Crash Landing (5 page)

“Sounds like sex on a bus,” he teased.

“It’s not funny,” she said. As happy-go-lucky and adventuresome as Sophia might be, when it came to flying, she did not make jokes or take weather lightly.

“What does this mean?”

“It means I’m not laughing about the cumulus clouds.”

“Not that,” he said. “Can we fly through them?”

“We could, but it could be much more than just a bumpy ride. Look how wide and thick they are. I wouldn’t know the extent of how far they ranged until we were in the middle of them. And it might take as long as an hour to do it and I simply can’t risk that.”

“Don’t you have some kind of radar or sonar or something to tell you this stuff?”

“Who do you think I am? The weatherman? You see anything on this 1971 control panel that looks like it could track a storm?”

“No.”

“This plane isn’t built for long-haul flying. I tried to tell you that.”

“So what do we do?”

“We fly around the clouds.”

“How long will that take?”

“It’s weather. I don’t have a crystal ball.”

“Can you call a tower and ask?”

“There are no manned towers out here. I could call UNICOM, but they’d just tell me to fly around it.”

Gibb drummed his fingers against the door. “Dammit.”

“You said earlier that privacy is more important than speed. I’ll get you there in plenty of time to break up your friend’s wedding, even with the delay.”

“I thought the tropical storm was two days away.”

“This isn’t part of the storm. If it were, the air traffic controllers in Nicaragua would have advised me to land. We’re okay on that score.”

Gibb chuffed out his breath, stabbed his fingers through his hair.

“You don’t take detours in stride, do you?” she asked.

“Why should I?”

“Can’t control Mother Nature.”

The cumulus clouds were getting closer, stretching out across the corridor of their immediate path. The only part of the sky clear of cumulus clouds was due south. The opposite direction of where they needed to go.

Having little alternative, Sophia headed south. She wouldn’t admit it to Gibb, but she was nervous. She’d never flown over the Caribbean and the army of cumulus clouds was not making life any easier. Still, there was no reason for any real alarm.

Everything was looking good, until she directed the plane eastward, hoping to skirt the cumulus clouds, and got caught up in a ferocious headwind. It pushed back against El Diablo with a speed of more than a hundred and sixty knots per hour.

Sophia battled against the wind, trying to hold the plane steady. The nose kept dipping and she struggled to keep it up. They rolled like a body surfer trying to navigate the waves off Oahu’s North Shore. Her hands tensed on the yoke, tightening muscles all the way up to her shoulders.

“What’s going on?” Gibb demanded.

“Hush!” Sophia snapped.

To her surprise, he did.

She took the plane lower, hoping the maneuver would lessen the push of the headwind, dropping down to four thousand feet. The Caribbean sparkled impossibly blue below them.

They were making no headway. Salmon swimming upstream had a better chance of getting where they were going. Initially, she’d hoped the headwind would slack off, but it only seemed to grow stronger. Her gaze focused on the gas gauge, less than half a tank remaining.

“We have to go back,” she told Gibb.

“Why?”

“We’re running low on fuel.”

“We’re running 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 emergency landing. It was something every pilot was taught, but hoped never to use.

The engine sputtered a forth time.

Her heart pounded.
Don’t panic, don’t panic.
“Gotta get this plane on the ground and take a look at that engine,” she muttered to herself.

“What?” Gibb sat up straighter. “Where?”

“There.” She pointed at the small, uninhabited island they’d flown over earlier.

“What’s that?”

“An island.”

“The size of a breath mint.”

The engine sputtered, shuddered. “You got any better ideas?” she asked.

“You mean besides a crash landing?”

“An emergency landing,” she corrected. “I’m going to do my best not to crash.”

“We’re going to crash!”

“There’s a small strip of beach,” she persisted as they flew closer. However, at this lower altitude she could see the spot was not nearly as big as she’d first thought and what there was of it was littered with driftwood and coconuts.

Not ideal at all, but it was their only option.

The engine sputtered again, cut out. Had to be the stupid carburetor. What could be wrong with the carburetor?

