I spun around. “Dammit! Damn him to hell! Where’s the phone?”
I raced to Rocky’s tent. His sleeping bag and pillow got shaken, tossed out. Extra socks. Nothing else. Nothing.
What had he done with it?
The only place left in camp was our tent. I rummaged through it. Nothing there. As I’d thought, all the ammo was gone too. I scanned the hillside. Where would he have hidden it? There was no way of knowing. It might as well have been on the moon.
I grabbed the bag of food, a jug of water, a sleeping bag, and the first-aid kit and headed back to Dalton.
His eyes were closed but he was conscious when I got back.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” I asked, bent over, heaving to catch my breath.
His pupils looked a little dilated. Not good.
“Food,” I said, holding up a rucksack. “How about a banana?”
He didn’t make a sound or move.
“Okay, let’s start with water,” I said. I unscrewed the top of the jug and held it to his lips. “C’mon, just a sip.”
He tried to drink, his hand tightening around the knife in his thigh.
As he lay his head back, his eyes met mine. “No phone?”
I shook my head. “And Joe won’t be expecting us back for at least, well, a few more days, assuming—” I looked over at the body, at Rocky, lying there in a heap and my throat constricted—don’t think about that “—he checked in, which I’m willing to bet he did.”
He nodded and drew in a deep breath.
I pried open the first-aid kit. “I don’t suppose there’s a field technique for—” I stared at the knife sticking out of his thigh “—for that?”
He gave me a sideways grin. “Yeah. You order a body bag.”
“No way. Not on my watch,” I said. If the knife had to stay in, well, we’d make sure the knife stayed in.
I packed mounds of gauze around the blade, then used the entire roll of tape, round and round his thigh, to keep it in place.
“I’m getting you out of here.” I risked a glance at Rocky’s body one more time, lying there dead, and down at the plane, floating on the lake. “You watch me. Sit tight.”
“What are you thinking?” Dalton managed.
“The plane. It can’t be that hard to fly.”
His eyes grew wide. “You can’t be serious.”
“You need a hospital. Now.”
“Build three fires. Lots of smoke. Someone will see.”
“Like who? We haven’t seen another soul, not a plane, nothing, since we’ve been out here.”
“Someone will come. Eventually. You have the supplies now. You’ll be fine.”
“But you won’t.”
He shook his head. “It’s not worth the risk.”
“Not worth the risk? Your life is not worth the risk? You listen to me, mister. You keep pressure on that leg. You stay awake. And you live. Do you hear me? We’re taking that plane and getting the hell out of here.”
His eyes focused on the plane. I could tell he was contemplating the distance, how he’d get to it.
“You leave that up to me,” I said. “I’ll get you there.”
“Your arm,” he said, noticing my bandage for the first time. “How’d you—”
“It was Rocky actually. Don’t worry. Another flesh wound. Nothing serious.”
In a stand of alders I found two downed limbs, long enough for what I needed. This had to work. He couldn’t die on me now. It had to work. It would work.
With the two branches laid out parallel, I stretched the sleeping bag between them. From Rocky’s pack, I found some nylon cord. Using Dalton’s jackknife, I cut holes in the sleeping bag at intervals where I could lace the cord, tying the bag to the branches.
I laid my makeshift travois next to Dalton. “Let’s get you on here,” I said. He was too exhausted to argue when I rolled him on his side, pulled it up under him, then rolled him onto it.
With a push of sheer determination, I took hold of the branches and lifted, and with one step, then another, I dragged him down the hillside.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
At the edge of the lake, I dropped to the ground, exhausted.
The sun was behind the trees. It had to be at least three o’clock.
Dalton must have been reading my mind. “It’s too late. Even if you do get that thing running, and up in the air without killing us, it will be dark. Trying to land in the dark is suicide.”
I stood up and shoved my coat off, then my shirt and pants. “I’m getting that plane,” I said. “I’m getting you in it. Then we’ll see.”
“That water’s ice cold. You’re already exhausted.”
