by Jill Barnett
“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.
“LETS GET AWAY FROM IT ALL”
“Kincaid?”
“What?”
“You okay?”
“I don’t know. Let me look.”
“Funny.”
“I can’t see a thing.”
“I take it from all these smart-ass remarks, you’re not hurt.”
“No. I’m just confused.”
“Confused?”
“This doesn’t feel like home, Captain. It feels like we’re upside-down in a sand dune.”
“We are.” He released his seat belt, shrugged off the straps, and crawled out, sliding through the sand and under the broken W bracing on the right wing. The plane was tilted toward the down side of a sand dune that was a good twenty or thirty feet tall. “You’re lucky you’ve still got your head attached.”
“I ducked. My survival instinct kicked in.”
“Quick thinking.”
“Not really. I ducked down right after the engine stopped and you told me everything was going to be okay. ‘A-okay.’ Did you know that when you’re lying, your voice gets this certain . . . don’t-mess-with-me-I’m-trying-to-think tone?”
“I wasn’t lying.”
“Oh, sure. Everything’s going to be okay. A-okay.”
“You’re alive. I’d leave it at that.”
She didn’t say anything for a full minute. “Do you think that God might have it in for one of us? First we’re hanging off a tower while some Nazi smokes a cigarette at what . . . three A.M.? The truck has a flat tire. We run out of gas next to a minefield. Then Sabri drives over a mine and blows clear to Kingdom Come—God rest his poor soul— along with your military-hero stuff . . . ”
Military hero-stuff? She was lucky she couldn’t see him right then.
“ . . . We’re stuck in that same minefield. The signal flare doesn’t work. We miss the rendezvous plane. We walk halfway to Cairo to steal a truck, and instead, find only a plane. We take off just as a storm blows in which promptly sends us off course. We fly out of the storm and what next? The engine quits and we crash in the desert.”
“Are you through?”
“Yes.”
“That was quite a speech.”
“Don’t you have anything to say about this mess we’re in?”
“No. I’d say you covered it pretty well.”
“I think serious prayer, confession, and groveling for forgiveness might be in order here.”
“If you think it will help, go ahead. Pray yourself hoarse.”
“Me? I meant you.” She waited. She could wait all damn day. “You must drive your family nuts.”
“I sure hope so. It’s the only way one girl in a family of seven men can survive. I’ve stood in the middle of my six brothers and listened to them argue about what I should do, without, mind you, them ever once asking me what I think. My father is not that way, but it’s been my experience that you men have a propensity for needing to tell us women what we should do . . . as if we are mindless creatures who can’t think for ourselves.”
“It’s thinking that got you into this, sweetheart.”
“No. My thinking got me stuck in a Moroccan Kasbah. Your thinking got me in the middle of God only knows where.”
“We’re in the desert.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know that.”
She was working really hard to piss him off.
“You have nothing to say?”
“Why? You’re doing a great job.”
“I’m trying to pick a fight with you, Cassidy.”
“It’s not working.”
“I know, which is even more maddening than that cool, calm voice of yours. How can you be so calm about this?”
“Probably because I’m already out of the plane.”
; “See? You do that on purpose.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t be obtuse. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Would you please get me out of here? The blood is rushing to my head.”
“Give me a minute to look around and make sure everything’s okay. A-okay.”
“Ducky,” she muttered. “I can’t wait to see what goes wrong next.”
“I thought you were so independent. Where’s your sense of adventure, Kincaid?”
“I lost it somewhere between that minefield and this plane crash. Will you please get me out of here?”
“If you’ll just be quiet for a minute, I’ll be able to help you out.”
“Is that an ultimatum? If I’m not quiet, you’ll leave me here? I don’t think so. I’m unbuckling this seat belt. I don’t need your help, Cassidy.”
“Don’t! This is serious. I’m not playing some game with you. The plane’s at a bad angle. Just let me figure out the best way to pull you out of there without dislodging it.” He crawled under the wing, then turned over onto his back to see if the wing was even remotely secure.
The sand spilled out from under him. He started to slide and grabbed the wing.
A big mistake.
His weight pulled it back to the down side of the hill. He let go and rolled away.
The whole damn plane started to slide.
She screamed.
“Oh, God . . . Cassidy! I’m sorry, really. I’ll be quiet. I promise. Just get me out of here!”
“Stay buckled in. Don’t move. Don’t panic.”
The plane stopped sliding, but it was looking pretty unstable. It could go again anytime. The sand was fine and loose as salt.
Now what? He walked around the plane, studying its angles, then stopped. He scratched his itchy beard.
“The plane didn’t shift when you got out. I think I should just try it.”
“Wait. I’ve got an idea. I’m going to tilt the left wing back downhill and try to get its tip wedged into the sand. You stay still. Completely still. If the plane starts to slide again, just curl into a tight ball like you did before and let it take you down the sand dune. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He walked around to the other side of the plane, then toward the tail. He climbed on, straddled it, and the plane slid down a few more feet.
She swore.
“Trust me and hold on a little longer.” He gripped the tail wheel and used his weight to dig the vertical fin into the sand up to the stabilizers. Fifty-fifty it would hold.
“What are you doing?”
“I already did it.”
He eased up the underside of the fuselage, then sat hard on the left wing.
The plane rocked downward. The wing tip slid into the sand, but the nose suddenly began a slow slip.
The plane rotated downward to ten o’clock.
He sat there on the wing, waiting. Nothing shifted. He looked down at the wing tip. The sand was still wet, which gave it some weight. He eased off the down side of the wing, dug down to wet sand, and shoved more of it against the wing tip. He stood, walked back around to the rear seat, squatted down, and looked at her.
She was bent over and hugging her knees.
“Sit up slow and easy.”
She did. The plane didn’t shift at all. She let out a long, relieved breath.
