“She says it’s urgent.”
“If it’s urgent, show her in.”
Kate’s secretary showed Elsie into the room. As soon as Kate saw her and recognised her as Philip’s secretary, her jaw dropped. There could only be one reason she had been sent to her office. Something must be wrong.
Elsie moved into Kate’s office and closed the door behind her, despite the secretary wanting it left open. She tried to look casual.
“What’s wrong, Elsie?” Kate cried, getting out of her seat and walking around her desk. “What’s happened…please tell me.”
“Philip has asked me to bring you back to the airstrip. In the storm we lost contact with Martin’s plane. There was a bird-strike. When the plane went silent on our radio, we tried to get them back. There was no response.”
Kate sat back on the corner of her desk and clasped her face. “Oh God…he knew there was something wrong when he got up. What are you doing to find him?”
“That’s why we want you at the airstrip. So Philip can explain.”
The secretary heard Kate scream and rushed into her office. She was sobbing in Elsie’s arms. She made a move to console Kate, but Elsie intervened.
“Not now,” she said. “I need you to contact the appropriate people and tell them Mrs Dexter’s husband has been in an accident and I have to take her to the company where he works.”
“He was flying out this morning. I heard Mrs Dexter telling a colleague. Does that mean his plane has crashed?”
“Not a word about this…understand; he’s just had an accident. We don’t want the press getting hold of this. You’re the only one who knows, so I’ll know where to come if I see it on the news.”
“I won’t say a word…I promise.”
Elsie turned back into the room and could see Kate was about to scream, but was trying so hard to maintain her composure, save for a tear running down her cheek.
“Martin knew something was wrong this morning. I wouldn’t listen to him. I thought it was just because he didn’t want to fly in that small plane.”
“Kate…he’s only out of contact at this moment. He’s probably in the desert somewhere trying to get the radio working.”
Kate hardly heard a word. She looked up at Elsie and said, “I should have listened to him…he knew this was going to happen.”
CHAPTER 6
Joe’s rasping gasps for breath subsided into a rhythmic wheeze; he had drifted back into unconsciousness. Martin tried to move his arm to see how bad it was. The pain sharpened his senses. He looked around the hazy cockpit. In the silence of the aftermath, he took notice of its layout for the first time. Nothing appeared to be working; the instruments were dead and every loose object, large and small, was strewn about the interior.
Then his senses were assaulted by all manner of strange anomalies; a pungent smell was hanging in the air; it was alien to anything around him. It reminded him of the smell when he blew a fuse trying to install a light above the balcony. It was not part of the dust that also hung in the air and coated the surfaces; it reminded him of burning Bakelite. The dust was everywhere; covering his face and hands. He licked his lips and immediately his mouth was full of grit.
He reached out for the water bottle and screamed in pain. He forgot for that instant that his hand was paralysed.
“What’s going on?” Joe called out, just coming to again.
“Oh Joe…I knew something bad was going to happen this morning.”
“Rubbish,” he muttered. “You were mad about the Cessna. And what did I tell you…she got you down all right.”
“Yes…and in what condition? We’re both wrecks.”
Joe was suddenly aware of the smell.
“Can you smell that?” he asked.
“Yes…I noticed it straightaway. Like a burnt-out fuse.”
“It’s electrical…that’s for sure. It can’t be serious or the plane would have burst into flames straightaway. But it might be the reason why the radio is out of action. We have to check…see if it can be fixed.”
“What do you mean…we? You don’t look as if you can get out of that seat and I certainly know nothing about aircraft electronics.”
Joe tried to move, coughed a couple of times and when he attempted to lower his seat he let out an almighty scream.
“Oh Joe, that sounds bad. Here, let me see if I can find anything.”
Martin turned left in his seat and dragging his arm over his stomach, he leaned across the centre console against Joe’s right arm. He undid his harness, draped it down the side of the seat and unzipped his leather jacket. He then swivelled in his seat so that his left arm was free and gently felt around Joe’s stomach and chest. As soon as he reached his lower ribs Joe let out that scream again.
“It looks like there’s something wrong with your ribs, Joe.”
“I could have told you that.”
“I can’t see any blood, so you haven’t broken the skin anywhere. Maybe you just need strapping up.”
“Don’t kid me, Martin. It’s more than just a few broken ribs.”
“I’m not a doctor, Joe. All I know is a rudimentary level in first aid.”
“Never mind about that; we have more important things to worry about.”
“And what does that mean?”
“I can tell you what to do, Martin, but I’m afraid it’s all up to you now.”
“What, with this arm?”
“That’s your first priority. Get that fixed and you’re fit to go.”
“I don’t know…but I’ll do my best.”
Joe had forgotten the first thing Martin had to do, and that was step outside the plane. It was around nine o’clock. He wasn’t sure because his watch was broken. That was hardly his worst problem. In the desert the sun was their clock: sunrise in the east was morning, sun directly above was lunchtime and sunset in the west was time to sleep; everything in between was incidental.
