shrugged, concentrating on the window, watching a low-hanging wisp drift past. “Then you know that in a plane like this you’ve got to,” he leaned closer, letting his hand rest on the denim over her thigh, “pump the flaps and all.” He drew out the word “pump” in an awkward attempt to make it thick with innuendo.
With a snorting laugh, she brushed him back saying, “Let’s keep your hands on the yoke.”
But Sam was no longer amused. His eyes sprang open, and he leaned over the seat with a scowl. “OK, Opie, that’s it. Let me give you the bad news. She’s not interested. She’s not ever going to be interested; no matter what you say, no matter how much you talk. So keep your paws to yourself, shut the fuck up, and let the lady work.”
“Hey!” The pilot looked back at him. “No one talks to me like that. Not while I’m flying the plane.” The plane lurched with a chop of turbulence and he turned abruptly back to the controls, nearly shouting, “And stop calling me Opie!”
That’s when they heard the engine sputter and felt the plane shudder. In a split second, they were all quiet, waiting. Then the sputter became a cough, and the shudder became a deep vibration.
Immediately Opie brought the plane level and reached for the fuel selector. But the vibration morphed to a hideous shimmy. “Get that bag stowed.” Opie reached up, flipping the latches of the hatch next to him, and then leaned over Tess to unlock the ones on the passenger side, without even a glance at her. Tess shoved her camera bag at Sam and he quickly, carelessly, dropped it into the storage area behind him. When he turned back, he stared at the windshield in wonder. The raindrops hitting it were leaving odd black smears. Tess moaned, “Oh God,” and then he understood. It was oil, blowing back from the engine.
“We’re going to have to put down. Thank God the highway down there is closed because of the flooding.” Opie grabbed the radio, and his first word was, “Mayday.”
Panic buzzing in his ears, Sam couldn’t follow the exchange between Opie and the Rapid City tower, until a crackling question came startling clear. “1919 Papa, how many souls aboard?”
“Three.” The pilot’s voice cracked in response, and then he repeated firmly, “Three souls aboard.” Even as he spoke, the tortured knocking from the engine suddenly ceased. In the yawning silence, all three gasped as the nose dipped steeply down.
Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Sam stared straight ahead, aghast at the windmilling prop, Opie’s voice echoing in his brain, “Tower, we have lost all power. Coming down on Highway 96. Request you notify fire and rescue.”
“Roger. Emergency vehicles are rolling. Godspeed, 19 Papa.”
Sam’s eyes shot to Tess. When she turned and looked back at him, her own were wide with terror. He couldn’t take it in, that someone so young, so full of energy and laughter, was going to die. It was his doing, his fault. The editors weren’t going to send her at all, but he’d insisted. Knuckles white with his desperate grip on the arm rests, Sam understood that the gliding, sinking sensation was actually the plane falling through the air. But all he could see was Tess, as she reached into the open collar of her shirt and pulled out a fine chain, clutching something tightly in her hand.
In spite of his strained voice and the shuddering yoke, Opie kept control, and lined the plane up with a flat stretch of rain-drenched highway. “As soon as we’re stopped, get out if you can. Don’t grab your things, just move. Get your heads down.”
The narrow ribbon of wet concrete seemed to be running toward them, and the words “crash and burn” shrieked into Sam’s mind and flashed to his first job out of college. Covering a fire one night, a sadist Boston cop had won an office pool after setting Sam up with a good long look at a charred corpse. He’d puked his guts out. His eyes went back to Tess’s
With a snorting laugh, she brushed him back saying, “Let’s keep your hands on the yoke.”
But Sam was no longer amused. His eyes sprang open, and he leaned over the seat with a scowl. “OK, Opie, that’s it. Let me give you the bad news. She’s not interested. She’s not ever going to be interested; no matter what you say, no matter how much you talk. So keep your paws to yourself, shut the fuck up, and let the lady work.”
“Hey!” The pilot looked back at him. “No one talks to me like that. Not while I’m flying the plane.” The plane lurched with a chop of turbulence and he turned abruptly back to the controls, nearly shouting, “And stop calling me Opie!”
That’s when they heard the engine sputter and felt the plane shudder. In a split second, they were all quiet, waiting. Then the sputter became a cough, and the shudder became a deep vibration.
Immediately Opie brought the plane level and reached for the fuel selector. But the vibration morphed to a hideous shimmy. “Get that bag stowed.” Opie reached up, flipping the latches of the hatch next to him, and then leaned over Tess to unlock the ones on the passenger side, without even a glance at her. Tess shoved her camera bag at Sam and he quickly, carelessly, dropped it into the storage area behind him. When he turned back, he stared at the windshield in wonder. The raindrops hitting it were leaving odd black smears. Tess moaned, “Oh God,” and then he understood. It was oil, blowing back from the engine.
“We’re going to have to put down. Thank God the highway down there is closed because of the flooding.” Opie grabbed the radio, and his first word was, “Mayday.”
Panic buzzing in his ears, Sam couldn’t follow the exchange between Opie and the Rapid City tower, until a crackling question came startling clear. “1919 Papa, how many souls aboard?”
“Three.” The pilot’s voice cracked in response, and then he repeated firmly, “Three souls aboard.” Even as he spoke, the tortured knocking from the engine suddenly ceased. In the yawning silence, all three gasped as the nose dipped steeply down.
Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Sam stared straight ahead, aghast at the windmilling prop, Opie’s voice echoing in his brain, “Tower, we have lost all power. Coming down on Highway 96. Request you notify fire and rescue.”
“Roger. Emergency vehicles are rolling. Godspeed, 19 Papa.”
Sam’s eyes shot to Tess. When she turned and looked back at him, her own were wide with terror. He couldn’t take it in, that someone so young, so full of energy and laughter, was going to die. It was his doing, his fault. The editors weren’t going to send her at all, but he’d insisted. Knuckles white with his desperate grip on the arm rests, Sam understood that the gliding, sinking sensation was actually the plane falling through the air. But all he could see was Tess, as she reached into the open collar of her shirt and pulled out a fine chain, clutching something tightly in her hand.
In spite of his strained voice and the shuddering yoke, Opie kept control, and lined the plane up with a flat stretch of rain-drenched highway. “As soon as we’re stopped, get out if you can. Don’t grab your things, just move. Get your heads down.”
The narrow ribbon of wet concrete seemed to be running toward them, and the words “crash and burn” shrieked into Sam’s mind and flashed to his first job out of college. Covering a fire one night, a sadist Boston cop had won an office pool after setting Sam up with a good long look at a charred corpse. He’d puked his guts out. His eyes went back to Tess’s
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