The Yellow Packard (34 page)

For a full hour they fought weather that often caused the plane to drop fifty feet with no warning. Yet somehow the plane held together. Then, as if a magician’s hand had waved, the scene changed and they flew into clear skies.

“One hour to go,” Collins said with a smile. “Been a piece of cake so far.”

“Whatever kind of cake it is,” Nate shot back, “I’ll pass next time.”

For thirty minutes they flew over a snow-covered Hoosier state with nothing on their minds but setting the DC-3 down at Midway. It didn’t take long to realize gremlins had somehow worked their way into the airship’s mechanics.

“You seeing that?” a suddenly tense Collins asked.

Nate looked down at the instruments. The right engine’s oil pressure was down and temperature up. “What do you see out the window?”

“Not what I want to see,” came the answer.

“We have an oil leak?”

“Sure do and it’s a major one.”

“Okay,” Nate replied as the motor’s temperature climbed higher, “let’s shut her down and fly the bird on one.”

Collins reached over to kill the engine in order to avoid a possible fire and set up the DC-3 to fly on a single motor. Nate felt secure in the knowledge that the plane only needed the one to fly. But his sense of security didn’t last long. Within minutes the left engine was dripping oil and heating up fast, too.

“What’s going on?” Nate demanded. “Things like this don’t happen. You don’t lose two engines in a whole career, much less on the same flight.”

“How long do you think she’ll hold up?” Collins asked.

Nate shook his head, leaning to check several gauges as his blood pressure started to rise. “Give me your opinion,” he said.

“Why don’t we ask the chief mechanic?” the copilot suggested. “He’s on this flight.”

“Go get him,” Nate ordered.

Collins jumped up from his seat and moved quickly into the main cabin. Less than a minute later he came back with a surprisingly calm Albert Wiggins.

“Do you see what’s going on, Wiggins?” Nate barked as he pointed at the control panel.

“Yeah,” the veteran mechanic solemnly answered. He casually listened as Collins informed Midway of their issues before he glanced through the window at the one running engine. “I’m surprised it lasted this long.”

The man’s matter-of-fact tone shocked Nate. Glancing back toward the wounded motor, the pilot demanded, “Don’t you realize what we’re dealing with here? We’re going to have to set this plane down in the next couple of minutes.”

“Going to be a bit hard to do that,” Wiggins explained. “When you hit the landing gear button there will be a small explosion that will destroy any chance you have at getting it down. You still have a lot of fuel in this crate. So if you try a belly landing, this thing will light up like a torch when you hit the ground.”

A thousand questions rolled through Nate’s mind as he tried to process Wiggins’s cool explanation, but above all the others there was only one question that needed to be asked. “Why?”

“Just tired of living,” came the answer. “I’m really good, maybe the best mechanic American has, but the company has passed me over for promotion a half-dozen times because I don’t have a college degree. I’m tired of not being appreciated. So I figured if I was going to check out of life it would be worth it to make the airline look bad, too.”

“But,” Nate forcefully argued, his face growing red, “you’re taking twenty-seven people who want to live down with you. That’s not just suicide, that’s murder.”

Wiggins shrugged and smiled weirdly. “I’m putting others out of their misery. Look at you, your daughter is dying. Life is hell—that’s all there is to it. So killing the folks on this plane is really doing them a favor. It will end all the suffering they have to deal with each and every day. Won’t it be better for you not to see your kid die?”

As Nate fought to keep the motor running and the plane in the air he mumbled, “What kind of sick person are you?”

Collins had evidently had all that he could take of Wiggins, too. With no warning the copilot jumped from his seat, turned, set his feet, and delivered a right hook to Wiggins’s jaw. The middle-aged man collapsed like a sack of potatoes. Then, after admiring his handiwork, the copilot sat back down in his seat.

“How much time you think we have?” Collins asked as he snapped his seat belt.

“A couple of minutes,” Nate explained. “Maybe five on the outside. If we had the landing gear we could glide her into a field somewhere. We just crossed into Illinois so we’re over flat farmland. But if Wiggins wired an explosion to go off when the gear goes down, the bumpy landing might trigger a blast anyway. Getting all the passengers off before the plane erupts might not be possible. And the lakes are not frozen as solidly as we need them to be, so there is really only one option.”

