Landfall

by John McWilliams

  “Okay, okay,” Nate says, “I get it. We need to use our Monty Hall’s knowledge to improve our odds.”

  “Exactly. It’s no guarantee of course, but I think I really do have less of a chance of dying because of the Message. Especially dying in some spectacular way.”

  Jan waits for Nate to consider this.

  “You want me to cause a midair collision?” Nate says.

  “I’m pretty sure we’ll survive.”

  “You might.”

  “I don’t have a parachute,” Jan says, “so I’m pretty sure your survival is linked to mine in this situation. You do remember what happens if they get their hands on the AWX, don’t you?”

  “World War Three,” Nate says. “But we don’t know that for certain.”

  “Come on, Nate. If one country obtains the ability to accelerate their technologies decades beyond anyone else, do you really think other nations are just going to sit by and let that happen?”

  “All right, all right,” Nate says. “So what’s your plan?”

  “You’re the pilot. How could you take these guys out if you didn’t have to worry about killing us? Preferably something that allows them to eject.”

  “I guess…” Nate looks out each side of the plane. “If we could get them lined up on one side, I could try to sweep those big vertical stabilizers with our landing gear. But that would mean waiting until we’re on final, meaning less altitude for our recovery. Although I think even the mention of our recovery is overly optimistic.”

  “You think you could take out both?”

  “Once we hit anything, we’ll be out of control. All I can do is try.”

  Twenty minutes later, and thirty miles out from Fort Worth, Nate reduces their airspeed and lowers their landing gear.

  “A bit premature, aren’t we?” Hammerhead says as he and Dragonfly compensate.

  “I just don’t want to forget anything,” Nate replies apologetically. “Hey, guys, I hate to admit this, but I, ah… I’m a little rusty these days and this is an unfamiliar aircraft. If you two are going to fly me right down to the numbers, could you at least stagger right? Hammerhead, you breathing down my neck is making me nervous. At least if you’re over there with Dragonfly, I don’t have to keep seeing you out the corner of my eye.”

  “Ah… okay, sure, Captain.”

  Jan can hear the embarrassment in Hammerhead’s voice. Nate’s pathetic request probably has the young man pondering his own mortality as a pilot.

  Hammerhead falls back and rejoins off of Dragonfly’s wing.

  “We fight with our eyes open,” Nate tells Jan.

  “So, you do pay attention.” Jan nods approvingly. Fighting with one’s eyes open was part of a martial arts philosophy that Jan had often professed, though it was never anything he’d had to teach Nate. Nate was a natural warrior. He never flinched. Apparently, not even when it came to humbling himself before a couple of relative rookies.

  “Okay, now keep it tight.” Nate leans forward, eyeing the two F-16s out Jan’s window. “I’ve got to slide in there fast and flat, and somehow guesstimate where our gear is.” He looks at Jan. “You sure about this?”

  “All you have to do is beat their reaction times. Not their planes’.”

  “Well, it’s now or never.” Nate glances at the radio. “Let’s see about increasing our odds.”

  Nate pushes the transmit button on the control column: “Forth Worth Tower, King Air Niner-One-Eight-X-ray-Zulu, ten miles out on final to one-seven. I have two unidentified aircraft approaching at a high rate of speed from my three o’clock. Please advise.”

  Jan, pressed into his seatback, watches as the two fighter pilots turn their heads in perfect unison.

  Nate, one hand on the control column, the other on the throttles, steers directly into the fighters.

  Jan braces as his wing slips over Dragonfly’s tail. He gasps.

  The impacts that follow—first when their gear tears through Dragonfly’s stabilizer, and then when they careen into Hammerhead’s wing—are so sudden that Jan doesn’t have time to process it. In the surreal moments that follow, the cockpit seems to stretch in every different direction as shadows strobe the cabin and Nate fights to stop the Earth from tumbling out of control.

  Then blackness.

  In what seems like an instant later, Jan opens his eyes, surprised to be alive. Out his window: water, trees, boats. They’re flying about ten feet off the surface of a large river. His propeller isn’t spinning.

