by Henry Perez
Chapa had flinched at the first hint of movement, but now he thought he saw a chance. He slowly began to slip his fingers under the seat belt release.
“She had that look in her eyes, just like you did a moment ago.” Bendix was still trembling.
“Gladys Washer?”
“You tell yourself she’s just an old woman who doesn’t have much time anyhow. That she has a heart problem and could go any day, anyhow. That she’s a widow who won’t be missed much.”
Chapa was pulling back on the buckle, almost loose now.
“I’ve crossed a line, and there’s no going back anymore. And you, you know enough to hurt my family. He won’t care once I’m not around. He’ll forget me like I never existed. But you can still hurt the people I love.”
“Like I already explained, this conversation never—”
“Save it,” Bendix interrupted, then reached back with his free hand, slipped his fingers inside the armrest, and pulled up on a silver handle.
Chapa heard the pilot’s side door open slightly, and felt the change in cabin pressure. A swirl of wind rushed through the plane, shuffling papers around in the tight cabin.
“What the hell are you thinking of doing?”
“Something for my family,” Bendix said, then forced the door open a foot or so.
“No!”
Chapa wasn’t being coy anymore. He fumbled with the buckle until it popped open, then threw the belt to the side.
But as he looked back toward Bendix and started make his move, Chapa saw the gun pointing in his direction again. Not much conviction in the doctor’s face anymore, but still enough to push Chapa back into his seat.
“Easy to think about jumping, harder to do it,” Chapa said, looking straight into the doctor’s eyes.
Bendix nodded. “I’ve never been a coward, and this is the only way out for my family.”
“No, no it’s not. Your family needs you.”
Bendix let out a shallow laugh.
“The hell they do.”
“They do.”
“No. My son and I are barely on speaking terms, and my daughters have each found better men to look up to. My wife and I have been little more than acquaintances the past ten years. And now I’ve hurt all of them.”
“But you don’t know what the loss of a father and husband will do to them.”
Chapa could see that the man’s mind was drifting off to a dark place that few ever visit and from which even fewer manage to return.
“Your wife will blame herself. Your son, your daughters, they will mourn you every day for the rest of their lives. They’ll struggle to remind your grandchildren of who you were. And if they succeed, then your grandchildren will mourn your loss as well.”
“There’s no need for them to do that.”
“No, there isn’t. You can just land this plane, and we’ll figure out—”
“No, I meant there’s no need to mourn the dead. They have no worries. They can’t hurt anyone. They have no deadlines or commitments weighing them down. Don’t mourn the dead. Mourn the living.”
Bendix slipped the end of the gun inside his mouth. His eyes grew wide as he bit down on the shaft, until he slowly eased them shut.
And pulled the trigger.
Chapter 73
The back of Walter Bendix’s head splattered against the window an instant before the force of the blast slammed his corpse into the door, forcing it open. The dead man’s face was unusually flush, though his eyes had nothing more to reveal.
Chapa could only watch as the doctor’s legs flipped up, the left one just missing Chapa’s chin before slamming into the plane’s T-shaped steering column. Then the body took a pratfall, backwards through the opening and out into nothing.
The outside air raced into the cabin, creating a whirlwind, but the plane seemed to be holding steady—at least for the moment.
Chapa jumped from his seat and rushed over to the pilot’s chair as the door swung shut, without closing all the way. Specks of blood and brain matter from the small window flicked against the side of Chapa’s face.
He looked out through a window toward the rear as the aircraft turned just enough for him to get a glimpse of the doctor’s body tumbling to the cornfield below.
He’d seen Bendix switch on the autopilot. That meant he was okay for the moment. Right? Chapa had never set his hands on the controls of an airplane, not even a simulator. He had no idea what to do, but knew he had to keep his cool, or at least try his level best to not let panic take hold.
Hoping that he could get a signal out here, fifteen miles west of the middle of nowhere, and a few thousand feet in the air, Chapa punched in Joseph Andrews’ cell number.
Hi, this is Joseph Andrews. I’m probably out flying right now…
No, Joe. I’m the one who’s out flying, Chapa thought as he abruptly ended that call and made one to the FBI offices in Chicago. The nice operator who took his call refused to transfer him directly, but was kind enough to forward it to the general office.
“Agent Eisenhuth.”
“Eisenhuth, this is Alex Chapa. I need to talk to Special Agent Andrews right now.”
“Ooh, that’s gonna be tough, Alex. You see he’s in a meeting, and—”
“No, it’s not tough—it’s necessary, urgent, vital. Get him on the phone. Now.”
There must’ve been something in Chapa’s voice—maybe a large dose of fear—because Eisenhuth said, “Hold on, I’ll transfer you to his phone,” and nothing more.
Less than a minute later, Andrews was on the line.
“This better be good, Al. I got pulled out of an important meeting and into my office.”
“I’m in an airplane, a small private one, probably two or three thousand feet above Illinois farmland. I’m alone, no pilot. Help me, Joe.”
“This is some sort of scenario you’re working out for a story?”
