Heartshot

by Steven F Havill

  “Yes. Radios, I’m good at.”

  “That’s the emergency frequency. You’ll have all the help you need. We’ll be talking to you on that frequency. Tune the second radio—it’s probably marked Com-two—to one-twenty-two-eight. That’s Posadas, and you can go back and forth between us and them with a flick of the switch up above. Please make that frequency change now.”

  “Affirmative.”

  I fiddled with the little push buttons and the correct digits popped on the little screen.

  “Mike Bravo, how do you read?”

  “Loud and clear,” I said.

  “Mike Bravo, I would recommend that if possible, you climb and maintain ten thousand. You have some mountain peaks between you and Posadas, and we’ll be able to hear you better. We have a pilot here with us who can talk you through that procedure.”

  “Ah, Douglas, I have a problem with climbing any more. I can’t take the altitude.” I knew that another thousand feet probably wouldn’t make much difference, but I wasn’t about to gamble again. The only reason I was still alive was that I had spent twenty years adjusting my system to mile-high climates. I didn’t want to increase the point spread.

  “Say again, Mike Bravo?”

  “This plane is not pressurized. I don’t want to go any higher.” Hell, tell them, I thought. “I’m a heart patient. I’ve already gone through one bout of hypoxia. I don’t want another.”

  If the controller was surprised at that, he kept it to himself. All I got was the calm, generic reply, “Roger, Mike Bravo.” If I could stay as unflustered as my man on the ground, I’d have it made. Ten seconds of silence followed, and then Douglas-Bisbee said, “Ah, Mike Bravo, we have another aircraft in the area. He’s familiar with your two-ten, and he’s volunteered to intercept you and fly escort. He should be able to give you any assistance you need. Two-two-one Whiskey Charlie is a Beech Bonanza, and he should be off your right wingtip in another couple of minutes.” Even before he finished, I turned and saw the plane a mile or so out and closing. It was single-engined and V-tailed. The pilot sidled the plane to within fifty yards, keeping pace beautifully with my autopilot…and just far enough away that he didn’t make me nervous. He lifted a hand in salute.

  “Mike Bravo, how’s it going?”

  “Swell,” I said. “As long as I don’t touch anything, this thing flies just fine.”

  “It’s a bitch, ain’t it?” The voice chuckled, and I liked Whiskey Charlie immediately. “You sound like you have a pretty good handle on things over there.”

  “Until I run out of gas, I’m fine,” I said.

  “Well, you’re to be commended for keeping your head bolted on straight. As you can see, that airplane flies itself real well. You got gas, I got gas, and we got wonderful weather. Is there any chance the pilot will be able to assist you?”

  I glanced at Sprague. “Negative. He’s dead.”

  There was silence for a few seconds. “You’re all right, though?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Let’s get to work, then. About the change in altitude. That’s not necessary as long as you don’t dink with anything. I read you at about eight thousand seven hundred right now. We’ll just stick with that. If you need to climb, we’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Do you know how to turn the autopilot off?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Look at the instrument if you would and tell me what make it is.”

  “It says ‘Four hundred B Navomatic’ on it.”

  “Bingo. Good deal. All right, we’re going to use that little gadget to do all the flying…even the turn. First, look at the autopilot and see if there’s a little toggle switch that says something like ALT. It should be on the right side.”

  “Ten-four. It’s the bottom one of three switches.”

  “Forget the others. Don’t get creative on me. Turn the ALT switch to on.”

  “Ten-four. It’s on. Now what?”

  “Now the autopilot is maintaining your altitude for you. Makes life easier. Now, just do what I tell you. And remember this. Most folks make mistakes with airplanes because they try to use brute force. Be gentle. Do everything in tiny amounts, and smoothly. All right? If I think you really need to horse something, I’ll say so, and then use some muscle. Otherwise, fingertip time. You understand me?”

  “Affirmative. The old beautiful-woman trick.”

