FotP - The 19th Hole
Jul. 4th, 2006 11:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vanillafluffyPrompted by the comments of a twerp on IMDb who absolutely could not understand why a guy might have a set of golf clubs with him out in the middle of the Gobi desert.
The story was easy to write; the title, on the other hand, has been a woolly booger.
=0=0=0=
Life is a question of cost versus benefit. Everything is. People will invariably opt for the choice that they perceive to be in their best interest, heedless of the cost, but it takes a smart man to discern an item's true value. Ian's golf clubs are a case in point. They were expensive to begin with, and the amount he's paid to various airlines to transport them has probably doubled their cost over the years.
All that, however, is offset by the amount of money he's made while playing golf. Not prize money, or side bets, but all the deals he's closed and corporate goodwill he's earned on the links with colleagues around the globe. Just last month, he finessed Ito Morimoto at the Sakawa Royal course---fabulous course, incredible views of Mt. Fuji---and got the exclusive rights to a promising bit of tech for the next five years. The company was very happy with him for that particular coup, not that that stopped them from sending Ian off to Mongolia to do a cost-benefit analysis on a test well there.
It wound up being ten days at Test Hole 19, and it didn't take long for Ian to come to the conclusion that the company was dumping its money into the hole. He added the numbers, and the answers were plain; there was no oil, and they were spending prohibitive amounts on salary for personnel who weren't earning anything for Amacore. The base itself was tying up resources that could be used to shore up more profitable facilities elsewhere. In short, the smartest thing HQ could do would be shut it down, and that was the recommendation he e-mailed them on day five.
Ian spent quite a bit of the next few days swatting golf balls out back while waiting for the shutdown flight, thus demonstrating another way in which his clubs earned their keep: mental health. There wasn't a hell of a lot else to do out there. He'd get up early, and practice for a while, come inside for a shower, fresh clothes and breakfast. He spent the hottest part of the day answering the e-mails that accumulated overnight and reviewing whatever couldn't wait for his return to Atlanta. Being on the opposite side of the world from them, Ian's day's work awaited his department when they got in twelve time zones later. Toward sundown, he'd change back into one of his older golf shirts and go out for more chipping practice in the sand, ruefully thinking of the golfer's traditional "19th hole"---the bar.
When the plane finally showed up to take him---them---back to civilization, Ian was pleased with his progress. He always had a good drive; but his hazard game needed work. While he would have preferred some place a bit more posh to practice in---say, Pebble Beach---this wasn't a total waste of time. He stashed his clubs with his suitcases and found a seat, looking forward to his next round at Wolf Creek.
Now, here he is, ragged and surrounded by people who've never played a golf course that didn't have a wooden windmill. The C-119 went down about an hour after take-off, leaving them marooned in a sea of sand. The survivors have been trying to build an airplane to fly them out of the desert---a mad idea, perhaps, but their options are limited. The plane is entirely theoretical, but their hitchhiker Elliott designs aircraft in real life, so it's a plausible theory.
Mathematics has always been Ian's best subject, but there's a world of difference between the number-crunching of a Chartered Certified Accountant and an aeronautical engineer. He's used to dealing with simple linear math: add this, subtract that---the arcane geometry Elliott scribbles on the dulled silver of the hull is as puzzling to him as Cyrillic script or kanji. This isn't something he can help with, so he puts his back into the labor of it, just another dumb grunt.
Ian tries convincing himself that Amacore will search tirelessly for them, but as days labor past, he's aware of how the odds against rescue are increasing. Unfortunately for his peace of mind, Ian knows the people who make decisions by name; he's played golf with quite a few of them. It's easy enough for him to imagine their train of thought: a dozen people, most of whom were scheduled to be let go, one semi-obsolete plane, and a load of worn tools and materiel. Every day in the Gobi reduces the likelihood that they're alive, and every search flight increases the risk of incurring more casualties. As someone who's often vetoed throwing good money after bad, Ian's certainty of salvation has eroded like the dunes surrounding them, his inner sands shifting from hope to concern to despair to determination.
Hang on. Build Elliott's plane. Try to blend with the group dynamic; his companions may not share his frame of reference in the outside world, but here, they have to pull together, regardless. When they get the carefully separated wing joined to the makeshift fuselage, the whole crew is jubilant. The remainder of that afternoon takes on the air of a party. There's music and laughter, camaraderie and a sense of joyfulness.
Ian unearths his golf bag from the welter of bits and baggage from the crashed fuselage and indulges himself in a relaxing session with his three iron. No sense in letting all that practice back at Test Hole 19 go to waste, even if he's a long, long way from lush green fairways and a 19th hole with refreshing cold drinks. He tightens his lips around the cigarette he's savoring, and smacks a ball toward the stretch of dune he's aiming for. His clubs are still an asset; when he gets out of here, there won't be a sand trap anywhere that can hold him.