“Hang on,” she yelled. “We’re going down.”

5

T
HE
BELLY
OF
the plane skimmed the tops of the thick jungle forest. Fronds and branches slapped and scraped against metal producing a loud screeching noise. Gibb cringed, and grabbed on to his seat with both hands to brace himself for the fall and speared a glance at Sophia.

Sweat beaded her brow, her top teeth were sunk deep into her bottom lip, but her eyes were narrowed in grim determination and her expression declared,
Come hell or high water, I’m landing this plane on this island.

That is, unless they overshot it.

Which, considering the compact size of the island and the thinness of the beach, seemed more likely with every passing second.

Damn those spies who’d freaked him out so much he’d chartered a plane that had no business doing anything more than ferrying tourists from airports to mountaintop resorts. Damn Scott for being so irrational and marrying a woman he’d only known for a month.

Hey, while you’re at it, why not damn yourself? You’re the one who allowed emotion to overrule common sense and you’re the one who told her to keep flying instead of turning back like she wanted to.

Yes, okay, damn his hide for that.

Honestly, he was amazed at her calm skill. He knew grown men who would be whimpering like little girls in a similar situation. Hell, a yelp or two might have jumped out of his throat.

But Sophia was in complete control. Well, as much as anyone could be in control during a forced landing. Nervous as he was, he still had the utmost confidence in her ability to land this thing without killing them.

Unsecured items bounced around the cockpit. The box of snacks flew open, raining cookies, crackers, candy bars, marshmallows and bags of chips all around them. Stuff in the back of the plane shifted, slid, skidded.

With all the flying he’d done in his life, he’d grown lackadaisical. Taken it for granted that any plane he was on would stay airborne. Statistics bore him out. The chances of being killed in a plane crash were miniscule, but planes did go down. Small, old planes more so than others.

Hubris. He was full of hubris thinking he was immune. When had this sense of entitlement overtaken him? That he was somehow too special for any plane he was flying in to experience a mishap? He hadn’t been born that way. In fact, when he was a kid, he’d felt anything but special. Maybe that was the reason why he’d worked so hard to be rich—the need to be special.

Where had that flash of insight come from? He wasn’t particularly self-aware. He had, in fact, on more than one occasion, been accused of being oblivious in regard to his inner motivations. C’mon, who sat around and thought about stuff like that?

Apparently, during an emergency landing, he did.

The wheels touched down hard.

Gibb’s head snapped back, his teeth clacked together. Had they hit the ground or something else? Hell, he had his eyes squeezed closed and every muscle in his body was coiled tight as new box springs.

The plane jolted, shuddered, stopped.

“We’re okay,” Sophia said.

Gibb wiped his sweaty palms over his knees and pried his eyes open.

The plane was tilting to the left. The late-afternoon sun shining through the windshield illuminated drifting dust motes on a shaft of light. Everything was
eerily silent.

Then the back end of the plane dropped a few inches.

They both jumped. Laughed nervously.

“Best crash landing I’ve ever had,” he said.

“How many crash landings have you had?”

“First one.”

“So you’re really experienced.”

He shouldn’t be smiling in this situation, or teasing, but he couldn’t help it. “Seen it all.”

“Aren’t I lucky to be with the most experienced passenger in the world.”

Hey, she was teasing back. Why not? “How about you?” he asked. “How many times have you crash landed?”

Her cute little chin hardened. “I’m not in the habit of crashing planes if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

Oops, he’d gone too far. He raised both palms and surrendered. “I wasn’t taking potshots at your flying abilities.”

“It sounded like you were.”

“Now your mechanic’s abilities...” He shrugged, gave her a deadpan expression. “Maybe.”

She looked as if she’d just bitten into a lemon when she was expecting an orange. “I’m my own mechanic.”

Great. Open mouth insert foot yet again. “Joke. I was joking.”

“I overhauled the engine this year in mechanic school. With the teacher’s supervision, I might add.”

“You just finished mechanic school?” Ouch. He had to stop stepping on her toes.

“I’m a good mechanic,” she bristled. “Top in my class.”