“It’ll revive me,” I said. “Stop arguing.”
He closed his eyes, resigned.
“You just sit tight,” I said and waded in.
It’s amazing how quickly legs can go numb. By the time I plunged full in, my breath came in short pants and my muscles threatened to seize. But I had to get there. To the plane. Back to Dalton.
I kicked and threw my arms forward, pushing through the icy water. One stroke. Then another. Then another. And I was there, pulling myself up onto the pontoon. I half-expected the door to be locked but it flung open when I grabbed the handle. I crawled inside and went straight for the radio. Dalton had said it was disabled, but I had to check. The knob turned, but nothing happened. Was there a wire I could reattach? Something?
Forget it. Dalton would have checked all that. I went for the flight manual in the side pocket.
How to start the engine. It had to be in the first pages. I flipped page after page, shivering. Drawings. Specs. Lists of equipment. Oh crap. Maybe this was just a maintenance manual? No. There. Start Engine.
Battery master switch - ON. I peered at the dash, all buttons and switches, knobs and levers. Crap. C’mon!
I flipped back through the pages to the diagram of the dashboard, ripped it from the book, then opened back to the page on how to start the engine.
Battery switch. Okay, got it.
Fuel selector to fullest tank. Got it.
Mixture lever - AUTO RICH. What did that mean? There was no setting for auto rich. I pushed the mixture lever forward, half way. Would that do it?
My hands shook, my teeth chattering. “Can we get some heat in here!” I shouted to no one. Where’s the damn purser when you need her?
I could do this. I had to do this.
Throttle lever - 1/4 to 1/2 in. OPEN. Ok, got it.
Build up pressure with wobble pump to maximum 5 psi. Wobble pump? Seriously? There really is a wobble pump?
Right there on the page. Wobble pump. Fuel pressure. The lever was in the center, between the seats. I gave it a few pumps up and down. It made a whoosh, whoosh noise. Definitely gas in the lines.
Prime 4 strokes. Prime what? How?
I scanned the dash schematic. Nothing. Was there an index in this thing? I flipped to the back. No index. A shiver took over and I shook uncontrollably, rubbing my arms. I bounced in the chair. Get that blood flowing.
What was I thinking? I don’t know how to fly a plane. I’m going to get us killed.
No. You can do this. You have to do this.
Back over the schematic again. It had to be there. My finger shook as I dragged it across the sheet, checking each word. There. Primer. There it is! On my left side, a small knob next to the seat. I worked it up and down until it got harder to push. That must be enough.
Both ignition switches to ON position. Switched on.
Hold starter switch to STARTER position. Okay.
The starter whined, but the engine didn’t turn over.
Hold Booster Coil switch to BOOSTER COIL position. As soon as engine fires, release the switch.
“Here goes,” I said aloud and held the switch. With a rattle, the engine fired to life. The propeller started turning. I let out a whoop.
Quick. Off with the starter and booster coil switches.
The plane r
attled and shook as the engine huffed and sputtered, then quit.
“Dammit!”
What? More throttle? More priming? More wobble? Wobble. Oh my god. It comes down to a wobble. I giggled. Then I laughed. My eyes started to well up with tears. No! Dammit! We are not going to die out here!
“Listen to me, bitch!” I slammed my fist on the dash. “You’re going to fly. You’re going to fly me back to that lodge. Do you hear me? Me and Dalton. Right now.”
I shoved the throttle lever forward, then back. Cranked on the wobble pump a few more times, then flipped the starter switch on. She whined, the starter turning. I pushed the booster coil switch again. She shook and sputtered to life. Up with the throttle. “Don’t you quit on me!”
She reached a steady hum. Yes!
Okay. Now to get her in motion. Next page. Next page. There.
Taxiing.
Flaps at CRUISE POSITION. What’s cruise position? Does it really matter? I’d fiddle with them once I got her moving.
Propeller lever - full INCREASE rpm. Got it. I pushed the lever and the engine got louder and the plane started to move. Excellent.
Watch oil and cylinder temps. Ah, sure.
