Southern Cross began to drop.
“That would have been ideal,” Lambert agreed.
Edna was jolted awake still bewildered by sleep. “Rowly … what—?” She stood.
Rowland pulled her down again. “We should stay out of the way, Ed,” he said, taking his cue from the crew who seemed concerned, but not panicked.
The engine choked and spluttered and coughed into life. The plane began to claw upwards, and then the engine died again. Now they began to plummet out of control. Edna screamed. For a minute the swearing was unrestrained. Rowland was aware that he’d pulled Edna into his arms but, plunging to the earth as they were, it did not seem improper.
From the cockpit they could hear shouting as the pilots struggled with the controls. The Fokker resisted and bucked. Everything but the bolted wicker chairs was thrown about the cabin. And then the Southern Cross raised her nose, and slowly eased into a hesitant glide.
“What happened?” Rowland asked over his shoulder as he helped Clyde to his feet.
“We’ve lost the engines,” McKinnon replied. “Smithy’s trying to find someplace to land so we can work out what went wrong and hopefully get her back up.”
“I’ll settle for just getting her down at the moment,” Milton muttered.
Fortunately they were quite close to Darwin now and barren unpopulated stretches were not scarce. Voices rose in the cockpit, now audible without the competition of the engines.
“What’s going on?” Edna asked, her knuckles white on the arms of the wicker chair.
“Smithy’s refusing to dump fuel.” Clyde stood closest to the cockpit where the airmen argued. “McKinnon and Lambert think heshould, but Smithy reckons it’s not necessary.” Clyde leaned against the door to listen. “He says he’s not going to carry the can for some hairbrained rescue again.”
“So he’s going to let us explode!” Edna was outraged and suddenly terrified.
“I’m sure he’ll do what he can to avoid that, Ed.” Rowland spoke with deceptive calm. “I’m sure he’s done this hundreds of times … If anyone knows what he’s doing, it’s Smithy.”
Clyde nodded, still eavesdropping. “Pethybridge seems to agree with Smithy …”
“So what do we do?” Milton squinted out of the window.
“I think we’d better hang onto these chairs,” Rowland said, pushing Edna firmly back into hers. “It might get a bit bumpy.”
The Southern Cross continued to descend, to glide to the earth. McKinnon and Lambert were either convinced by Kingsford Smith’s confidence or had simply given up, for they returned to the cabin and instructed their passengers to brace themselves.
Clyde crossed himself again.
“Would you stop that?” Milton said irritably. “It’s too late to become devout now.”
“I’ve still got time,” Clyde muttered.
“Catholics,” Milton returned in disgust.
The Southern Cross made contact with the ground, skipping once before her wheels stayed against the hard sand on which Kingsford Smith had brought her down. Inside the cabin the occupants held grimly to the groaning wicker as the plywood body rattled and shook. When the plane finally came to a stop the relieved passengers cheered and applauded while McKinnnon and Lambert looked on amused.
Kingsford Smith came out of the cockpit and bowed. His eyes glinted and his wide mouth stretched into a smug grin.
“Best pop out and check what went wrong with the Old Bus,” he said. “You folks feel free to stretch your legs … but don’t go far. It’s probably just the push rods … We’ll have her fixed in no time.”
And so they clambered out onto what seemed to Rowland to be the flattest land on the planet. Red earth stretched out in a vast occasionally tussocked plain. It was already uncomfortably warm, though the sun had only just risen over the horizon. Immediately Rowland was struck by the colours, the shades of ground and gold, the immense, watchful blue of the sky.
As tempted as he was to join the
“That would have been ideal,” Lambert agreed.
Edna was jolted awake still bewildered by sleep. “Rowly … what—?” She stood.
Rowland pulled her down again. “We should stay out of the way, Ed,” he said, taking his cue from the crew who seemed concerned, but not panicked.
The engine choked and spluttered and coughed into life. The plane began to claw upwards, and then the engine died again. Now they began to plummet out of control. Edna screamed. For a minute the swearing was unrestrained. Rowland was aware that he’d pulled Edna into his arms but, plunging to the earth as they were, it did not seem improper.
From the cockpit they could hear shouting as the pilots struggled with the controls. The Fokker resisted and bucked. Everything but the bolted wicker chairs was thrown about the cabin. And then the Southern Cross raised her nose, and slowly eased into a hesitant glide.
“What happened?” Rowland asked over his shoulder as he helped Clyde to his feet.
“We’ve lost the engines,” McKinnon replied. “Smithy’s trying to find someplace to land so we can work out what went wrong and hopefully get her back up.”
“I’ll settle for just getting her down at the moment,” Milton muttered.
Fortunately they were quite close to Darwin now and barren unpopulated stretches were not scarce. Voices rose in the cockpit, now audible without the competition of the engines.
“What’s going on?” Edna asked, her knuckles white on the arms of the wicker chair.
“Smithy’s refusing to dump fuel.” Clyde stood closest to the cockpit where the airmen argued. “McKinnon and Lambert think heshould, but Smithy reckons it’s not necessary.” Clyde leaned against the door to listen. “He says he’s not going to carry the can for some hairbrained rescue again.”
“So he’s going to let us explode!” Edna was outraged and suddenly terrified.
“I’m sure he’ll do what he can to avoid that, Ed.” Rowland spoke with deceptive calm. “I’m sure he’s done this hundreds of times … If anyone knows what he’s doing, it’s Smithy.”
Clyde nodded, still eavesdropping. “Pethybridge seems to agree with Smithy …”
“So what do we do?” Milton squinted out of the window.
“I think we’d better hang onto these chairs,” Rowland said, pushing Edna firmly back into hers. “It might get a bit bumpy.”
The Southern Cross continued to descend, to glide to the earth. McKinnon and Lambert were either convinced by Kingsford Smith’s confidence or had simply given up, for they returned to the cabin and instructed their passengers to brace themselves.
Clyde crossed himself again.
“Would you stop that?” Milton said irritably. “It’s too late to become devout now.”
“I’ve still got time,” Clyde muttered.
“Catholics,” Milton returned in disgust.
The Southern Cross made contact with the ground, skipping once before her wheels stayed against the hard sand on which Kingsford Smith had brought her down. Inside the cabin the occupants held grimly to the groaning wicker as the plywood body rattled and shook. When the plane finally came to a stop the relieved passengers cheered and applauded while McKinnnon and Lambert looked on amused.
Kingsford Smith came out of the cockpit and bowed. His eyes glinted and his wide mouth stretched into a smug grin.
“Best pop out and check what went wrong with the Old Bus,” he said. “You folks feel free to stretch your legs … but don’t go far. It’s probably just the push rods … We’ll have her fixed in no time.”
And so they clambered out onto what seemed to Rowland to be the flattest land on the planet. Red earth stretched out in a vast occasionally tussocked plain. It was already uncomfortably warm, though the sun had only just risen over the horizon. Immediately Rowland was struck by the colours, the shades of ground and gold, the immense, watchful blue of the sky.
As tempted as he was to join the
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