=0=0=0=
Believe it or not, I don't own any rights to "Flight of the Phoenix" or the characters contained therein. Or Hugh Laurie. Life's not fair.
The story was easy to write; the title, on the other hand, has been a woolly booger.
=0=0=0=
Life is a question of cost versus benefit. Everything is. People will invariably opt for the choice that they perceive to be in their best interest, heedless of the cost, but it takes a smart man to discern an item's true value. Ian's golf clubs are a case in point. They were expensive to begin with, and the amount he's paid to various airlines to transport them has probably doubled their cost over the years.
All that, however, is offset by the amount of money he's made while playing golf. Not prize money, or side bets, but all the deals he's closed and corporate goodwill he's earned on the links with colleagues around the globe. Just last month, he finessed Ito Morimoto at the Sakawa Royal course---fabulous course, incredible views of Mt. Fuji---and got the exclusive rights to a promising bit of tech for the next five years. The company was very happy with him for that particular coup, not that that stopped them from sending Ian off to Mongolia to do a cost-benefit analysis on a test well there.
It wound up being ten days at Test Hole 19, and it didn't take long for Ian to come to the conclusion that the company was dumping its money into the hole. He added the numbers, and the answers were plain; there was no oil, and they were spending prohibitive amounts on salary for personnel who weren't earning anything for Amacore. The base itself was tying up resources that could be used to shore up more profitable facilities elsewhere. In short, the smartest thing HQ could do would be shut it down, and that was the recommendation he e-mailed them on day five.
Ian spent quite a bit of the next few days swatting golf balls out back while waiting for the shutdown flight, thus demonstrating another way in which his clubs earned their keep: mental health. There wasn't a hell of a lot else to do out there. He'd get up early, and practice for a while, come inside for a shower, fresh clothes and breakfast. He spent the hottest part of the day answering the e-mails that accumulated overnight and reviewing whatever couldn't wait for his return to Atlanta. Being on the opposite side of the world from them, Ian's day's work awaited his department when they got in twelve time zones later. Toward sundown, he'd change back into one of his older golf shirts and go out for more chipping practice in the sand, ruefully thinking of the golfer's traditional "19th hole"---the bar.
When the plane finally showed up to take him---them---back to civilization, Ian was pleased with his progress. He always had a good drive; but his hazard game needed work. While he would have preferred some place a bit more posh to practice in---say, Pebble Beach---this wasn't a total waste of time. He stashed his clubs with his suitcases and found a seat, looking forward to his next round at Wolf Creek.
Now, here he is, ragged and surrounded by people who've never played a golf course that didn't have a wooden windmill. The C-119 went down about an hour after take-off, leaving them marooned in a sea of sand. The survivors have been trying to build an airplane to fly them out of the desert---a mad idea, perhaps, but their options are limited. The plane is entirely theoretical, but their hitchhiker Elliott designs aircraft in real life, so it's a plausible theory.
Mathematics has always been Ian's best subject, but there's a world of difference between the number-crunching of a Chartered Certified Accountant and an aeronautical engineer. He's used to dealing with simple linear math: add this, subtract that---the arcane geometry Elliott scribbles on the dulled silver of the hull is as puzzling to him as Cyrillic script or kanji. This isn't something he can help with, so he puts his back into the labor of it, just another dumb grunt.
Ian tries convincing himself that Amacore will search tirelessly for them, but as days labor past, he's aware of how the odds against rescue are increasing. Unfortunately for his peace of mind, Ian knows the people who make decisions by name; he's played golf with quite a few of them. It's easy enough for him to imagine their train of thought: a dozen people, most of whom were scheduled to be let go, one semi-obsolete plane, and a load of worn tools and materiel. Every day in the Gobi reduces the likelihood that they're alive, and every search flight increases the risk of incurring more casualties. As someone who's often vetoed throwing good money after bad, Ian's certainty of salvation has eroded like the dunes surrounding them, his inner sands shifting from hope to concern to despair to determination.
Hang on. Build Elliott's plane. Try to blend with the group dynamic; his companions may not share his frame of reference in the outside world, but here, they have to pull together, regardless. When they get the carefully separated wing joined to the makeshift fuselage, the whole crew is jubilant. The remainder of that afternoon takes on the air of a party. There's music and laughter, camaraderie and a sense of joyfulness.
Ian unearths his golf bag from the welter of bits and baggage from the crashed fuselage and indulges himself in a relaxing session with his three iron. No sense in letting all that practice back at Test Hole 19 go to waste, even if he's a long, long way from lush green fairways and a 19th hole with refreshing cold drinks. He tightens his lips around the cigarette he's savoring, and smacks a ball toward the stretch of dune he's aiming for. His clubs are still an asset; when he gets out of here, there won't be a sand trap anywhere that can hold him.
=0=0=0=
Believe it or not, I don't own any rights to "Flight of the Phoenix" or the characters contained therein. Or Hugh Laurie. Life's not fair.