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But those were domestics, like Greyhound Bus. This was Pan American. No bus driving for them. No miserable lunches in places like Des Moines or Cincinnati or Boise. For them it would be sushi in Tokyo, petit dejeuner in Paris, tea in London.
Captain Cogliani, he noticed, flew an airplane the way a bear handled a beach ball. He gripped the yoke with both hands. The veins stood out on his tensed forearms. He yanked, jerked, shoved, manhandled the protesting 707 all the way to 35,000 feet.
He was one of those legends that Wood most of all wanted to be like someday. He was supposed to be a hero. Something was wrong, thought Jim Wood. The Skygod was an asshole.
They were weeping, not in the way people commonly cry in airports, but in an ancient, intuitive way women have always wept when their men went off to battle.
He was a man of a hundred and ten percent integrity—as a man who trusts a slide rule ought to be.