Operate rudder pedals to steer airplane by means of steerable tailwheel. I placed my feet square on the pedals and pushed one, then the other. Okay, got it.
The plane jerked to a halt. Crap. The anchor.
I pulled back on the propeller lever, flung the door open and jumped out onto the pontoon. How was I going to pull up an anchor? Wait. I wouldn’t need it again. I untied the line and let it go.
Back in the cockpit, I shoved the propeller lever forward, moved the foot pedals back and forth, and got her pointed toward shore. Toward Dalton.
“Wake up.” I slapped him across the face. “C’mon. Wake up.”
Dalton’s eyes fluttered.
“Wake up, damn you!”
One eye opened.
“C’mon. I got the plane. Get in.”
I’d managed to get the plane turned and stopped in about two feet of water, rather than bring her nose right up on the beach. I wasn’t sure if there was a reverse and didn’t want to risk getting stuck now.
The plane was floating without any tether, the propeller slowly turning.
“C’mon. Now.” Before she floats away. “Get on your feet, soldier.”
With a shove, I got him sitting upright. He saw the plane then. His eyes narrowed then flicked toward me.
“All you have to do is get in the passenger seat. I’ll do the rest.”
With a groan, he shifted his weight to his good leg and slowly pushed himself upward.
“I’m right beside you, holding you steady.”
He raised himself to his full height and focused on the plane. “Just my luck,” he mumbled. When he put his weight on his bad leg, the pain must have been unbearable, but he didn’t show it. SEALs.
I got up under his arm. “Lean on me,” I said.
He didn’t slow. Into the water and up onto the pontoon he hobbled. With those strong arms, he pulled himself into the cockpit and swung into the seat, panting to abate the pain. It had taken all he had.
In the pilot’s seat again, I thrust the throttle lever forward, worked the foot pedals, and pointed her toward the middle of the lake. The sky was clear, but the clock was ticking.
“McVie.”
“What?” I turned. “Did you say something?”
I reached over him, grabbed his earphones from the hook and snapped them over his ears, adjusting the mic.
His voice raspy, he said, “Have I ever told you—” he drew in a needed breath “—you’re incorrigible?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I said with a smile.
“Well, in case—” A cough. “—in case we don’t—”
“We’re going to make it, Dalton. I can do this.”
He nodded, his eyes closed. “I know. I just—” His eyes fluttered back open. “I just want you to know—” Those eyes held mine. “Thank you, partner.” And he was out again.
I reached over his chest, pulled the seatbelt down and clipped it into place. Then I put mine on too.
Holding the manual in my hand, I flipped to the page titled, “Take Off.”
All levers in place.
Flaps - TAKE-OFF position. What position is that? I shuffled through a few more pages to the diagram. Okay, got it.
Face into the wind. The manual didn’t state that, but I knew it. And I needed lots of lake.
Mixture at full rich.
Open throttle smoothly to maximum permissible take-off power. See figure 4-1. Figure 4-1 showed the gauges. Green good. Yellow caution. Red danger. Simple enough. Maximum it is.
Allow aircraft to fly itself off at 55 to 65 mph in a tail down attitude and climb at 65 mph. Tail down attitude? Did that mean nose up? We were going to find out.
Easy now. The voice of my father in my head. Nothing drastic. Easy touch.
Deep breath.
“Hang on,” I said to Dalton as I grabbed hold of the throttle lever and shoved it all the way forward.
The propeller started spinning faster and faster, the hum rising in volume as the plane moved through the water, building speed.
We were doing this thing.
The mph gauge needle rose, up, up. 45mph. Then 50. 55. 57. 60. We were still on the water, the pontoons slapping in the waves. Then it happened. We were airborne. But the plane veered drastically to the left. I shoved the rudder right and she corrected, still climbing, leaving my stomach on the lake.
I took hold of Dalton’s hand and squeezed. “We’re going to make it. Stay with me now. We’re going to make it.”
The plane climbed, smooth as can be, like I’d been flying one for years.