Nate unfastened his belt and looked toward the other man. “Collins, pilot this thing; I’m going to get down there and find that bomb and cut the power to it. Get on the horn, and let the passengers know we have an issue but that it’s being handled.”

“I can’t take her in,” Collins argued. “You’ve got more experience. I know you can set her down. Besides, odds are you wouldn’t find the bomb before the power goes out.”

“Don’t have to,” Nate shot back. “Take the wheel.”

As Collins took over flying the plane, the pilot got up and moved to a drawer containing a few tools. Wiggins groaned on the floor, seeming to be coming to. Digging out a pair of wire cutters, Nate headed for the hatch leading into the bowels of the plane. A minute later he was in the very cold underside of the aircraft. A quick study of the wiring led him to the main lead connected to the landing gear’s mechanics. With one swift snip, the power to the gear was cut off.

Then Nate manually opened the bay. As he did, subzero temperatures filled the plane’s belly along with hurricane-force winds. Grabbing a huge crank made specifically for events of power or hydraulic failure, he began lowering the gear. He was just finishing when the left engine sputtered and quit. He took a last look at the snow-covered scene below, then reversed his course and climbed back to the hatch. He pulled himself into the plane’s cabin and rushed to his seat. Amazingly, even without power the plane was still aloft.

“You take it,” Collins said. “You’re the one with the most hours.”

“Fine,” Nate replied. “But inform the passengers of what is going on, tell them to be ready for a hard landing.”

As his copilot calmly explained the situation to the passengers, Nate looked out the window. It was a strange sensation to be gliding over the Illinois prairie with only the sound of the wind. The ship was sailing so smoothly through the air that if they hadn’t been in a life or death struggle, it would have been incredibly peaceful. And even though this strange sensation begged the pilot to embrace and enjoy this unique moment, he pulled himself back into the role he needed to play. With the wheel in his hand, Nate employed his flaps and rudders to aim the plane toward a long, open field. As the plane drifted below five hundred feet, he shot a look to the stewardess who had just poked her head in the cabin. “Are the passengers prepared?”

“As much as they can be.”

“Get yourself buckled. As soon as we get this crate on the ground,” he barked, “get back there and get them off this thing. I’m hoping it doesn’t burn, but it could; the left engine is still plenty hot.”

Ann moved to comply.

As he concentrated on making a perfect, unpowered emergency landing, something he’d been taught back in flight school but had never attempted, thoughts of Angel raced from the deep recesses of his mind and called out to him.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he whispered. “I’ll be home sooner than you know.”

Chapter 65

N
ate Coffman stood in the snowy field surrounded by twenty-six of the twenty-seven souls who’d put their lives in his hands. They were all well and staring at the silver ship that had somehow landed relatively undamaged on the frozen Illinois prairie.

As the pilot considered what he’d just be through and how much just taking another breath meant to him, Collins strolled up to his side. “That was smoother than your normal landings.”

Nate grinned at the verbal jab before whispering, “Where’s Wiggins?”

“He’s still on board. Tied him up real tight. I’ll let the police escort him off later.”

The pilot smiled. “He’s not as good a mechanic as he thought he was.”

Collins laughed. “Or maybe the plane is just better than any of us realized. I’m going to write a thank-you note to the Douglas folks.”

“Where’s the pilot?” a voice called out from behind them.

Nate and Collins turned as a tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair pushed by the other survivors and toward the flight crew. He was well dressed and moved with the grace of someone who’d played sports in his youth. A dark mustache accented thin lips, a chiseled jaw, and green eyes. He was so striking he looked as though he stepped out of a Clipper Craft clothing advertisement.

“I’m the pilot,” Nate announced as the man drew closer.

“Great job,” the man enthusiastically announced. “I’ve been flying planes for twenty years, and never have I ever witnessed anything like that. The way you set her down was simply amazing.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m Nate Coffman.”

The stranger stuck out a gloved hand. “Franklin Wiles.” As their hands met, the man added, “I was the man who caused you to be late. When I saw that engine go out, I almost wished you hadn’t waited for me. Fate’s kind of a strange thing.”

