Sentimental Journey (33 page)

He slapped the helmet on her head.

She batted his hands away. “I can get it.”

He tapped the right side of her helmet while she buckled the straps. “This ear cup is part of a
Gosport
tube, for communication between cockpits. If I need to talk to you, I’ll shout through my mouthpiece and you’ll hear it from this earpiece.”

“How do I talk back to you?”

“You don’t. It’s only one-way communication.”

“Ah . . . a male invention.”

“You got it. Pretty ingenious. I talk. You listen. Worst comes to worst, lean forward and beat on the rim of the cockpit or kick the floor panels to get my attention.” He reached inside and put something on the floor, then straightened. “I couldn’t find any chutes, so you might want to say a quick prayer when we take off.”

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

The plane rocked as he climbed into the front seat. He turned around. “The engine looks good on this little baby. As far as I can tell, it’s not missing a single thing.”

“As far as you can tell? Oh, God . . . ”

“What’s wrong?” He was facing her. “You afraid to fly?”

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Sure.” He turned back around. “I’m going to fly us out of here.”

“I meant how much do you know about planes? How many flying hours do you have? Would you know if anything were missing?”

Her questions were immediately lost in the sound of him trying to start the engine, which made a sick, whining sound that got louder and louder, then coughed into consumptive silence. A few minutes and several tries later, the engine was running, and stayed running.

Through the earpiece came the hollow sound of his voice. “Get ready, sweetheart. We’re going to make like a bird and fly.”

Perhaps praying was a good idea.

The plane rolled out into the daylight, which was no longer bright. The air was sticky. She could taste rain coming. The wind felt like it was coming out of the northwest. He turned the plane until the wind was at their back. The engine noise was such she barely heard his warning, “Here we go!”

They bounced and bobbed over the ground, the plane shimmying enough that she wondered if it were made of toothpicks. The engine was so loud she kept her head down and gripped the rim for all she was worth. On and on they went rolling toward a takeoff, faster and faster, until it felt like flying was the last thing this plane could do. She didn’t know if that made her worried or relieved.

Then the plane lifted, taking her stomach up with it for a few feet, then bounced down hard on the ground, skipped back up in the air, and down again. The next time it lifted, she braced herself for the drop again, but they were in the air and climbing. Before long he banked the plane, then leveled out.

“We’re heading northeast. I want to make certain we clear the mountains; then we’ll circle back and fly this baby south along the coastline.”

She couldn’t say anything, because he couldn’t hear her. She just held on and prayed God was on her side. The wind blew hard against her face and the air was cooling off quickly. The plane skidded along the air currents, until it got bumpy.

“I’m going to take her up.”

They were climbing again, and the air temperature was really dropping fast.

“There are clouds coming over those mountains. Looks like a storm. I’m going to take her up higher. But don’t worry, Kincaid, we’ll fly around this weather. Next stop,
Gibraltar
, and before you know it, you’ll be home sweet home.”

A moment later raindrops splattered onto her face.

“THERE’S SOMETHING IN THE
AIR
”

For over an hour, J.R. tried to fly around the storm, heading southeast at an altitude high enough to clear the mountains. But the storm was a doozy, and it overtook them with breakneck speed.

Next, he tried to go over it, but climbing in altitude meant being batted around. Something like a flea in a hurricane. Upstairs, the turbulence was hell.

He had no idea where they were. They were completely socked in by dark, roiling clouds, lashing rain, and wind that bounced them all over the place and made the plane skip like a dull needle on a scratched record.

“If you’re okay back there, Kincaid, stomp on the floor panels!”

There was a loud
thump, thump, thump!

“Good.” They’d been communicating like this for a few hours. The engine noise was constant, loud, and exhaust came back at them whenever the wind changed. The plane bounced over the rough air, sometimes dropping a few hundred feet. He was doing his damned best to keep it together.

The plane dropped like a rock. He fought with the controls, pulling back on the stick, his feet on the rudders. “Hang on! Nothing to worry about!”

Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

Hell, she didn’t buy it. She was too smart for his good.

They’d been in the air for a long time, lurching along and buffeted by wind and rain. He had no land or sun to get his bearings. Just dark clouds and a sky full of weather. Rain pelted his face and his eyes. He had to keep wiping them to see. His chest was aching from inhaling the exhaust. His head began to pound. The rain got worse, soaking him, lashing down. It was cold and wet and rough flying.

