"Because they are very basic," "Alex" once again didn't let anyone else answer. "All vehicles, even you, have both. The heart is your engine, and the brain is your instruments. Hang gliders have neither."
"You're so clever," 'Fuelie' exclaimed in admiration.
"That's because I have five times as many instruments as you," 'Alex' chuckled.
"Don't get cocky," 'Henry' tried to reprimand 'Alex'. "No matter how many instruments you have, we're all still controlled by people."
"I'm confident that I can do without them," 'Alex' replied. "I heard the old man telling the student during the flight that airplanes can fly without pilots today. New instruments are capable of replacing a person's brain in flying aircraft. But passengers are not yet emotionally ready to trust us. And I also heard the student telling his wife during a tour of our aerodrome that airplanes stay in the air because of the fast airflow rushing through the wing. That means we can fly even without pilots in strong winds."
"My driver listened to the weather forecast on the radio today," 'Fuelie' once again interjected into the conversation among the airplanes. "The weatherman said there would be very strong winds tonight."
"Haha, he is scaring us with strong winds," laughed 'Alex'. "Hide from it, 'Fuelie', or it'll carry you away, like it did with Dorothy and her loyal companion Toto throughout their adventures in the magical Land of Oz. For an airplane, the wind is our best friend. It lifts us into the sky away from this dusty Earth. But you wouldn't understand that. The sky is our life, and your life is just a parking lot next to us, with a short road from it to the buried gasoline tankers.
'Fuelie' fell into a melancholy silence. It knew 'Alex' was absolutely right. The only thought that comforted 'Fuelie' was, "Not everyone is meant to fly, but for the chosen ones to enjoy their flights, someone has to do the everyday work on the ground."
A light breath of cold air stirred in the parking lot of the airplanes. The young breeze, gaining speed and altitude, left the vicinity of John Tune Airport at noon on February 29th. Several hours later, the strengthened air current reached the Cyclone, stuck over New Orleans, and informed this "area of low pressure" about the audacious statement made by ten-year-old 'Alex'.
On March 2nd, 2020, darkness descended on the state of Tennessee at seven in the evening. Three hours before midnight, the driver climbed into the cab of 'Fuelie', turned on the radio, and listened to the weather report once more.
The duty meteorologist reported the possible formation of a tornado in the vicinity of the airport.
"I don't like this," grumbled the sixty-year-old driver as he stepped out of the cab.
The man could have gone home a long time ago. His shift had ended two hours ago, but he decided to wait for the return of the two most expensive airplanes of the local flight club.
Both Learjets with VIP passengers on board took off from the airport shortly after lunch and were scheduled to return by eight in the evening. Around half-past eight, the airport dispatcher informed Michael that the millionaires had decided to stay overnight in a neighboring state, and the driver was preparing to head home.
Before departing, Michael cast a lingering look at his fuel truck. With a deep sigh, he made his way to the airport's maintenance workshop. Along the way, he found himself pondering philosophical thoughts: "Millionaires exhibit greater wisdom and prudence than the average citizens, which is precisely why they've become millionaires. It's no surprise they chose to wait out the approaching cyclone far from their home airfield."
A quarter of an hour later, the driver returned to the parking area with four thick plywood sheets and a roll of wire in his hands. In another hour, he completed his work.
"Now I can sleep soundly. It's also safer for you this way," Michael said to the fuel truck, looking pleased as he inspected the plywood sheets securely covering the truck's cabin windows.
Several hours earlier, a cyclone had approached Nashville from New Orleans. The warm air of western Tennessee, heated throughout the day, continued to rise rapidly. Two cold air masses were rushing to meet each other with great speed due to the plummeting barometric pressure in the state capital. They competed to occupy the available space and, when they collided over the suburbs of the state capital, they spiraled into an intense struggle.
At half-past midnight, the sharp end of the tornado's vortex touched the ground and started moving eastward. The first thing the EF3 category tornado did was to blow the roofs off several houses and strip the treetops in the village of Pegram, located about fifteen miles from Nashville. Then, the twister crossed the 40th highway and checked out the local prison, where it knocked down the guard tower. Gaining speed and becoming EF4 category tornado, it headed along the Centennial America Boulevard toward John Tune Airport.