At least Joe was still cognisant enough to outline the jobs Martin had to attend to in order of importance. As he’d said, Martin’s first duty was to see to his arm. Outside there should be enough wreckage to find something to make a splint. He was to bring it back into the cockpit where Joe would help him bind it to his arm. Martin soon found a shredded part of the right wing support, but before he returned he thought he would reconnoitre the crash site; Joe was bound to ask.
On returning to his seat, Joe opened his eyes and looked surprised.
“I said there would be something out there…that’s perfect. Now get the first aid bag, it’s behind one of the rear seats.”
Martin had to pull his seat forward, step into the back and rummage behind the seats until he found the bag with a big red cross on the flap. He brought it back to the front, rearranged his seat and started checking what was inside. It was a surprising collection of medical bits and pieces: several parcels of varying-sized bandages, swabs, packets of painkillers, bandaids, assorted creams for bites and sores and a small box containing a syringe, scissors, tweezers and a scalpel.
“Bring it closer,” Joe said. “Now get out the pack containing the widest elastic bandage…not the gauze…and while you’re at it, see if you can find something for this pain…I can hardly breathe.”
Martin did what he asked, laying each item on the seat while he kneeled down on the floor. Joe tore open the bandage pack, put it to one side with the piece of aluminium, and then brought out the box with the instruments in.
“Right Martin…take your jacket off. Throw it over the seats. I doubt if you’ll need it, and lay your arm across the seat.” Martin, wincing, took his jacket off with difficulty.
Joe examined Martin’s arm, running his hand down the full length, all the time watching his reaction and when he reached the spot where the ulna joined the wrist, Martin jumped.
“You’re lucky. You haven’t broken your arm…you’ve fractured your wrist. However, I shall have to splint your arm to keep the whole thing rigid.”
Martin nodded. He
could see Joe was much more advanced in first aid than he was, so he relaxed, allowing him to place the splint and start wrapping his arm including the damaged wrist. Joe paid particular attention to the wrist and hand until he opened the box, took out the scissors and cut the bandage. He then took out one of the small bandage fixings and secured it in place. Joe was pale and struggling to move without severe pain.
“There you are…that should keep you until a medic can look at it.”
“Thanks, Joe,” Martin said, now able to lift his arm with no more than a slight twinge. He reached back into the bag and pulled out a box of painkillers. “I think I need one of those also.” Joe nodded, with a wry smile.
As Martin expected, Joe asked him if he noticed what state the plane was in. He laughed, telling him he knew that would be his first question. In layman’s terms, Martin tried to describe what he’d seen outside: The right wheel had collapsed under the body, taking with it the wing on that side and as it had impacted with the ground it buckled at an angle of maybe twenty degrees. The rest of the plane seemed okay except for the bent propeller, and the nose buried in sand.
Martin passed him the water bottle to take his tablet. He took two.
“I thought as much,” he said. “A lot of mess by the sounds of it. Anyway, you’ve got some work to do before that sun is overhead. The priority is to find out where that smell’s coming from. So get at it. If it’s what I think it is we might have a radio working before the day is out.”
“I don’t know anything about electronics,” Martin said.
“You don’t have to. Just get that cowling off the nose and have a look at the engine. You might have to clear a few dead bodies out of the way, but let your nose lead you to the damage.”
“Then what?”
“Just tell me what you see…okay?”
Martin started to ease himself up from his kneeling position and realised he was now carrying a dead weight. He raised his arm, “And what about this?”
“Oh, sorry…bring it here?”
Martin returned to his position and Joe, groaning quietly, picked up the bandage again, wrapped it around Martin’s arm like a sling and tied it around his neck. He cut it off, straightened it on his arm and put the scissors back in the box. Joe was looking grey now from all of the effort.
“How about that?”
Martin straightened up and found his arm was neatly hanging against his chest. “That’s great…I should be able to manage things now.”
He eased himself out of the plane and made his way around to the nose. As he’d told Joe, it was buried up to the propeller cone, so he had to clear the sand away before he could get at the cowling. Fortunately the leading edge of the wheel housing was lying nearby. A perfect scoop he thought and started digging away the sand. Before long the whole area of the nose was uncovered and he looked for some way of removing the cowling.
“Joe…this thing’s screwed down.”
“No problem. Go round the side of the plane; you’ll find a small hatch. Lift up the latch and open it. Inside you’ll find a toolbox. Oh, and while you’re there you’ll see a large blue tarpaulin. Bring it out and I’ll tell you what to do with it later.”
“I hope I don’t have to keep going back and forth in this heat.”
There was no comment from Joe and Martin could see it was going to be a long day and by the feel of it, a hot one. He opened the hatch, found the toolbox straightaway and took out a couple of screwdrivers, hoping one would fit. It did and before long he had all the screws out and the cowling off.
His nose was immediately assaulted by another, more horrendous smell: the birds were cooking on the hot engine and the stench was masking the electrical smell. It took a while, but he finally cleared the offending carcasses and continued his search. He didn’t need Joe to tell him that a bunch of wires torn out of the side of a black box was the cause of the trouble. He tried shouting to Joe from where he was, but all he got was a distant mumble.