  “Now you got it. Tweak her gently, son. And by the way, you got any stick time at all?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “You ever flown? Ever grabbed the wheel?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, good. No bad habits, son.” I glanced over at him when he said that. By God, there was more gray hair over there than on my head. The white mane was visible even at fifty yards. He talked me through the turn…it was no more complicated than turning a small knob and turning it back. The Centurion and my escort banked gently and the compass rotated. It wasn’t much of a course correction.

  “Mike Bravo…the hell with that. What’s your name, sir?”

  “Bill Gastner.”

  “Bill, you’re talkin’ to Everett Wheeler. You ever need prize-registered beef, you look me up in the Animas phone directory.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Here’s what we need to do, Bill. We need to get that white bullet slowed down. I mean, we got us two planes here that are faster’n a spotted dog caught under a red truck. You can’t land at a hundred fifty.”

  “I knew there was a catch somewhere.”

  The remains of a chuckle came across when Wheeler keyed the mike. “Now, your man Bergin is going to be talkin’ to you in about twenty minutes. By that time, you’re going to be a pilot, Bill. And we’re going to cut through all the bullshit and only talk about the good stuff. Everything working in that airplane?”

  “As far as I know. Everything except the pressurization.”

  “Last thing we need. You’re set fat as a feedlot calf. Now tell me…you’re sitting there hands and feet off everything, right?”

  “Right.”

  “All right. Don’t do anything until I finish the entire sequence. You got that? Don’t do a damn thing until I say so. What you’re going to do is this. There’s three pull handles dead center in the dash, under the radios. I don’t remember what color they are in a Centurion, but it don’t matter. We’re going to get rid of two of them, and you’re not going to have to worry about them again. Fair enough?”

  “All right.”

  “The one on the right. Right, Bill. You right-handed?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Right. Repeat that.”

  “Right.”

  “Wave your right hand at me through the window.” I did so. “Good. Right. Push that one in so you only have about the width of your index finger.”

  I looked at the three knobs. The one on the right was red, and beside it, in vertical letters, it said “Mixture.” “You want me to push in the mixture knob,” I said.

  “Affirmative. By God, the boy can read.”

  I pushed the knob in. There was no change that I could detect. “Done.”

  “Big fizz, right? We’re just going to work our way across. The next one, the one in the middle, is propeller pitch, but you don’t need to know that. Just bang that one all the way in. You’ll hear a change in engine RPM. Just ignore it.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.” I pushed in the black knob. The engine pitch stepped up slightly. “All right. The autopilot is making any compensation that needs to be made. Just let it work. Time for the left knob. Don’t touch it.”

  “Throttle, you mean.”

  “That’s right. Let me tell you what we’re aiming for. We want eighty when you touch down. That’s a good speed. And let me tell you something else.” I got the impression old Everett Wheeler was enjoying the hell out of my predicament and his chance to be the rescuing angel. “When you fly at eighty, the nose ha
s to be a lot higher than what it is now. That make sense?”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “You’ve seen planes land. Ever notice they got their snouts way up in the air?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there’s a reason for it and we don’t need to go into it here. Just take my word for it and don’t panic when the nose comes up. All right?”

  “Ten-four.”

  “To see how slick that autopilot works, here’s what I want you to do. Forget any damn gauge except the one for airspeed. Find that one.”

  “Got it.”

  “Now. Slowly. Slowly, did I say slowly? Slowly pull the throttle back just a mite at a time, until you got a hundred on the airspeed. Slowly, now.”

  I wheedled out the throttle. Eventually I heard an RPM change, and equally slowly, the nose of the airplane lifted. “This is easy,” I said without keying the mike. One fifty dropped away to one forty, to one thirty, to one twenty, and finally down to approximately a hundred. I took my sweaty hand off the throttle and let the plane plow along with its nose aimed at the clouds many thousands of feet above us.

  “She’ll fly like that all day, Bill.”

  “I believe it. I can feel the controls working, though.”

