out of gas? I thought you fueled up before we left.”
“We did, but a headwind this strong pulls fuel from the tank like water running out of a flushing toilet. If I don’t make a decision right now, we won’t have enough gas to make it back to Nicaragua.”
“Is there somewhere closer we could land, fuel up and wait for the weather conditions to improve?”
Or even put him on a commercial liner. Truth be told, she was ready to get rid of Gibb Martin and get back to her nice, simple life of ferrying tourists back and forth from Libera to Bosque de Los Dioses.
“Well?”
She blew out her breath. “There’s Island de Providencia.”
“Let’s go there.”
“One problem.”
“What’s that?”
“The island lies due north. We’d have to fly right through the cumulus clouds to get there.”
“Do we have enough gas to make it?”
“Theoretically, but there’s no guarantee. Not with the strength of these headwinds. Not in this plane where I cannot fly above the cumulus clouds.”
“So returning to Nicaragua is our best option?”
“Yes.”
He swore under his breath.
“What is the big deal? Is stopping your friend’s wedding worth risking our lives over?”
“I just wish there was an alternative to returning to Nicaragua.”
“Well, there’s not.” Sophia turned the plane back in a southerly direction. Once they were headed west, the headwind would become a tailwind, and at that point, an advantage.
That’s when the engine sputtered.
It was probably just an air bubble in the fuel line, nothing to worry about. She kept turning El Diablo, but to be on the safe side, she went down another thousand feet.
“What was that?” Gibb asked.
“Just a stutter in the engine,” she reassured him.
“It doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s an old plane. These things happen sometimes.”
Gibb looked skeptical. “You’re worried about it, too. That’s why you’ve dropped altitude.”
“No reason to be alarmed. It’s always better to be safe than sorry,” she said. Okay, she could handle this. She’d been trained by the best—her father.
“Yes, but your plane should at least be airworthy.”
She glared at him. “My plane is plenty airworthy.”
The engine sputtered again.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Most likely it’s a cylinder misfiring from running the fuel mixture too rich,” she said, ignoring the prickle of anxiety crawling through her stomach. She kept El Diablo in peak condition, but still... “Easy fix. I’ll just lean up the mixture.”
“What does that mean?”
“Leaning it up adds air to the fuel ratio.” She pulled back on the orange handled fuel rod, while at the same time, keeping her eye on the tachometer, until the needle hit the optimal revolutions per minute on the gauge.
“Why didn’t you already lean it up?”
“Because you want richer fuel at a higher altitude.” She paused, listened to the engine, and heard nothing. Felt nothing. Good. That seemed to have fixed it.
She settled back into the seat. They were headed due west now. The tension eased from her shoulders. Sophia was about to reach for the radio to call into the nearest tower, when the engine sputtered again, this time louder and longer.
“So much for the fuel mixture theory,” Gibb said.
Alarmed, but determined not to show it, she ran through her head all the possible causes for the engine cutting out. Maybe it was bad spark plugs? But she’d just changed them out a couple of weeks ago. Maybe she hadn’t tightened down a wire?
She dropped down another five hundred feet.
“You take this puppy any lower and I’m going to need to put on my swim trunks.”
If she hadn’t had all her attention on the plane, she might have teased him and told him she didn’t know he owned a pair of swim trunks. Or had an erotic fantasy about how sexy he would look bare-chested and dressed for a swim. As it was, she clenched her teeth tight and remembered everything she’d learned about how to make an
“We did, but a headwind this strong pulls fuel from the tank like water running out of a flushing toilet. If I don’t make a decision right now, we won’t have enough gas to make it back to Nicaragua.”
“Is there somewhere closer we could land, fuel up and wait for the weather conditions to improve?”
Or even put him on a commercial liner. Truth be told, she was ready to get rid of Gibb Martin and get back to her nice, simple life of ferrying tourists back and forth from Libera to Bosque de Los Dioses.
“Well?”
She blew out her breath. “There’s Island de Providencia.”
“Let’s go there.”
“One problem.”
“What’s that?”
“The island lies due north. We’d have to fly right through the cumulus clouds to get there.”
“Do we have enough gas to make it?”
“Theoretically, but there’s no guarantee. Not with the strength of these headwinds. Not in this plane where I cannot fly above the cumulus clouds.”
“So returning to Nicaragua is our best option?”
“Yes.”
He swore under his breath.
“What is the big deal? Is stopping your friend’s wedding worth risking our lives over?”
“I just wish there was an alternative to returning to Nicaragua.”
“Well, there’s not.” Sophia turned the plane back in a southerly direction. Once they were headed west, the headwind would become a tailwind, and at that point, an advantage.
That’s when the engine sputtered.
It was probably just an air bubble in the fuel line, nothing to worry about. She kept turning El Diablo, but to be on the safe side, she went down another thousand feet.
“What was that?” Gibb asked.
“Just a stutter in the engine,” she reassured him.
“It doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s an old plane. These things happen sometimes.”
Gibb looked skeptical. “You’re worried about it, too. That’s why you’ve dropped altitude.”
“No reason to be alarmed. It’s always better to be safe than sorry,” she said. Okay, she could handle this. She’d been trained by the best—her father.
“Yes, but your plane should at least be airworthy.”
She glared at him. “My plane is plenty airworthy.”
The engine sputtered again.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Most likely it’s a cylinder misfiring from running the fuel mixture too rich,” she said, ignoring the prickle of anxiety crawling through her stomach. She kept El Diablo in peak condition, but still... “Easy fix. I’ll just lean up the mixture.”
“What does that mean?”
“Leaning it up adds air to the fuel ratio.” She pulled back on the orange handled fuel rod, while at the same time, keeping her eye on the tachometer, until the needle hit the optimal revolutions per minute on the gauge.
“Why didn’t you already lean it up?”
“Because you want richer fuel at a higher altitude.” She paused, listened to the engine, and heard nothing. Felt nothing. Good. That seemed to have fixed it.
She settled back into the seat. They were headed due west now. The tension eased from her shoulders. Sophia was about to reach for the radio to call into the nearest tower, when the engine sputtered again, this time louder and longer.
“So much for the fuel mixture theory,” Gibb said.
Alarmed, but determined not to show it, she ran through her head all the possible causes for the engine cutting out. Maybe it was bad spark plugs? But she’d just changed them out a couple of weeks ago. Maybe she hadn’t tightened down a wire?
She dropped down another five hundred feet.
“You take this puppy any lower and I’m going to need to put on my swim trunks.”
If she hadn’t had all her attention on the plane, she might have teased him and told him she didn’t know he owned a pair of swim trunks. Or had an erotic fantasy about how sexy he would look bare-chested and dressed for a swim. As it was, she clenched her teeth tight and remembered everything she’d learned about how to make an
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