  “Hey, glad you could join the party,” Nate says. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Jan sits up, adjusting his mic.

  “I’ve switched off the transponder,” Nate informs him. “Starboard engine is out and we’ve lost fuel flow—probably the nacelle fuel tank ruptured. Left main and the nose gear are retracted, but what’s going on under that wing”—Nate tilts his head in Jan’s general direction—”is anyone’s guess.”

  Jan looks at the motionless propeller, the shredded metal where the wingtip once was. How are we even flying?

  “Keep your eyes open for a place to set down, like a marsh or something. Something soft and that won’t drown us.”

  “What happened to the fighters?” Jan asks.

  “Dragonfly ejected, and Hammerhead bugged out to the south. He might even get that thing on the ground.”

  “And the river…?”

  “Staying under the radar, covering as much ground as possible. Oh, and we’re about out of fuel, of course.” Nate slaps Jan’s arm. “Two F-16s with a Beechcraft—folk songs’ll be written about that one.”

  “Yeah, too bad they won’t be in English,” Jan quips.

  “Still…” Nate pats the top of the instrument panel. “Old Betsy did all right. I sure hope Mr. Eldridge’s insurance is paid up.”

  “There!” Jan points ten degrees west of their current heading at a wheat field that probably has soft, tilled soil.

  “That’ll do.” Nate adds some power to clear the phone lines running along a river road. At two hundred feet, he cuts the throttle and brings them in. “Brace for impact.”

  The King Air’s wings float down over the tawny wheat before sawing into the stalks like the blades of a combine. The windshield is pelted with kernels, stems, and leaves; then something catches and they swing hard right. The undercarriage scrapes, the props bend, and they come to a halt in a plume of dirt so dense they can’t see out the windows.

  Nate switches a few switches, unbuckles, and follows Jan into the passenger area. They grab their bags, Jan his tossed clothes, and, after a brief struggle with the door, they step down onto crushed wheat.

  “What a mess.” Nate inspects the wreckage, particularly underneath the right wing. “Sorry about that, Mr. Eldridge.”

  Jan sits down, leaning against the right aileron.

  “You know,” Nate tells him, “it won’t be long before they spot this wreckage—even with this fresh coat of dirt.”

  “Just two minutes and we’ll go.” Jan looks at the setting sun, then at his watch. He sets it to Mountain Time.

  “Two minutes.” Nate sits down next to him.

  Above the settling cloud of dust, three crows fly in a wide, lazy circle.

  “Keep moving,” Jan tells them. “We’re not dead yet.”

  Chapter 8

  Nate and Jan reach the river road they had crossed before ditching the plane and, within minutes, spot a battered, stepside Ford pickup coming their way. A girl of about sixteen with curly blond hair is at the wheel. She dances in her seat as she pulls off the road.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Nate says to the girl as he reaches the passenger-side window. “You stop for two strangers? Two grown men?”

  “You need a lift?” she shouts over the music wired into her ears.

  Nate frowns at Jan and opens the door. They toss their bags into the back of the truck and squeeze in, Jan yanking the door shut behind them. The cab smells of jasmine and Coppertone.

  “Are
you balloon people?” the girl asks.

  “Can you take those things out of your head?” Nate points at her ears.

  “Oh, okay.” She pulls out the earbuds and reels in her iPod by its speaker wires.

  “Thank you,” Nate says. “Now that you have two strange men in your truck—”

  “Oh, you two don’t look so dangerous to me. Besides, this here’s just a farm road, so you must be balloon people.”

  “Balloon people?”

  “You crashed your balloon in one of our fields, right? We get that all the time. Parachuters too.”

  Nate turns to Jan, shrugs.

  “We just don’t like to be called ‘balloon people,’” Jan says, leaning forward.

  “Oh, my bad. Sorry.” The girl giggles. “Balloon people is funny. I’m Mary, and this is my uncle’s land—well, he manages it. I can take you up to his house. I just can’t drive on the regular roads.”

