We were airborne and climbing at a crazy thirty-degree angle! It was awesome! What an amazing aircraft!
‘Goodbye Great-uncle Bartholomew,’ I said under my breath. ‘Safe journey and happy landing. I’ll never forget you.’
I glanced at the controls. Unbelievably, I was already passing five thousand feet! The Ormond Orca shot skywards like a homesick angel.
We continued to climb, the roar of the full-throttled engine filling my ears. I’d reached seven thousand feet without even trying, and now it was eight thousand, nine thousand—all in less than a minute.
The angle at which I could see the world beneath me eased as the RATO system cut out. I levelled out and stabilised, flying at 300 knots. Beneath me, nearly ten thousand feet below, ‘Kilkenny’ blazed.
I’d escaped from Oriana’s goons, once more, but at what cost? I felt tears sting my eyes as I thought of my great-uncle Bartholomew lying dead in his burning house. The fire had engulfed his entire existence, destroying his home, his work, his books, magazines and journals … his life. I’d just got to know the old guy and now he was gone. His heart just wasn’t strong enough for what I’d brought to him. I felt sure he’d still be alive if those two thugs hadn’t shown up at ‘Kilkenny’ and started terrorising us … or if I’d never shown up.
I thought about poor Maggers, left alone, and homeless. One day, I promised myself, I’d come back to ‘Kilkenny’, or what was left of it, and make sure Maggers was looked after.
I tried to put the sad thoughts out of my mind by concentrating on flying the Orca. Go to Dimityville Airfield, he’d told me. I didn’t exactly have a flight plan, but almost due north ahead I could see the lights of a small township. As I jetted high above the earth, I fiddled with the dials on the radio, picking up the weather report. Luckily, even though I was flying through a night sky for the first time in my life, the conditions were clear. The moon was full—brilliant and bright like an aerial lighthouse.
My mind ticked over the information I’d gathered with Great-uncle Bartholomew. The road to Dad’s great secret had even more twists and turns in it than I first realised. My job now was to get this jet down safely, connect with Boges, and then start the search for the Ormond Jewel—which along with the Riddle formed the double-key code.
Sadness crept up on me again in the darkness. I found myself thinking about the last time I went flying, with Dad, well over a year ago. I also suddenly felt fear overcoming me. I’d never flown solo. I’d never flown at night. And I sure hadn’t ever flown a jet before.
It’s not so hard getting an aeroplane up in the air, but putting it down safely is a completely different matter. I’d landed the Cessna a couple of times but never on my own. Dad had always been beside me, ready to take over the controls if necessary. I didn’t know what a jet would feel like—how it would handle on final approach … I’d never handled retractable landing gear, for a start. Basically, what I was flying was an experimental aeroplane on its first test flight.
The full reality of the situation I’d put myself in hit me, and at the same time a red light appeared on the control panel next to the fuel gauge. I couldn’t believe my eyes! The fuel gauge was showing empty!
My panic rose rapidly. For some reason I was running out of fuel!
I’ve just got to put it down safely, I repeated, trying to calm myself down, just like my dad, or my great-uncle, would have done had they been sitting next to me.
I aimed for the township and began my descent. As I approached, I saw with relief that it was in fact Dimityville. I could read the huge letters spelling the name out, lit up on the roof of a warehouse.
The needle in the fuel gauge continued to show empty. According to the instruments, there was nothing in the tanks, but the Ormond Orca kept flying. Maybe I’d make it OK. Just maybe.
As the Orca sped closer and lower to the Dimityville airstrip, my heart nearly stopped. Beside the brilliantly lit runway, the red-and-blue flashing lights of police vehicles were there, waiting for me! A reception committee for when I landed—if I landed! Kelvin and Sumo must have dobbed me in!
I flew over some low cloud that I hoped would hide me from the welcoming committee on the ground. I needed to get on the other side of it, which looked to be only a short distance away. But as I flew around it, the cloud suddenly closed up, completely surrounding me. All I could see was white—beside, above and below me. It was what pilots call being inside the ‘milk bottle’.
I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Panic sucked the air out of my chest. I’d never had any real training on IFR—instrument flight rules. Without instrument rating, I had to rely on VFR—visual flight rules—for flying, and now I’d lost visual contact with my position. I was doomed! It was impossible to fly an aeroplane without reference to the horizon!
I was becoming disoriented, surrounded by dense cloud wherever I looked. I stared at the instrument panel. The artificial horizon had tilted, yet I felt that I was flying straight and level. I tried to correct my altitude, but my instincts were telling me the altitude indicator was wrong. Surely I could tell just by feeling in my body whether I was left or right, straight or tilted. Dad had told me about a test with experienced pilots flying in white-out without instruments in the simulator. Every single one of them went into the dreaded graveyard spin which meant three simple words; crash, burn, die.
Sweat broke out all over me. Again I could hear Dad’s voice, ‘If in cloud, don’t trust your instincts, trust your instruments; they may be faulty but they are your best hope.’