Slowly increase airspeed to 80 mph and re-trim. Throttle forward.
“We’re flying!”
Once we got to 500 feet, the manual said to set flaps to climb. Did I want to continue to climb? This seemed high enough for me. The higher we flew, the more we’d have to descend. I quickly read through the section on climbing and cruising. Nowhere did it say what altitude to fly. 500 feet felt right to me. I set the flaps to cruise position and the plane leveled. Good.
The flight out to the camp had been about forty-five minutes on a south-southeast path. Using the rudder, I turned to head north-northwest. Back to the lodge. Trying to fly all the way to Anchorage wasn’t an option. We’d have to take our chances that Joe hadn’t been compromised.
Getting a feel for the flaps, the rudder, the trim, was a priority. They’d be needed for landing. Back to the manual, I read through the section on landing.
Caution. Notes. Fuel tank capacity. Airspeed correction.
Finally, a section titled “Descent.” There were three lines:
Reduce airspeed and power as required.
Fuel selector to fullest tank.
Instruments in correct ranges.
What? That’s it? What’s required? What are the correct ranges? I looked at Dalton, passed out in the passenger seat. Oh shit.
Under “Landing,” the same. Trim as required.
There were sections on cross-wind landing and minimum run landing. Then the post flight checklist.
What have I done?
We were flying. Committed. But flying was one thing. Landing was something else. This plane was coming down eventually. One way or another.
Okay. Don’t freak out!
Landing was just a controlled descent, right? Slowly, take her down, until the pontoons touch the water. Easy. The lodge was on a river, so I had all the distance I needed. That was a plus.
First, I had to find the lodge.
I reached over and placed my fingers on Dalton’s neck to check his pulse. Slow, but there.
Blue sky spread before me. Green and yellow hills below. A beautiful landscape. Would it be the last I’d see?
Stop thinking like that.
My mom. Would I see her again? And Chris. I had to call him. First thing and
plan that trip to Mexico like he wanted. What if I didn’t—McVie. Cut it out.
I checked the clock. Only fifteen minutes in the air. Thirty to go. If I had the right heading. I should be able to see the river though. Then follow it until I spotted the lodge. Then circle back for landing. That’s what I’d do. That was the plan.
Double checking the manual for landing tips seemed like a prudent thing to do, so I scanned the table of contents. Description of the aircraft. Procedures. Operating limits. Special installations. Data charts.
Nothing helpful.
Info on the propeller, the rudder, trim, flaps. All there. But what to do with that information? What angle was right? What trim?
I took hold of the yoke, my feet on the pedals, and slowly made adjustments, easy now, feeling the plane dip and turn. That was my best option. Feel it.
Dalton moaned. Sweat beaded on his forehead. I took his hand in mine. He’d risked his life for me. And it wasn’t the first time. Now, were we going to die together? Without me telling him how much I—his eyes opened.
“Are we there yet?” he said.
“Almost. Make sure your tray table is in the upright position,” I said, trying to manage a smile.
The way he looked at me made my stomach flutter. Then it clenched with dread. “I’m sorry I got you in to this.”
He closed his eyes. “Don’t be sorry.” He opened them again. “We’re in this together.”
My stomach fluttered again and I turned so he wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes. Deep breath. I turned back. “I’m going to land this plane.”
“I know you will.” His eyes winked shut.
“I mean it,” I said, squeezing his hand, making him open his eyes and look at me. “I’m going to land this plane and get you to a hospital. I swear it.”
“I know, Poppy. I know.” And his eyes closed again.
I let go of his hand and gripped the yoke. I will land this plane.
The landscape stretched before me, a blur of fall colors. There, ahead. The river. It had to be the one.
I sat up straight. This was it. The plane seemed to putt along, taking its sweet time. Finally, the river was nearly below us. I turned the plane, easy now, to follow. The lodge had to be here somewhere. A mile. Another mile.
Poppy McVie Mysteries: Books 1-3 (The Poppy McVie Box Set Series) Page 52