Their appointed rounds

Nigel took his place in the queue, marveling at how busy the airport was lately. The tarmac was five or six deep waiting for flight clearance. Looking around at the other carriers, he saw Archie and taxied up beside him.

“Hey, Archie,” Nigel said. “Where are all the birds flying in from?”

“Nigel!” Archie dipped a wing in salute. “No clue. I’m just glad that none of those preppy fly boys are here.”

“I second that one, Arch.” The two pulled up to new chock marks. “A summer storm’s brewing, and none of those pigeon squeakers have any idea how to navigate through the eye of a hurricane.”

Archie’s landing lights flickered in agreement. “Hell, Nig, our Hen Squadrons have more hazardous flight hours than those birds.”

“They wouldn’t know an Atlantic thermal is it hit ‘em in the tail feathers.” Nigel’s engines revved his contempt.

The two shifted forward. Archie was next in line for takeoff.

“Arch, fly safe mate,” Nigel called out as his friend went through his final flight check. “Bring the cargo home.”

He said a little prayer as he watched his friend race down the runway, lifting off, wheels up and climbing higher before leveling off.

Nigel was next. His payload was strapped down in his hold, scheduled for delivery across the country. He had never lost a shipment, no matter the obstacles. A final run through of his flight list and all he needed was the green light from the tower.

The first raindrops hit his canopy as he sped down the tarmac.