I corrected the pitch of the aeroplane according to what the artificial horizon was telling me. A surge of relief flowed through me as I saw a break in the cloud.
I flew out. The altimeter told me I was a thousand feet above Dimityville Airfield, which was crawling with cops!
I made a fast decision. In the distance, beyond the Dimityville airstrip, I could see a floodlit football oval, beyond a forested area and a large dam. I had to throw the cops off my trail, at least for enough time to make a getaway.
First, I had to find a way of surviving a forced landing!
I pulled the throttle back to slow the Ormond Orca and flew a circuit of the airfield. I lowered the nose. Now we were doing about 150 kilometres per hour. One hundred and fifty! That was the suggested speed to engage the landing gear! I quickly engaged, and the heavy clunk of the gear readying itself under the aeroplane slowed us even more. I turned towards the Dimityville landing strip. I experimented with the flaps, taking them down a couple of notches.
So far, so good.
The cops were no doubt rubbing their hands with glee, expecting me to land on the strip below in a minute or so. I just prayed this fuel from nowhere would keep on going. I couldn’t turn into a glider now: I needed lots of forward thrust for what I had in mind.
At five hundred feet the Ormond Orca was descending at around 85 knots and I was almost at the flare, preparing the jet for landing, when I suddenly slammed the throttle up and the little jet screamed back up into the sky and turned over the heads of the waiting cops.
I whooped and yelled as I climbed to two thousand feet and headed towards my real landing destination.
Behind me, I saw them all scrambling, getting back into their cars.
The clouds were lower now and I flew through a break. My escape was covered by thick blankets of creamy, moonlit billows.
I pushed the stick down, losing altitude. The roar of the jet changed into a whine, a falling tone that could only mean one thing. The miracle fuel had stopped flowing. Whatever had been left in the fuel lines was gone.
I pulled up the stick fast. I had to focus on surviving this landing! If I didn’t, everything stopped with me.
I had to fly the jet without power. The icy fear fuelled by adrenaline cleared my head and gave me a cold determination. I would land the Orca!
I couldn’t lose everything now. I’d come too far, suffered too much. I couldn’t waste the hard work of my best friend Boges. Or even Win
ter Frey. I needed to be around for Gabbi … and my mum. And I especially couldn’t let my dad, or Bartholomew, down.
Thick forest lay ahead and beneath me. I lowered the nose and aimed for the flat area that I could just make out at the end of the football oval. I held the Ormond Orca at 150 knots and put the flaps right down.
I was coming in low now, across the tree tops at two hundred then one hundred feet. I was approaching a wire fence. Everything was rocketing past in a blur. I was still coming in way too fast!
It was almost time for impact. My body tensed. I held my breath.
I made it across the fence but then the Orca slammed into the ground hard. We bounced once, then twice, and on the third bounce, the nose wheel dug into the earth, ploughing it up and tearing it off. The Orca skidded sideways, driving me hard against the harness.
We were heading for the dam!
Another bounce and this time, with a massive crash, the Ormond Orca cartwheeled and hit the dirt at a crazy angle.
The harness held me tight in my seat but my head had been thrown around violently. I yelled out in shock.
Time seemed to stand still. Everything started to go fuzzy.
I felt myself drifting out of consciousness, when I realised smoke was filling the cabin. Desperately I tried to undo my harness, but the buckle had been crushed and wouldn’t open.
Crash, burn, die. Crash, burn, die, kept running through my mind like an evil spell.
I had to get out. The smoke was already blinding me, making me cough, ravaging my throat that was already scorched from the fire at ‘Kilkenny’.
If this aeroplane exploded, I was done for!
I had to get out. If the explosion didn’t kill me, smoke inhalation would. I gasped for air.
My fingers scrabbled around the floor—I remembered seeing Great-uncle Bartholomew’s pocket knife somewhere when I first climbed in.
When I finally found the cold, metal tool, I picked it up and flicked out the blade. I sawed through the mesh of the harness until I was free.
Now I had to find the lever that opened the canopy!
I could hardly see anything, and I couldn’t find it with my desperate fingers!
I was trapped. The smoke and heat were becoming unbearable!
Copyright
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Text copyright © Gabrielle Lord, 2010.
Illustrations copyright © Scholastic Australia, 2010.
Graphics by Nicole Leary.
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Cover design by Natalie Winter.
Cover photography: running male by Wendell Teodoro © Scholastic Australia, 2010; close-up of boy’s face by Michael Bagnall © Scholastic Australia, 2010; house on fire © Pyastolova Nadya/ Shutterstock; stormy sky © Adisa/Shutterstock; jet and cloudy sky © istockphoto.com/Achim Prill. Internal photography: paper on page 067 © istockphoto.com/Luseen Heinlein; paper on page 045 © istockphoto.com/Royce DeGrie.
This electronic edition published by Scholastic Australia Pty Limited in 2012.
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