  “Course you can. A fast airplane flies like water-logged shit at slow speeds. Not enough air going over control surfaces. Now, we can have some fun, Bill.” He said that and my palms sprung more leaks. “To the left of the throttle is a funny-lookin’ knob that looks like a little black tire.”

  “The landing-gear selector, you mean.”

  “Damn, I’m bein’ hustled. That’s the one. Push it to “Down” and tell me if you got a green light.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “We’re nowhere near Posadas, are we?”

  “Who gives a damn. Do it anyways.”

  I did, and all sorts of thuds and aircraft motion ensued. “Shit,” I muttered, and then the plane settled down. Out the window, I saw the right main gear hinge into place.

  “You got three. By God, you do good work, Bill. Still pegged at a hundred?”

  I looked at the airspeed and my heart skipped a beat. “No. Below that.”

  “Right. You got some drag now. And the nose is a little higher. But look at that altitude.” I did so. “Right where it started, ain’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right. Now let’s go for the rest of the show.” I didn’t have time to protest. “To the right of the throttle, prop, and mixture knobs is a funny-lookin’ thing that’s supposed to look like the trailing edge of a wing. The flap selector.”

  “I see it.”

  “Push it down to the first notch.”

  I did so and Centurion humped like someone had kicked it in the belly. “Altitude ain’t changed none, has it?” Everett asked, and didn’t wait for an answer. “Now the nose did a little, but who the hell cares if you ain’t goin’ down? Right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “One more click down. We want twenty degrees of flaps.”

  “One more notch?”

  “Right.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.” I did, and felt out of control. “Bill, you’re doin’ good. You ain’t dropped an inch…and who the hell cares what the nose is doin’ if you ain’t goin’ down. I said that before. Now, back on that throttle. I want exactly eighty on that airspeed. Not seventy-nine. Not eight-one. Give me the big eight-zero. So do it slowly, boy.”

  I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until around eighty-four. At that point, I had to take my hand off the throttle and relax back, sucking air. “A little more,” Everett prompted, and like a chastised pupil, I went back at it. Eventually, I had eighty. I have visions of the Centurion looking like a big white duck about to splat into a pond. Its nose was high, flaps hanging down, feet groping for the ground. “Ain’t she pretty?” Everett said, and I tried to relax. “Just sit back and watch,” he coached. “That’s what she’s going to be like comin’ in over the end of the runway at Posadas. When you pass over the end, what do you think you’re going to do?”

  “I don’t think I’ll be alive for that,” I said, only half-kidding. “Pray a lot, if I am.”

  “That too. But think throttle. Just ease back on the throttle. And did you ever drive a go-cart? Something that steers with pedals?”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s how an airplane steers on the ground. Those two big pedals on the floor. And be gentle. No big movements. Now, put your feet on the rudder pedals.”

  “All right.”

  “Now, don’t push the pedals. The tops of the pedals are the brakes. Tip your toes and push the brakes. Both at the same time. Feel them? That’s the tricky part. Brakin’ without putting differential pressure on the steering. Just kind of bear that in mind. You don’t want to see-saw the pedals. Go easy. Better to coast off the end than go cartwheelin’, my boy.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “You ready for a little test?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll do it anyway. You see the Off-On button on the autopilot?”

  “Yes.”

  “That autopilot has the airplane all trimmed for you. I want you to put your hands on the yoke and feet on the pedals. When you’re set, I want you to reach over with your left hand and snap off the autopilot. And then, try for as little control input as you can. If the nose starts to drop, gentle back. Nose up, gentle forward. Right wing drops, left, and so on. When I tell you to turn the auto on, do it. Right? Go ahead.”

  I looked at that Off-On switch for a while, then reached over and snapped it off. The Centurion continued as smooth as silk for about ten seconds, then the left wing began to drop. I turned the yoke and then found myself sawing back and forth. “Auto on,” Everett barked in my ear. I did and the electronic brain took over.

