BLIND SIDETRACK

Chapter One


During the boom, we didn't know how young we were,
or how nave. We drove company Oldsmobiles, got raises
every three months, and we were sure the price of oil would
go up indefinitely. During the boom, our wives were
pregnant, and we took out variable-rate mortgages on two-
story houses, so confident were we in our futures. We had
golf memberships, whopping expense accounts and we
traveled on business to Europe, Asia and the Middle East.
And if Dave King okayed it, we could use the company jet to
fly to Lafayette or Casper, Bakersfield or Anchorage, Denver
or Mexico City. Life was great during the boom, with
opportunities everywhere, and I couldn't get enough of it.
That's a feeling I'll probably never have again.

I'll probably never fly in a Lear jet again, either.
About the last time I used the plane was when I flew up from
Houston to Enid, Oklahoma, to pick up Bobby Stanton, the
relief well drilling expert. As public relations manager and
special assistant to Dave King, I had the assignment of
convincing Bobby to come back to work for our company,
American Sidetrack, the largest directional drilling firm in
the oilfield. Bobby had become somewhat of an industry
celebrity a month earlier when he killed a blowout in Saudi
Arabia by drilling a slant well into the pressurized formation
and pumping it full of cement. By accomplishing the kill in
just two weeks, Bobby had saved ARAMCO at least a $50
million. Dave King, our president, figured American
Sidetrack could get a lot of business by hiring Bobby,
especially after my efforts to publicize his talents and his
connection to our company. In recruiting Bobby, Dave
counted on my irresistible charm and the fact that Bob was
married to my wife's sister.

I don't consider myself a materialist, but I couldn't help
being seduced by Dave King's airplane. Who can blame me?
A Lear jet is a wonderful, beautiful thing. Ostentatious,
sure, but a true marvel of 20th century America, a sleek
combination of time machine and corporate space ship. The
jet's private hangar was at a small airport not far from the
Goodyear blimp base in the pine forest north of Houston.
The flight crew (Captain Jones, a white-haired former B-52
pilot, and his co-pilot, Lt. Corcoran, a younger man who had
flown F-4 Phantoms over Vietnam) were at the air strip
every day before dawn, to check out the airplane and log the
flight plan. They also made coffee, brought fresh donuts for
the day's passengers, and stocked the plane's bar with beer,
wine, liquor and Dave King's favorite canned lemonade.
(Also on Dave's orders, they loaded a fresh canister of
caramel-covered popcorn every morning.)

The Lear jet itself was amazingly small, built low to the
ground and capable of carrying just six passengers and a
crew of two. It had a long, narrow fuselage, stubby wings
and two powerful engines, each small enough for me to
cradle it in my arms. Inside the cabin, the ceiling was too
low for me to stand straight up, but the seats were wide and
covered with black leather. The plane's circular portholes
seemed to give a more immediate view of the clouds than
any oval, commercial window possibly could.

I was fifteen minutes late, but because I was their only
passenger, Captain Jones and Lieutenant Corcoran waited
until I arrived. Then, with smiles and nods, they escorted me
across the tarmac, and we climbed aboard the jet, whose tail
bore the red, white and blue checkerboard logo of American
Sidetrack Incorporated.

I have always been intrigued by power, and let me tell
you the power of a Lear jet, as it catapults down the runway
and into the sky, is better than Disneyland. Shuttle
astronauts must feel similar pleasure as their craft bursts
from the launch pad and vaults into orbit. So too, Dave
King's Lear jet surged into the air, so swiftly and with such
marvelous power, that as a thirty year-old PR man, I could
not suppress a thrilled giggle. Within a minute, we were in
the deep blue, thousands of feet above the clouds.

I had rushed out of the house without breakfast and had
raced through traffic to meet the plane. Now after the thrill
of the Lear jet's takeoff, I felt extremely hungry. So I poured
myself a cup of coffee from the artillery-shell sized thermos,
opened the pastry box, and nearly inhaled an eclair and two
jelly donuts. Satisfied for now, I licked my lips and leaned
forward to look through the cockpit, over the multi-dialed
control panel and out the narrow strip of windscreen. We
were moving fast: the gauge showed an air speed of 550
knots. Up so high, moving so fast, nothing was visible
through the windshield but blue sky ahead and brilliant sun
blazing to our right. Resting back into my seat, I looked out
the round window. Far below, I watched a twin-engine
Cessna disappear into one side of a cloud then re-emerge
from the other. Lower still, I could see the green carpet of
the East Texas woods, a straight highway extending to each
horizon, and the flash of sun off the curving ribbon of the
Trinity River.