“No, this is real. I am up in a plane, alone. The pilot is dead, somewhere below. I’m in trouble.”
For a moment, all Chapa heard was the sound of the airplane’s engine buzzing, and a high-pitched hiss coming from the tiny gap where the door had not closed tightly.
“How the hell did you—” Andrews started, then caught himself. “You need to call Air Traffic Control. They will talk you down. I don’t have the experience to do it.”
“How do I do that? And what are they going to need to know?”
“Um, shit, please tell me the autopilot is on.”
“Yes, I saw him turn it on.”
“Good. That’s very good. That will make it easier for Air Traffic Control. I’m finding their number for you now. What’s your altimeter reading?”
“My what?”
“Altimeter, your altitude? It’s a big black dial with numbers on it, looks like a clock.”
Chapa found it.
“Okay, the big hand is on the three and the little hand is on the six.”
“That’s thirty-six-hundred feet. That’s good. How about fuel?”
“Nearly full.”
“That’s good too.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“But it could also turn into a problem on impact.”
Chapa understood—the more fuel, the greater the possibility of an explosion. He took a deep breath, maybe the first since Bendix had pulled a weapon, located both ends of the seat belt, and strapped himself in. He then pulled the bloodstained door shut and pushed down on the handle, locking it in place.
“Okay, you ready for the phone number?”
“Sure.”
Andrews rattled off the number for Air Traffic Control in Aurora, but Chapa was only half listening. His attention was on something else altogether.
“Hey, Joe?”
“What, Al, were you listening? Did you get that number? You need to talk to them right now. I will call them and confirm that you—”
“The altimeter is moving.”
“What do you mean?”
“The little hand
isn’t at six anymore. It’s now closer to four. Now it’s right at four.”
“I thought you said—”
“Now it’s just below four. Is this a bad thing?”
“Did you turn off the autopilot?”
“No,” Chapa looked over to where he’d seen Bendix switch it on. “The orange light isn’t on now. It was before, but I haven’t touched it.”
“Did you bump the yoke?”
“The what?”
“The yoke, the steering mechanism, sometimes that can switch off the autopilot.”
Chapa remembered seeing Bendix’s foot clip it on the way out. He also remembered feeling the plane turn slightly to the left.
“Yes, I think that’s what happened, Joe. But I’ll just flip it back on.”
“No! Don’t do that. You may have changed the plane’s trajectory. If you turn it on now the plane will maintain whatever course you’re on now, even if it’s one that’s headed straight into the ground.”
Whatever small and fragile fragment of confidence Chapa had felt a moment ago was now in tatters.
“Can you get me out of this, Joe?”
“I don’t know. We don’t have a lot of time.”
Chapa allowed himself a glance at the altimeter—twenty-nine-hundred feet.
“Al, you need to do exactly as I tell you.”
“You need to get me out of this, Joe.”
“I don’t know how—I’ve had my license for just over a week.”
“Right now, that makes you an expert.”
Silence.
“C’mon, Joe.”
“Okay. Are you buckled in?”
“Yes.”
“The shoulder harness, too?”
“No, wait, hold on.” Chapa looked up over his left shoulder and found the strap, yanked it down, locked it in place. “Got it.”
“Do you know if you’re near an airport?”
“No idea. But I might be able to find a paved highway, land it there.”
“Bad idea. I know there are stories about planes landing on highways, but that’s a tough go. You’ve got power lines on both sides, road signs, and of course cars to worry about.”
Chapa had imagined that would be his best option. Now his heart sank a little more.
“Let’s start by trimming for level flight. I want you to grip the yoke and gently raise or lower the nose until the horizon is about two inches above the bottom of your windshield.”
“It’s about six inches above it now.”
“You need to pull back on it, then. Remember, pull back on the stick and the trees get smaller.”
Chapa switched on his cell phone’s speaker, turned up the volume as loud as it would go, and set it down on a narrow ledge above the control panel. Then he gripped the two upright sticks so tight his hands felt like they were one with the mechanism. He pulled it back and watched the horizon shrink in front of him.
“I think I got it, Joe.”
“Now find the throttle. It’s a black handle with a round knob at the end.”
“I see it.”
“Locate the tachometer. It will be labeled among a series of gauges on the control panel.”
Chapa had been studying the controls since boarding the plane, so it took him only a quick scan of the panel to find it.
“Yep.”
“Pull back on the throttle until the tachometer reads fifteen hundred RPMs.”
Chapa did as instructed and watched the reading drop as he felt the plane slowing.
“I think it’s slowing down, Joe.”
“It should be, but we’re not going to let it get too slow, or…remember, air speed is life right now.”
“Sure, okay, sounds good.”
He was amazed by how steady Andrews’ voice was now. Chapa knew that came with years of training and field work, but still. He was damn good.
“As long as your wings are level you should be descending at about eight hundred feet per minute.”
Chapa did the math—that left him just over three minutes.
“Do you know if this plane has fixed landing gear, or retractable?”
“I have no clue.”