“Yep,” Nate replied. “It’s funny. I was able to get this piece of machinery down from the sky, and because of what I was trained to do a few lives were saved. But …” his voice trailed off along with his thoughts.

“But what?” the man asked.

“Nothing,” Nate replied.

The sound of sirens caused both men, as well as the rest of the passengers and crew, to look over to a gravel road that ran beside the field. Police cars and ambulances were on their way.

“Glad we don’t need those,” Wiles noted.

“No injuries is pretty amazing,” the pilot agreed as he stepped away from the stranger and moved closer to the plane. Out of the corner of his eye, Nate noted that Wiles walked over to visit with Collins for a moment. The men exchanged words, and the stranger nodded before he moved slowly back over to rejoin the pilot. As the vehicles parked beside the field, a dozen men got out and began to head in their direction. Wiles quietly voiced what had been embedded in Nate’s mind since the successful landing.

“So, it’s your daughter that you can’t save,” he said quietly, meeting Nate’s gaze.

Taking a deep breath of the cold air, the pilot shook his head. “I guess Collins told you.”

“He did.”

“It’s nothing you need to be concerned about.”

“I’d like to know more,” Wiles said, “if you care to share. If not, I will respect your privacy.”

Nate didn’t answer. Waving to a local sheriff, he called out, “We’re fine, but the man that created this mess is tied up in the plane. My copilot can fill you in on the details.”

“Thank you,” the cop called out. “I radioed for a school bus to haul your people out of here.”

“Thanks,” the pilot called back. “We just need to get these folks someplace warm. And we need to get their luggage.”

The officer nodded.

Nate glanced over his shoulder. “Collins, can you fill the sheriff”—he paused on the name, which the officer supplied as Jed Atkins—“tell him about Wiggins?”

“Sure,” the copilot answered.

As the local rescue team went to work helping the passengers across the snow and over to the road where they’d be picked up by the bus, Nate moved closer to his ship. She looked like she was ready to take off. And if the motors hadn’t been sabotaged, she could have. But for the time being, the DC-3 was going to have to wait in a wheat field. All things considered, not a bad fate. It could have, and probably should have, been much worse.

Wiles strolled up beside the pilot. “I’d still like to hear about your daughter.”

The pilot was surprised the stranger had followed him on his walk to the DC-3’s nose. He’d figured Wiles would have been anxious to leave with the other passengers. Why did this man want to concern himself with Nate’s problems?

“She’s sick,” Nate replied. “Got a head injury a few months back and seizures followed. The x-rays revealed a mass in her brain. Doctors tell us surgery isn’t an option because of how the mass is tied into her brain. So the seizures get worse, and in the next few days or weeks or months, a girl who has yet to even go to school will die. Kind of funny, I have the skill to save all these people, but …”

“Where do you live?” the man asked.

“North of Chicago. A little place called Wilmette.”

Wiles stepped between the pilot and his ship and asked, “If there was a neurosurgeon who had the skill to do the work, would you let him try?”

Nate smiled, “I would, but even if that man existed—and Dr. Hutton tells me no one is willing to attempt this kind of procedure—I couldn’t afford it. Lifesaving options are for the wealthy. Those without money die. It’s a fact of life. Always has been.”

“I won’t argue,” the man replied. “Maybe twenty years from now that’ll change. Maybe we’ll have a system that will provide medical care on an equal basis.”

“Do you believe that?” the pilot asked.

“Maybe not,” came the reply. “But it’s a nice dream. At this moment I owe you something. You saved my life. And since my specialty is brain surgery—some people call me the best in the world—I’d like to look at your daughter’s case.”

For a long moment Nate couldn’t speak. He stared at Wiles then placed his hands on the man’s left shoulder and looked him squarely in his eyes. His words caught in his throat.

“I mean it,” Wiles assured. “There are no guarantees, and maybe I can’t help her. But I want to try. You’ve already paid for my services.”

“I was just doing my job,” Nate said.

“And now it is time for me to do mine.”

Chapter 66

N
ate Coffman paced the hall outside the surgical waiting room in Chicago’s Parkside Hospital. His daughter’s operation was now five hours old, and the only word he and Beverly had been given during that time was that it would be a while longer.