The EF4 entered the airport in all its menacing glory. The wind within the vortex reached speeds of two hundred miles per hour.
"I assure you, there will be widespread destruction," the tornado laughed as it headed toward the airport. "I'll uproot trees in my path, flip over cars, send every grounded plane soaring into the air, leave no frame house standing. If I encounter a train, I will derail it, and I'll flatten barns and hangars to the ground."
The rapidly rotating funnel, tapering into the sky with its sharp end, entered the airport area.
"Where is that little braggart?" Just recently elevating its status the tornado rhetorically asked, "Perhaps beneath this tin roof?"
And the tornado overturned the first of the ten shelters over the little planes.
"No, not here."
Then it flipped the remaining nine. After running through the little ones, the EF4 tornado failed to recognize 'Alex-2010' and decided to group all the light aircraft together.
After twirling about four dozen little planes in its vortex, it scattered them across the entire airport. Satisfied that half of the job was done, the tornado moved on to the hangars. There were seventeen of them on the airfield, and they housed both piston and jet twin-engine planes. Overturning hangars was more fun for the twister than tearing off the metal awnings over the aviation junk, and it preferred to play with the heavier flying machines.
"Do you love flying?" EF4 tornado mocked. "Fly with your tails forward and wheels up. You aren't fighters; you couldn't do this before.
For a quarter of an hour, the spiteful show-off of a tornado had destroyed ninety private planes and a dozen helicopters belonging to news television and radio channels.
Tearing down power lines and shattering windows along its path, the tornado weakened slightly and downgraded itself to an EF3. At this point, it reached a local agricultural institute.
It is genuinely unknown what the future farmers had done to offend the wind funnel; most likely, nothing at all. So, just for the fun of it, the tornado relocated a couple of calves two hundred meters away and, lifting off the ground, snatched five goats to parts unknown.
"Compared to the stroll over the airport, neither the jail, nor the woods, nor the calves and goats impressed," the tornado summarized its tour of Tennessee and dissolved into the night sky.
The melancholic 'Fuelie' stood in its place and saw nothing. Sheets of half-inch plywood had effectively shielded its windshield from the debris of airplanes that had flown around its parking lot for a quarter of an hour. But now, they prevented it from seeing anything else.
'Fuelie' distinctly understood that something irreversible had happened. Not a single sound reached it. This had never happened before. Usually, the young planes chatted until midnight, and when they finally fell asleep, the fuel truck would hear the creaking rivets of the old-timers' aluminum skins. Sometimes, in his sleep, the silver 'Mustang' would alert someone about an "Focke-Wulf-190 on your tail," advising them to "shake him off, while I cover you," or angrily reprimand someone, not mincing words.
The airport was shrouded in eerie silence. Even the birds in the nearby woods had yet to recover from the horror.
When dawn broke, and the first rays of sunlight pierced through the gaps between the glass and plywood, 'Fuelie' heard the wail of police sirens. The city was gradually coming back to life.
Soon, the Michael arrived at the airport. He casually inspected the vehicle, made sure that the tornado hadn't caused any harm, and removed the plywood sheets from the windows.
"What a nightmare," 'Fuelie' whispered to itself. "The airport has turned into an aviation graveyard. Not a single intact plane. Who will I refuel now? With whom will I be friends? Whose stories will I listen to in the evenings?"
"Hello, Michael," the fuel truck heard the voice of the airport dispatcher.
"Hello, Andrew," replied the fuel truck driver, rolling up the wire into a coil. "Did anyone survive?"
"You won't believe it, but the only plane that survived on the entire airport is still here. Wanna bet which one it is?"
"On what?"
"Ten bucks."
"Deal."
The men shook hands, and the fuel truck driver said, "It's on you, Andrew. I'm sure the only surviving plane on the airport is the silver 'Mustang P-51'."
"But how did you know? It's unbelievable. You couldn't have seen it. Yes, it's intact and undamaged, but it's completely buried under a pile of small piston-engine-driven aircraft-Cessnas, Pipers, and Bonanzas."
"Logic, my friend. If it were any other plane and not our hero, you wouldn't have asked me about it. Besides, only an aircraft that survived aerial battles over Europe and Asia and remained in service for seventy years could withstand an EF4 tornado."
"You've earned your ten bucks, Michael. You won it fair and square."