He liked his thrills, but this was more than he bargained for. He looked down. He saw nothing. His arms and hands were getting numb. The thigh muscle in his right leg had been cramping for a while. To top it off, it was getting darker.

The fuel gauge had read three-quarters full when he’d found the plane. He’d checked the tank before he’d gotten Kitty, and it had looked right to him. But he knew plane hadn’t been maintained and the oil was old. He wasn’t sure the gauges worked.

He could barely see the gauges in the rain. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and looked again. “Jesus,” he said aloud. “What the hell is wrong with these needles?”

Thump! Thump! Thump!

Crap . . . she’d heard him. He ignored her and watched the gauges.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

He still ignored her.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

He pretended everything was fine by lightly whistling.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

“Okay! Okay!” he shouted into the mouthpiece. “Stop hammering your feet, Kincaid. The needles on the gauges are all over the place. I don’t know why, but don’t worry; we’ll just ride this storm out. Everything’s fine. Relax.”

Thump! Thump!

Yeah, he thought. It sounded like bullshit to him, too.

They bucked along for another half an hour or so. Then, amazingly, the rain stopped as quickly as it’d started. The wind softened to an easy drift. Smooth flying. The air grew warmer, and the clouds mistier; they changed from dark, to gray, to puffy cotton-white.

Just as suddenly, they flew out of the cotton and into a pink-and-blue sky. The sun cut into his eyes, orange and huge and blinding him for a moment.

He blinked. It was setting on his right, a huge fireball dropping down the sky.

Okay . . . that meant they were flying southeast.

He looked down, then shoved the stick forward and brought the plane a couple thousand feet lower, where the clouds were loose and scattered and he could see the ground below.

It was like looking into a hall of mirrors, seeing only the same thing again and again: a sea of orange sand, dune after rippling dune, the crests of them still damp and steaming from the rain.

He circled around twice, checked out the horizon. There were a few hills to the west, and there was one bruised mountain range turning purple from the sunset in the distance. In every other direction was just desert, the great, unending
Sahara
Desert
.

He looked at the dials on the control panel; they were still shimmying all over the place.

Now what?

He didn’t have a clue where the hell they were. He checked the fuel gauge. Three-quarters full. Same as takeoff. Yeah . . . right. He circled again.

“You okay back there?”

Thump!

“Good.”

The hairs on his neck suddenly stood on end. Something was off. A slight miss in the engine, like the spark plugs were bad.

But the engine sounded fine. Felt fine. No glitch.

He questioned himself and wasn’t certain if he heard it or if he’d felt it in the engine reverberation coming through the stick.

Maybe he’d just imagined it. He tightened his grip on the stick. Still nothing but the even hum of the engine against his hand. To his ears, the engine sounded loud but fine. Unfortunately, the exhaust was still his close friend.

Just stay in the air, baby. Just stay sweet.

He circled again, then headed north, thinking they might be close to the coast. He studied the horizon.

The engine missed, just one, minute sound—a chip in the hum of the motor. He glanced at the dials.

The engine stopped.

He swore and hit the starter.

Nothing.

“Oh, God, what happened!” she screamed.

“Stay calm, dammit!”

Hit it again.

Nothing.

“We’re going to crash!”

“Shut up!” He tried to start it again. “Everything will be okay! A-okay! We’re not going to crash. I can land it.”

He had no choice . . . a dead-stick landing or they were dead ducks. He eased the control stick forward and hung his head out the side, watching the ground come up to meet him.

The sound of her muffled voice broke through his concentration. She was swearing like a stevedore.

He watched the dunes fly under them as the plane went lower and lower. He saw a level spot, short, but possible. He headed for it, down, down, where the plane slipped into a crevice between the dunes.

They hit hard.

Momentum sent him forward. The seat straps bit into his shoulders and hips.

He stood on the brakes, held the stick in both hands.

Skidding through the sand, it showered up around them, then over them. He couldn’t see a thing.

The plane was slowing, slowing. He fought to keep it straight, sand in his face and eyes and then, in his mouth.

He started to choke, then cough. His foot slipped.

Damn!

The plane tipped forward, then tilted over the edge of a dune, where it hung, nose down, for one of those life-defining moments, then flipped over and slid down the other side.