“Let’s hope the wheels are tucked under.”
“And if they’re not?”
“Then you might cartwheel. Look, Al, our best chance is a controlled crash landing.”
That sounded like a contradiction in terms. Everything ahead of him was getting bigger, and Chapa knew it wouldn’t be long now.
Eleven hundred feet, now one thousand.
“Do you see an open field somewhere? A cornfield is good—it will slow you down once you’re on the ground and maybe keep you from rolling over.”
The cornfields below were pale yellow, the change in seasons having come and gone, bleaching the stalks of their summer colors.
Eight hundred feet, now seven.
The plane began to rock a little, and Chapa told Andrews it felt like he was sitting in the middle of a teeter-totter.
“Don’t let that happen, Al. Keep the wings level.”
Chapa struggled to do that. Then everything got quiet.
Five hundred feet, now four.
“Um, Joe, I think the engine shut off. I don’t hear it anymore.”
“Did you stall out?”
“You’re asking me? I’m drifting down and the ground seems to be coming at me faster now.”
“Oh shit. The carburetor heat. I didn’t tell you turn on the carburetor heat.”
“No, you didn’t. How bad is this?”
“I’ve never done this before, Al, I studied and read a lot, but I just forgot about—”
Andrews’ voice wasn’t as steady now.
“Shut up and get me down in one piece, Joe.”
Three hundred feet.
“Right. Sorry. Push the nose down.”
“How much?”
“So that it’s about a foot below the horizon.”
Chapa dropped the nose as the plane dipped to one hundred and fifty feet.
“Al. You still there?”
“Yes.”
“You’re gonna have to pull back when you think the plane is about to hit.”
“I’m less than one hundred feet off the ground, heading for a wide field.”
Individual stalks of corn flashed by.
“Pull back when you’re about thirty feet from impact, and level the wings out.”
Chapa saw the tops of a row of trees in the distance, saw that he was now closer to the ground than they were.
“And then what, Joe?”
Silence. Then in a voice that was just above a whisper, Andrews said, “Hang on.”
As the first of the stalks swiped the bottom of the plane Chapa whispered, “I love you Nikki, I love you Mom, I love you Erin, I love you Mike.”
It was the closest he’d ever come to saying a prayer in his entire adult life.
He was dropping toward the middle of the field now as cornstalks battered the plane on all sides.
Then he felt the impact an instant before it threw him forward.
The seat belt held him in place, but he felt it knot against his lower abdomen, knocking the air out of him.
The small plane rocked from side to side as it skidded through the field. Tossed in one direction, then the other, like a runaway thrill ride.
Then the fuselage slid sideways, and Chapa heard a loud crash as he saw the right wing being sheared off.
The plane was slowing, it had to be, but not quickly enough.
Chapa still had a grip on the yoke when he caught a glimpse of something coming at him through the air, an instant before it slammed into the right side of his head.
He slumped forward and a silver metal rectangle, about the size of a shirt box, tumbled toward the copilot’s chair. Chapa started feeling woozy, his head doing cartwheels.
The craft spun once more, like a Tilt-a-Whirl getting its final licks in before letting riders get off. And then Chapa felt the ground to his left give way.
Chapa just let go—there was no use fighting anymore—and drifted away into a deep blackness.
Chapter 74
Alex Chapa’s first plane trip was from Havana to Miami. It was relatively short and uneventful, except for when his mother had to convince customs officers that her son was not sick. He remembered smiling for the tall man in the dark blue uniform, the way his mother had told him to if anyone asked any questions about his health.
Whatever it took to hide his hundred-and-two temperature and get out of Cuba and begin a new future.
His second flight, just a few days later, ended in a more dramatic fashion as the Delta jet survived a rough landing in the middle of a January snowstorm in Chicago. It was the first time he’d seen snow, and unlike most kids who look forward to the next blizzard, Chapa never liked the stuff.
Chapa was thinking about that storm from nearly four decades ago, now. Through eyes that were only half open and barely able to focus, he struggled to see the snow that was sliding down the cracked windshield of the small plane. It drifted aimlessly across the glass, like it was unable to stop itself from falling.
Chapa knew the feeling.
But this snow was dark, like city street slush. And for a scrambled moment Chapa wondered if smaller planes somehow attracted a different sort of snow.
Then he realized it wasn’t snow at all.
The plane had kicked up a wave of dirt as it rolled over, and now that fine Illinois soil was headed back where it belonged.
How long had he been out?
The plane had flipped, at least once, and came to rest upside down. Chapa was suspended, still strapped into the pilot’s seat. He reached around to where his head was throbbing, just above his left temple, and felt a bump, but no sticky blood.
His head was sore to the touch, as were his ribs, left side, and abdomen. He breathed in as far as his lungs would allow and felt an ache in his chest and back.
But that didn’t concern him as much as the faint smell of gasoline.
Chapa had to get out of there. He had no idea whether a plane could catch fire after it had plowed into the ground and sat half-buried, but he had no intention of finding out, either.