He reached in, unbuckled the seat belt, and hauled her out, then rolled away from the plane.
He’d misjudged the angle.
Momentum sent them rolling down the dune, twisted together, over and over to the sound of grunts and groans, the jabs and knocks of elbows and knees. They hit the bottom and stopped rolling. He was on top, pinning her down, her body smashed against his, her face in his neck, her leg between his and her knee against his balls.
He shook his head. Sand went everywhere. He glanced up. The plane was still in place, so he looked down at her.
She had sand all over her face, like she’d been rolled in flour. She coughed twice, then spit out a mouthful of swear words that turned the air blue.
He was impressed and half laughing by the time she finished. “You know, I’ve never heard two of those. I don’t think a human being could do that first one. And if we men could do the other, we wouldn’t need women.”
She rubbed the sand off her face and scowled.
“You okay?”
“I will be when you get off me.”
He stood, then grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet.
She had fine sand all over her. While she was brushing it off, he turned toward the plane. It was wedged wrong side up into the edge of the dune. Its right wing was broken. The plane looked like a toy, one of those, flimsy, balsa-wood five-and-dime planes you stick together, throw in the air, and they soar all of three feet before they tumble headlong into a bush.
He glanced up. The sky was a deep purple and gold. “The sun’s going down.”
“I have sand everywhere. I think it’s in my pores.” She dusted off her hands and faced him. “So what do we do now?”
“We walk.” He grabbed her hand. “Come on. Let’s get up the dune so I can get an idea of where we are.”
“WHERE IN THE WORLD”
Kitty stood next to Cassidy on top of the dune. The sand was so soft that her feet sank to the ankle. “So. Any ideas where we are?”
“The middle of nowhere. Stay here. I’ve got to get something out of the plane, then we’ll start walking.”
She turned and could feel the setting sun on her face, which was raw and burned and tight feeling. She rubbed her hand over her cheek. Fine sand was all over her face and hands. She tried to dust it off, but it stuck. She stretched her arms up, took a deep breath, then twisted from side to side. Her muscles ached, and her neck was sore. She shoved her hair back out of her face. It felt gummy from sweating and gritty from the sand.
It wasn’t extremely hot, just warm and humid, and the sand was damp around her ankles from the storm. A couple of flies buzzed annoyingly around her face.
His footsteps on the sand sounded strange, not like beach sand, where each step sounded gritty. Here you could hear the sound of the sand slipping away, a grainy whisper as if someone were saying, “Shhhh . . . ”
“I’m back. You okay?”
She nodded.
“All right. Let’s start. It looks like a long walk. I’ve got the compass. We’ll set off to the north and hope the coast is somewhere over those hills in the distance. Give me your hand. The dunes are high, with long drops.”
They started walking, which wasn’t easy. Her feet sank deeply. In some places, it was like wading through sand and she’d start to lose her balance.
“Lean forward,” he told her. “It’s easier.”
He was right.
The air was growing cooler pretty fast. “It’s getting dark, isn’t it?”
“The best time to walk in the desert.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“I know dying here isn’t an option.”
“Where are we?”
“Lost in the desert on the continent of Africa.”
“Wait.” She stopped. “I have an idea.”
“What?”
“If we know how long we were in the air, couldn’t we calculate the time and airspeed and get some idea of the possible locations? A certain radius on the map?”
“With the storm and our fluctuating airspeed, I can’t even come close to making a guess.”
“So we walk?”
“Yeah, we walk north. The coast is north.”
“How far is it to those mountains we’re walking toward?”
“A couple of days, if we stay at a steady walk.”
“Oh.” A couple of days? “How much water do we have?”
“The canteen holds a liter. Are you thirsty?”
“Not thirsty enough to take a drink. I’ll wait and save it for later.”
She didn’t say anything else but concentrated on walking, and walking. First up, then, af
ter she fell twice, they slid down the sand dune, which sounded easy. She found out it wasn’t.
Sand got into everything. Clothes, nails, eyes, and nose. It stuck to the skin. You couldn’t wipe it off, you just moved it around. She walked until she was getting winded and then walked more.
Cassidy didn’t talk much. He just kept going, like some robot.
The night air helped motivate her. It was cold, very cold, so she didn’t want to stop moving.
They didn’t hurry, didn’t change pace, but stayed at a constant speed, resting a few minutes every hour, when they would talk a little about home, sip lightly on the water and split the last six dates as if each one were a full meal.
By sunrise, she was exhausted and bloated from the salt tablets. She could feel the twinges deep in her abdomen and realized she might have her period again. Stress, she thought.
Ducky . . . Just ducky.
He stopped finally. “Let’s take a rest.”
“Thank God.” She fell back down into the sand.
“Here’s the canteen. And one more salt tablet.”
“I don’t want another salt pill.”
“Take it.”
“No.”
“Look. It’s going to be hot today. Feel that sun? It’s barely up and you can already feel it on your skin.”
“It feels good. I’ve been cold all night.”
“Remember that in two hours.”
“Okay, okay. Give me the damned pill.” She washed it down with a swig of the canteen and corked it. “Here. That’s enough.” She held it out to him. “I’d rather have more later.”
He didn’t take it.
She waited.
“Cassidy? Take the canteen.”
“Wait. I want you to hold real still.”
“Why?”
“Don’t argue with me. Give me your other hand, but do it slowly. No quick motions.”
“Oh. God . . . ” She slowly raised her hand.
His hands slid over hers to her wrist. He jerked her forward so violently he almost pulled her arm from its socket.
She screamed and they fell backwards. Again. Rolling down the opposite side of the dune like they had before. Grunts and groans. They lay there tangled together. Again.
She pulled the hard canteen out from between them, sat up, coughed, and spit the sand from her mouth.