The big Beechcraft had been pushed into the main hanger out of the sun, to wait for someone with the proper state-sanctified credentials to arrive and work on it. Jim Bergin, the airport manager and a crack A & E mechanic himself—but with no contract to supply services to the state—was amused but unruffled. The flight crew and two EMTs were effectively stranded in Posadas until one of the other aircraft, or ground crew, came to fetch them—in hours or days, who knew. “So, Mr. Sheriff.” Bergin relaxed behind his sales counter in a vinyl chair repaired with duct tape in a dozen places. He waved toward the coffeepot. “Relax. You know, if it wasn’t for some possible damage to the prop, they could just fly on to Albuquerque with the gear locked down. No big deal. But you ding the prop, and that’s got to be checked. That’s not something I can do here, even if the state gave me the okay.” Torrez bent and rested his elbows on the glass counter.
