(The following essay is an excerpt from an unpublished book.)
The small aircraft, just a silvery glint in the blue Vermont sky, rapidly grew larger as it approached the county airfield in Bennington to make its descent. The stiff breeze swung it slightly from side to side before the wheels touched the tarmac, once, twice; then on the third contact, it settled solidly on solid ground and slowed dramatically. At the end of the runway, the Piper Saratoga turned to carefully taxi back to the cluster of people waiting near the hangar.
As it rolled to a stop, the propellers died and there was a flurry of activity in the cockpit. Through the cockpit windows, mirrored sunglasses flashed. As the co-pilot unbuckled the seatbelt and moved swiftly to the back of the plane, the pilot threw open his door and jumped out to secure the plane’s tires. After a minute…
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