“I’m sure you were.”

“I was the only woman in the class.”

Anything he said at this point was bound to backfire. Go with an honest compliment. “Really, that landing was amazing.”

“You’re just trying to placate me.”

He was. “Look, I have a tendency to spout stuff off the top of my head. Ignore me.”

“I did a thorough flight check before we took off and two weeks ago I did routine maintenance, changed the oil and spark plugs. Sometimes things just happen in spite of excellent maintenance.”

“You’re feeling guilty. Don’t feel guilty. I was joking. You’re easygoing. I thought you would get the joke.”

“Easygoing about life, not about my plane.”

“Duly noted. No more plane jokes.”

“But what if it’s my fault?” she fretted. “What if I didn’t tighten a loose wire or—”

“Listen, if it was your fault, then you can feel guilty, but even if the malfunction was somehow your fault, you did land us safely. You get props for that.” This was odd. He was the customer. He should be the one obsessing about the crash, not trying to make her feel better. But the poor woman looked so woebegone.

“I should have known ahead of time about that stack of cumulus clouds. I should have—”

“Spilled milk,” he said. “Let it go. No point wringing your hands over something that’s already happened. Let’s just get a towel and mop up that milk.”

Problem solver. That was his M.O. If you could fix a problem, then just fix it. If not, figure out how to move on. No point wallowing in recrimination or pointing fingers. Deal with the situation as it was. The plan had worked for him so far.

“I’m so sorry.”

Gibb unbuckled his seat belt. “Don’t apologize. Find out what happened to the plane and repair it so we can be on our way again.”

“That sounds good,” she said. “And of course I will try to do that, but it might not be as easy as it sounds. Complications have a way of arising.”

“We find a complication, we’ll deal with it.”

She unbuckled her own seat belt, looked around at the debris littering the cockpit and sighed deeply. “Like the majority of North Americans, you’re extremely goal oriented. If there is a ball, you must kick it. If there is food, you must eat it. If there is a mountain you must climb it.”

“Costa Ricans don’t care about goals?” Actually, this was part of the problem he’d encountered while trying to get things done in Costa Rica. People moved at a snail’s pace compared to life in the U.S.

“
Ticos
are generally more interested in relationships than outcomes,” she said. “We would rather enjoy our family and friends than rush around chasing some meaningless goal,” she said.

“Meaningless? You call making money meaningless?”

“Do you have more than you can spend?”

“More money than I could spend in ten lifetimes.”

“Then why does making more money matter?”

The question stopped him cold. He had no answer. “I’m going to Key West because of a relationship,” he said. “If my purpose was a goal, I would let my friend make a big mistake and I’d stay focused on my project.”

“Instead you are in neither place. I am sorry, Mr. Martin.”

“Stop apologizing. I’m cool with the fact we had to crash land. Things happen. I get that. Let’s just get a move on and get things repaired so we can fly out of here ASAP.”

She looked dubious. “It would be a good idea to manage your expectations. I will try my best, but there might not be a quick fix.”

“You said you were part American, now’s the time to draw on that Yankee ingenuity and kick the lamentations to the curb.” He pounded his fist into his palm in a gesture he used to get his employees fired up.

“This is why people find some Americans off-putting. They tend to think that their way is always the best way.”

He straightened the lapels of his jacket. So what if he thought his way was the best way? Didn’t everyone? You did what worked for you. That’s why it was your way. “I put you off?”

“I didn’t say me. I was simply pointing out cultural differences. I get to do that since I have roots in both cultures.”

“I understand your point, but can we save the cultural sensitivity discussion for later? I’m kind of in a hurry here.”

She shook her head and he could have sworn she mumbled, “Impossible.”

He decided to let it go, pulled the latch on the door, and tried to shove it open. It moved, but no more than an inch before it hit something and wouldn’t budge any farther. “What the...?”

“One of those expectations that requires management,” she said lightly.

He huffed. Okay, he was in another country. There was always some culture shock involved. He could handle it. Just as long as she got this heap running in time to get him on his way to Florida to stop Scott’s 4:00 p.m. wedding on Saturday.

