The North Platte
N41°53.17′ W104°13.04′
0030 ZULU
Flying upstream following the undulating curves of the North Platte River westward across the frozen Great Plains of Nebraska, the cloud layer below us gradually thins out and then fades away to nothing. The late afternoon sun that has been slowly creeping overhead in a slow parabolic arc towards tomorrow is now blasting the left side of the cockpit with an intense light and heat that even the darkened layers of the sunshade can’t stop. The Captain is currently on break in the back, and the Relief Officer now occupying his seat—and his role—adjusts the edge of the shade for about the fifth time in as many minutes in an effort to minimize the glare for us both.
Normally the sun would stay high above our tail for the majority of this flight, but due to a four-hour-long maintenance delay earlier this morning, it was already high overhead and heading west when we finally rotated off of the rain-soaked runway in Boston to follow it. This was the Captain’s leg—as I had thumped us down on the same runway several hours before sunrise the day before—and as such I had expected him to take the third rest break, leaving him well rested for landing. However due to our delay, he took the second break, leaving the RO and me the job of navigating us across the western half of the United States and into Oceanic Airspace.
Below us the river shimmers in the sunlight, a snake of sparkling gold slithering through the gray and brown landscape. In the distance, as the terrain rises towards the Front Range to our southwest and the Bighorn Mountains to the northwest, a dusting of white snow reflects the light, causing the horizon to shimmer and waiver like a mirage. As it’s the captain’s leg, with the RO currently doing the honors, I’m on radio watch and fuel tracking duty for this flight. The nav beacon at Scottsbluff is a fuel checkpoint, and as the plane passes 39,000 feet over that point in space, I dutifully write down how much fuel we’ve burned (1300 pounds less than planned), and how much fuel we have left (2000 pounds more than planned). Happy with the numbers, I dump my clipboard back into the bin to the right of my seat and then stare out into the murky blue, where the first hints of rising peaks jut upwards from a flat horizon line.
In the far distance, a single, silver-gray contrail materializes, slashing across the depth of the sky. I check the traffic display and see a lone target 1000 feet above us, rapidly sliding across the screen, pixel by pixel. As the distance closes, the contrail grows bigger and more defined, until an aerodynamic shape forms at its head, seeming to surf the rolling waves it is riding. Splitting my attention between the rapidly approaching plane outside the window and the traffic display that shows a steady 1000 foot separation, I watch as the gap closes, until the entire window is filled with the underside of the passing traffic before it disappears overhead. For the next moment there is only the normal, hissing noise of the avionics cooling fans and periodic rattle of mechanical parts moving against each other in the light turbulence. And then, for a fraction of a second, a dull roar overpowers everything else, as the sound wave from the other plane’s engines passes us by us as it drifts downwards towards the still twisting river miles below.