  “Well, then let’s go see your uncle, Mary. I’m Nate, by the way, and this is Jan.”

  She nods, then abruptly reaches out to shake their hands. “Are you Korean?” she blurts.

  “Chinese-American,” Jan tells her.

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s okay,” Nate says confidentially.

  Mary giggles and looks at Nate out the corner of her eye.

  “Anytime you want to start moving…” Jan points at the road ahead.

  “Ah, okay.” Mary grinds her way into first. “I guess someone’s in an awful big hurry.”

  Mary looks in both directions before gingerly pulling out onto the pavement. She accelerates confidently, but then nearly drives off the road on the first turn. Nate helps her with the wheel. Jan looks down at the five-foot ditch below his window.

  They drive for a minute in silence.

  “Yesterday, I hit a mailbox,” Mary says.

  Jan wonders how she intended that to be taken.

  Another moment passes.

  “I think I do better with the music on.”

  “You just need to focus.” Nate points out the windshield. “Eyes on the road.”

  Mary glances at Nate.

  “You think your uncle could drive us to town?” Jan asks.

  “Oh, sure. Uncle Clayton’s a real nice guy. And it’s not that far. He won’t mind.”

  “Eyes—” Nate reaches for the wheel. “What’s the probability curve say about us surviving this drive?” Nate asks Jan.

  “Oh—I’m not that bad.” Mary slaps Nate’s knee, leaving her hand there a moment. Both men look at her. “Oh, don’t be silly, you two. I’m a Texas girl.”

  “What does that mean?” Nate asks.

  “Texas girls are just a little more outgoing than other girls. You’ve never heard that before?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “How far to your uncle’s?” Jan asks.

  “Just a little ways now.” She laughs, shakes her curly golden mop. “You two probably think I’m crazy.”

  “I think you’re a time bomb. Eyes—” Nate points out the windshield.

  After another mile, they pull into the driveway of what looks like a plantation from Gone with the Wind—columns, shutters, chimneys. They park under a parasol of oaks.

  In the kitchen, they find Mary’s Uncle Clayton, a gangly man with a nearly foot-long beard, frying up hamburgers and summer squash, an open can of Budweiser and a revolver on the counter next to him.

  “There’s plenty,” Clayton informs Mary’s wayward balloonists. “Should we set out another two plates?”

  “Please,” Nate says. “Rough landings tend to work up a man’s appetite.”

  “Mary, would you round up a couple of beers for our guests?”

  Mary twirls over to the refrigerator and glides back with two frosty cans of Budweiser. Both men open their cans and drink.

  “Nectar of the gods,” Nate says.

  Mary giggles.

  Clayton looks at his niece curiously.

  “You sure have plenty of guns,” Jan says, peering into the living room from the teak-paneled kitchen. “And a beautiful house.”

  “Yes, it’s really impressive,” Nate agrees.

  “I inherited it. Just recently.” Clayton flips a burger, but doesn’t look up. Mary sets a stack of plates on the counter next to him. “So, your balloon pop or something?” Clayton asks.

  “More like an unscheduled landing,” Jan responds as he and Nate take seats at the table.

  “Well, don’t worry about it, we get a balloon in one of our fields, oh, gotta be twice a year.” Clayton turns off the grill and he and Mary bring over the food. “No real damage, mind you,” Clayton adds. “Just a bunch of crushed wheat. But it’s not as if we can tell the wind which way to blow, huh?”

  “No, sir, we certainly can’t.” Nate hungrily bites into his hamburger.

  Jan starts with the squash.

  “How long were you two up there?” Clayton chuckles. “You seem awfully hungry. Maybe it’s my cooking.”

  “It sure ain’t that,” Mary says.

  “You have internet, by any chance?” Jan wipes his mouth.

  “Not here at the house.”

  “No cell connection either.” Mary rolls her eyes.

  “There’s a landline.” Clayton looks at Mary irritably. “And there’s internet. You just have to access it from the doublewide.”