Martin bent down under the damaged wing and worked his way along to Joe’s door. It appeared intact and he pulled the latch. It opened and he asked if Joe was okay. He said he was, if not a little surprised, and Martin told him about the wires. Joe seemed happy.
It confirmed his suspicion and he told Martin what to do.
Martin undid the retaining clip, lifted the plastic cover and had no difficulty finding the long metal busbar. He knew this from his encounter with the one in his fuse box that it was the main electrical input, although he’d never had to meddle with the wires. Joe told him it was the battery relay and the birds must have ripped the wires out. All he had to do was clean the connections and replace them.
“How do I know I’m putting them in the right place?” Martin shouted.
Clutching the loose wires, Martin waited for Joe to answer. It seemed to take ages, as if he was summoning his strength. “Just match the same coloured wire with the screw on the bar,” he rasped. Martin hoped for the best and started replacing each wire. He had no idea he was doing the right thing until he heard a muffled cry. He rushed back to his open door and saw Joe pointing to the red light on the instrument panel.
When Martin got back to the cockpit Joe explained the light was the ignition. It was telling him Martin had connected the battery and all they had to do now was switch on the radio. Martin leaned forward and did just that. Another light came on, accompanied with the most beautiful sound to their ears – glorious radio static.
“Shall we try the radio now?” Martin said,
“Not yet, Martin. It will be noon before long and there’s something else I want you to do before we get fried alive.”
“What’s that?”
“I want you to put that tarpaulin across the plane. It has to go a certain way; corner to corner in a diamond formation. You know…just like the sunshades you hang from the wall of your house to a pole in the garden.”
“I know what you mean, but what do I use to tie the corners down?”
“You’ll find some rope where the toolbox is. There’s a knife there too.”
It took Martin a while with one hand. His first problem was how to open the large bundle, let alone cover the plane. Then he remembered helping his next-door neighbour erect his new shade-sail over his barbeque area. It was hooked up, corner to corner from the house to a pylon in the garden. The trick was to secure the first corner. Using that as an anchor, the rest was easy.
Martin opened out the tarpaulin in front of the plane, turned it round so that it was a diamond shape following the line of the fuselage and decided his anchor point would be the tail. Getting it there was another problem.
Studying the situation he realised he had his three points: the tail and the tip of each wing, even if Joe’s was a little bent. Martin threw the rope over his shoulder and climbed across the damaged wing, along the fuselage and all the way up to the tip of the tail. He found a suitable hole to thread the rope through and climbed back down. He then looped it through the eyelet and walking away from the plane, he pulled the corner up to the tail.
Now he had to secure it there. That done he turned to secure the other corners using the trailing edge of each wing-flap to tie them down. Moving across the wing he noticed a large bump above the windscreen and remembered the antenna Joe had mentioned. He took out the knife and cut a long slit in the tarpaulin big enough for the antenna to poke through. One last check, he thought. Everything looked okay, and Martin eased his way back down to the ground.
As he returned the rope to the hatch he noticed a cardboard box. Down one side were the words, ‘Emergency Rations’. Food was something that had not been discussed yet. The thought of being found before the day was out had turned their minds to the immediate problems. But Joe must have had other ideas. Otherwise, why would he be concerned with the heat frying them in the plane?
When Martin returned to the cockpit he was about to question Joe on what their chances of being spotted today were when he heard him repeating the Mayday call. He looked
frustrated, and after gesturing for Martin to get back in his seat, he started again. There was no response; just the usual waveband static.
Martin had removed his headset to go outside; there was no use for it anymore, and when he returned he noticed Joe had changed dramatically. He looked paler, and clammy, as he passed Martin the headset.
“Here…put this on,” he said. “You can do the radio now. Nothing fancy, I think the battery’s going. Just say Mayday a few times.”
Martin did what Joe asked. He repeated Mayday several times with a few seconds’ gap in-between in pace with Joe’s finger. Still there was no response.
Joe let out an exhausted gasp. “I don’t think we have enough power. And don’t ask me why because I don’t know. The only thing we can do now is hope a local station picks us up. That’s all we can try.”
“How do we do that?” Martin asked.
“Next to the radio you’ll see a dial marked waveband. Click it round to a different frequency, each time saying Mayday a couple of times. Let’s hope someone out there is monitoring the frequencies.”
“Martin switched the dial away from their standard frequency, calling Mayday each time as Joe had asked. There seemed to be an awful lot of frequencies, but he continued, on and on. He had almost completed a full circuit when the static suddenly stopped and he heard a faint voice. Joe came to life and turned up the volume.
“HRT 700…what’s your problem…over.”
Joe took over. “This is ALPHA, TANGO, ZULU from AMINCO CENTRAL calling a Mayday…over.”
“I read you…what is your status? Over.”
The radio began crackling again and Joe shook his head in desperation.
“Crashed…7:30…126 degrees…over.”
The static continued. There was a faint reply. “Repeat…you’re breaking up.”
CHAPTER 7
When Larry Kingston tapped on the door and walked into Philip’s office, he looked as if the weight of the world had collapsed in on him. He slumped down in the chair opposite Philip’s desk and looked as if he wanted to say something.
Blood Brothers Page 6