Sophia tried her door and it opened with ease. She crooked a finger at him. “This way.”

He climbed out, following her.

She stood on the beach at the front of the plane, surveying their situation, her delicate hands resting on her curvy hips.

He imagined her in a red string bikini and his heart rate kicked up a notch. Down, boy. Not the time, nor the place. Think of something else.

The plane wasn’t level. The tire on the pilot’s side of the plane was sunk into the sand. The other tire was parked on a large fallen tree. Jungle vines were whipped around the door handle. That’s what had prevented him from getting out. But other than the imbalanced landing position, the plane didn’t look too bad.

“What now?” he asked.

“I have to find out what made the engine sputter. If it’s something repairable, I’ll repair it. Then we have to figure out how to get the plane on even ground so that we can take off from the beach.”

He glanced over his shoulder. The sea was only a couple of yards behind them. There certainly didn’t seem to be enough of a makeshift runway to achieve liftoff, not that he knew much about it. He had to find another way off this island as quickly as he could. No offense against Sophia Cruz’s mechanical skills or her flying abilities, but Gibb felt insecure without a backup plan.

“I’ll get my tools,” she said and crawled back inside the plane.

Gibb pulled his cell phone from his pocket and walked a short distance away. To the left of the plane lay a thicket of jungle trees, much like those found in the rain forest of Costa Rica. The island might not be big, probably no more than five miles long and three miles across, but it was high. Rocky outcroppings in the middle of the island jutted a good thousand feet into the air. He tried the phone.

No service.

Well, what did you expect way out here in the middle of nowhere? Certainly not cell phone reception. Grunting, he pocketed the device.

Sophia emerged from the plane with a red canvas tool bag. She had her pink cowboy hat fixed firmly on her head. “You’re not going to get cell phone reception.”

“So I figured. Show me how to use the radio. I want to call for help.”

“We’re probably out of range from an air tower,” she said. “And besides, by the time we could get someone out here, I could have the plane repaired.”

“In time to take off tonight?” He eyed the sun dipping toward the horizon.

“Probably not,” she said. “I’m not taking off in the dark. Not from here.”

“What if it’s not an easy fix?”

“Let us cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Humor me. Let me try the radio.”

“If you insist, but even if you did manage to raise someone on the radio, they’re not going to helicopter Navy SEALs in here to rescue you. They’ll send a boat, but not until daylight. We’ll be here for the night, so chill.”

“I don’t do that very well,” Gibb growled.

“Then make yourself useful.”

“How’s that?”

Her critical gaze skated over him, as she took in his suit. Fine. It wasn’t beachwear, but he hadn’t known he was going to end up on the beach.

“You could help me, hand me tools as I need them, or...”

He didn’t much like the sound of that. Too passive. “Or what?”

“Go gather some driftwood and make a fire.”

He stared at her. “A fire?”

“You do know how to make a fire, don’t you?” She made rubbing motions as if she were using kindling. “Just rub two sticks together and glow.”

Gibb grinned. “Nice riff on Lauren Bacall’s character in
Key Largo.
”

“To Have and Have Not.”

“To have what?”

“The movie. The line isn’t from
Key Largo.
It’s from
To Have and Have Not.
”

“No kidding?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Maybe. I don’t really know you.”

She drew herself up to her full five foot two. “I am not a liar, Mr. Martin.”

He was putting her off again. “I’ll take your word for it. From now on I’ll assume you’re telling the truth. How do you know so much about old movies?”

“My mother was a movie buff. Sometimes when I’m feeling sentimental, I watch the classics.”

“I wouldn’t have suspected you had a sentimental bone in your body, Amelia.”

“Why? Because I’m a pilot?”

“Because you’re so grounded.”

She laughed. “You missed the part about me being a pilot?”

“I’m not talking about your profession, but rather your personality.”

“Thanks. I think.” She turned and walked away.

He hadn’t made a campfire in so long. When, and if, he ever found himself in need of a fire, he paid someone to make it for him. “What do we need a fire for?”