  “He means we sneak into our neighbor’s network, from the mobile home down by the property line.” Mary plays with her squash. “No one lives there no more.”

  “My brother and Mary’s mom used to live there,” Clayton explains.

  “They’re in prison now,” Mary says.

  Jan and Nate stop eating.

  “Because they were libertarians.” Mary eats a forkful of squash.

  “Tax evasion,” Clayton explains.

  Jan and Nate nod.

  “They don’t believe in taxes—and neither do you.” Mary glares at her uncle.

  “Yeah, but I’m not going to jail over it.”

  “Well,” Nate says, “we’re not real big fans of the government either. Screw the government.” He taps Mary’s ginger ale with his Budweiser and takes a swig. Mary, delighted, takes a healthy sip, too.

  They finish eating, and after Clayton sends Mary off to do her chores, he takes Nate and Jan down to the mobile home at the end of a pitted dirt road. Clayton tells them about the Holiday Inn in town as they come to a halt in front of the mobile. The doublewide is dilapidated and resting on cinderblocks.

  The screen door squeals, and Clayton has to throw his shoulder into opening the front door.

  “You can set up your laptop over there.” Clayton points at a metal desk at the far end of an otherwise empty room. He turns a lamp on from a switch by the door. Nate and Jan set their bags down and Jan gets out the laptop.

  When Jan turns back to Clayton, he finds a .38 revolver pointed at him.

  “My foreman radioed me before we left that there’s a rather large airplane smashed to hell in the south field. So why don’t you two tell me what’s really going on.”

  “We crashed,” Jan says lamely. “Just not in a balloon.”

  “And I notice you stay pretty tight with those duffels.”

  “They just have our clothes and stuff.” Jan looks at the four black bags. They do look like something bank robbers might use. “We’re not criminals, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Jan shows his open hands as he steps toward Clayton.

  “Maybe, maybe not, but take another step and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”

  Jan stares down the gun’s barrel.

  “Check it out for yourself,” Nate says. “Go ahead, open them up.”

  It dawns on Jan that once Clayton sees his forty-eight thousand or so in cash, he’ll immediately assume they stole it—or maybe he’ll just rob them. Either way, this isn’t good for the probability curve.

  “Go ahead, you open them up,” Clayton tells Nate, using the gun to point at the bags.
<
br />   Nate, seated at the desk, carefully leans forward and unzips the first bag. He pulls out Jan’s damp clothes. “Jeez, Jan, this stuff’s starting to ferment.” He holds out a sock like a child holding an earthworm. “Gross!” He tosses it across the floor.

  Clayton’s eyes follow the sock, and Jan takes this opportunity to twist the gun out of his hands. It happens so quickly and so smoothly that Clayton at first is merely confused. He looks at his empty hand, astonished. Then at the gun, now pointed at him.

  “How the hell—” He rubs his violated hand. “You two aren’t CIA, are you?”

  “No, we’re not.” Jan sets the gun on the desk. “Did you call anyone after your foreman radioed you? The police, maybe?”

  “No. Not a chance.” Clayton laughs nervously. “Believe me, the last thing I need around here is more cops.”

  “So, what was your plan?” Nate asks. “Steal our cash—bury our bodies?”

  “No, nothing like that. I would have just asked you to leave. I’ve had enough trouble with Mary’s mom and dad—and that whole mess.”

  Jan pushes the gun aside and sits on the edge of the desk. “It seems to me that, in spite of that awesome mansion you have up there, you could use a little cash. Am I right?”

  “It has been a tough year.”

  “Well, we haven’t done anything bad—just sort of been framed—and we need a ride to California under the radar. How would you like to make some easy money?” Jan removes a stack of fifties from one of the bags.

  “Something for Mary’s college fund, perhaps?” Nate says.

  “There’s an optimistic thought.” Clayton chuckles.

  “All you have to do is find us a ride to Mojave.”

  “And not that pickup,” Nate says. “Something that’ll make the trip.”

  “We’ll pay you a two-thousand-dollar finder’s fee just to hook us up.”