  “Good work,” Everett said, but I didn’t share his enthusiasm. “You didn’t believe me when I said ‘gentle,’ did you? You got to be gentle. Let’s go back up to speed. Just do things in reverse order. Flaps, gear, then throttle. Autopilot is on, so let it do all the work. Go ahead.”

  This isn’t going to work, I thought as I went through the sequence. Soon enough, we worked back to 150, but we were also a nice, safe half mile above the ground. I thought about the rocky approach to Posadas, over the low mesa top. And then I glanced over at Harlan Sprague’s corpse. “You aren’t going to win,” I said aloud to my silent passenger. I keyed the mike.

  “Let’s try it again, Everett.”

  Chapter 28

  I didn’t have long to dwell on any misgivings. In what seemed like only a handful of minutes, I recognized Animas Peak ahead and to the right. Then we started down. It was as easy as punching off the “Altitude Hold” button on the autopilot and retarding the throttle. This time, as Wheeler joyfully pointed out, airspeed remained constant and altitude changed.

  “Give me a car anytime,” I said after we had descended to an even eight thousand feet on the altimeter.

  “You just stick with me,” Everett Wheeler said, and then Jim Bergin’s voice interrupted us.

  “Gastner, this is Posadas Unicom. How do you read?”

  “Loud, clear, and nervous,” I said.

  “He’s doin’ fine,” Wheeler cheered. “Two-two-one this is Whiskey Charlie on escort. We’re at eight thousand, twenty-five southwest. Winds permitting, he’ll be straight in for six.”

  “Roger, Whiskey Charlie. Winds are light and variable. Take six. There’s a lot of room at the end for overrun. Make sure he doesn’t come in low. The mesa edge is about one hundred yards before the runway threshold.”

  “Roger, Posadas. Bill, you ignore all that and just do what I tell you. Right now, go through the procedure for slow flight. Autopilot on, altitude hold on, throttle to a hundred, gear, flaps, throttle back to eighty. Got that?”

  “Ten-four.”

  “All right. Now, I just want you loafing along, with the autopilot doing
all the work. Don’t get fancy and decide to do something on your own. Go for it, son.”

  I ran through the procedure more quickly and expelled a loud breath as the plane once more settled at eighty and held altitude. “I need to go down and take a quick look at this airport, Bill. I’m going to buzz ’em and be right back. You all don’t go anywhere, you hear?”

  The Bonanza peeled off just as they do in war movies. “Bill, is there anything I can do for you?” It was Bergin.

  “Get Estelle Reyes out there.”

  “She’s already here. So is Sheriff Holman and a couple guys who look like feds. And some spectators.”

  “You ought to be charging admission. Put Detective Reyes on.” There was a moment of silence.

  “Reyes here.”

  “Estelle, I’ve got a tape that I hope caught my conversation with Harlan Sprague before our little, ah, altercation. I’m going to leave it in the machine, in my flight bag, for protection. It’s right in front of my seat. Make goddamn sure that you get it if something happens during the landing.”

  “Ten-four. Sprague’s dead, sir?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Do you want me to record some kind of statement?”

  Optimistic gal, I thought. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Sprague was the end of it. The tie-in was Barrie, and the two most recent couriers were the jerks that the state police caught earlier. They were bringing in cocaine by radio-controlled airplane. Not much at a time…a kilo or two, maybe three. But enough to make a few souls rich and seed the ground, so to speak. Sprague was just in it to ruin some lives. The tape is important because it will clear me of a possible homicide charge. It will show that Sprague was guilty of assault with a deadly weapon.”

  “He pulled a gun on you in the airplane?”

  “No. He pulled the airplane on me.”

  There was silence, and then Estelle said, “Good luck, sir.”

  “He don’t need no luck,” Everett Wheeler said, his voice loud in my ears. At the same time I caught my first glimpse of the narrow ribbon of asphalt that was Posadas County Airport, Wheeler said, “You remember how to make that autopilot turn that airplane, Bill?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”