by Ward, Steve
Test Pilot's Daughter
Revenge
by Steve Ward
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Steve Ward
Copyright © 2010 by Steve Ward
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Credits: Cover design and layout by T.M. Roy; background photograph courtesy of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA). Aircraft photo Copyright 2008 by Lawreston/Distinctive Views, used with permission.
Chapter One
Simple justice, she thought, sweet revenge. At 9,500 feet, she approached the coastline of South Carolina going east toward the Atlantic Ocean. Just a matter of time before the bastard eats the briny bottom. She glanced at her victim and shivered.
Christina unlatched the door of the small airplane and pushed, trying to force it open. To attain sufficient clearance, she would have to get out and onto the landing gear. Damn! The door yielded only a crack. A feeling of panic wedged firmly between her ribs. Emanating from the bowels of the cockpit was an intonation, “Eeeyaaa, you’re dead, you murdering bitch. I’ll see you in hell!”
She pulled at the buckles on her parachute and wrapped what was left of her shredded blouse around bleeding knuckles. What if I can’t get out? Leaning all her weight into the door, she was able to force one foot onto the step. The air-blast was deafening. She put both hands on the frame and pushed with her back. Metal cut into her leg and blood ran down one ankle, but nothing could steal her grit. Finally, she was outside the winged coffin. Before jumping she turned back and said, “Goodbye, Doctor. Have a nice flight.” She pointed at the sky and screamed, “Jessica. . .for you!”
Holding the door ajar she went for it. As her body cleared the fuselage, the door slammed with a bang and caught one of the straps on the back of her ‘chute. The metal guard wedged firmly in the door jamb and yanked her back. Her head slammed hard against the undercarriage, arms and legs flailing like a rat suspended by the tail. Caught in the pounding prop-wash, she flopped in chaos, dazed and confused. Shock seized every reach of her brain.
“Come on girl, think!” she yelled. “Don’t wanna die like this.” Trying to ignore the sharp chill cutting into the sensitive skin of exposed breasts, she used both hands to reach into her cut-offs and grabbed a penknife. With a surge of adrenaline, she snatched the tangled mess behind her head with one hand and hacked away blindly with the other. Suddenly the razor sharp blade found its mark and the tether separated.
Christina tumbled in a back-flip slapping at her harness struggling to find the ring. Finally, she pulled the ripcord, and the huge canopy blew free and dug in. “Free at last, free at last,” she sang as she floated through sultry, summer air. A big smile stretched across her face. “Adios, Weston!”
The airplane was somewhere behind, out of sight, but she could hear the diminishing whine. “That asshole won’t be bothering any more kids,” she hissed. Just as she was about to relax, the drone of the Cessna flagged something strange. Shifting tones reversed, from lower to higher frequencies like an approaching train. She pulled one cord to maneuver her parachute one-eighty and stared in horror as it rolled back in her direction. “Impossible!”
It became clear, he wasn’t simply turning back toward land, he was seeking her out. In a matter of seconds, she looked wide-eyed, right down the cowling of the one-hundred-sixty horsepower fan. A treacherous irony: all her life she had loved everything about airplanes, now this one was an enemy missile with her name on it. As the grinding blades approached, she could see the face of her wicked victim contorted in a murderous sneer. With a roar, the windmill zoomed over, just missing the top of her parachute. Turbulence whipped her around like a rag-doll, tumbling out of control. Stunned, her mind raced in a thousand directions, all bad.
Oh shit, he’s coming back! How the hell did he get out of those cuffs? She struggled in vain to anticipate the trajectory, but it was no use. On the second pass, the beast was even more accurately maneuvered, roaring louder and louder. Swinging both legs straight up like a gymnast, all she could do was scream, “God help me!” The deadly spinner shot just beneath her torso, so close she was jolted by prop-wash. Only a few hundred feet above the ground, she agonized, If he comes ‘round again, we’ll both bite the dust.
The entire episode was so frightening, it was illusory. Her young life had been plagued with nightmares. Another bad dream? she wondered. Hell no, this one is real. Suddenly, without forethought, she felt a heavy burden of guilt for dealing out her own brand of justice. Words familiar since childhood hurtled through her brain, Vengeance is mine! sayeth the Lord.
Chapter Two
It was a dreary autumn day, unusually cold for Edwards Air Force Base in southern California. Dark clouds threatened rain. A mob of mourners wedged her tightly into a claustrophobic cocoon. Standing by the freshly dug grave, the staunch eleven-year-old shed not one tear. Her stalwart father, Lt. Col. Patrick Matthews, wept without shame, but Christina held it in. Her insides were boiling, but she wouldn’t let go. More than anything, she wanted someone to blame, someone to strangle. She didn’t want to cry, she wanted to fight. Frustrated by a faceless enemy, she was cursed by a legion of nightmares that simply wouldn’t fade.
Every time the preacher mentioned “God,” her mind reeled. She felt alone, cheated by a God who took her mom for no good reason. Before the funeral service she totally lost it, admonishing her father, “Why couldn’t the doctors help? Why is everyone so freakin’ lame?”
She knew they were all staring at her, but she refused the tears. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the people walked away, everyone except her father. He appeared to be frozen to the ground. She had never seen him this way. She didn’t know that a man could cry, not a fighter pilot, not her dad. When he threw a handful of dirt onto the casket, the tinkle of pebbles triggered horrible memories. Her life had seemed just about perfect until that night in April just after her eleventh birthday. In bed about to fall asleep, she had heard her parents arguing.
* * *
No, they’re fighting, she thought. But what about? A lump? What’s that? She had never heard them fight before. He mother said, “I’ve got no time for doctors, and I’m too young to be worrying about cancer.” The word, cancer, made her cringe. She pulled the covers over her head and cried herself to sleep.
A few weeks later, awaiting her mother’s return from the doctor, Christina was so worried she could do nothing but stare at the window. The slam of a car door made her jump. Suddenly she appeared in the doorway, gaunt like a ghost. With a tear-stained face her mother took a deep breath and walked over wringing her hands.
“So? What did he say?” Christina asked.
Her mother hesitated. “My precious Chrissy, I’m afraid I have some rather bad news. . .I’m. . .I’m afraid. . .”
“What?” Christina shouted.
“The biopsies. . .all positive.”
“What do you mean?” she cried.
“The cancer dear. . .i
t’s spread too far to be treated.”
I don’t understand. Anything can be treated.”
Now, listen. I. . .uh. . .you need to know. . .I’m. . .” Her mother pushed her down on the couch and knelt in front grasping her hands. She seemed to brace herself with a deep breath, “I’m going to die. . .a few months at the most.”
“No!” Christina bawled as she fell into her mother’s arms. “No, you can’t die. No!”
“God gives and God takes away,” her mother whimpered,
“God? He can’t do that. You’re my mom.”
Over the next four months Christina witnessed her mother in excruciating pain and suffering, quieted only by heavy doses of morphine. She went to the clinic every day and saw the once athletic body melt into a pile of bones. On the day, the emaciated woman struggled to talk. She kept drawing Christina close trying to speak, but there was little volume behind quivering lips.
Christina hung on every syllable. She wrapped her arms around her mother and moved her ear next to her lips. With a fateful gasp, Nancy Stevenson Matthews whispered her last, something about “destiny” and slipped away. Christina squeezed the lifeless body and felt a pain so intense she wanted to die.
* * *
There was a rumble of thunder from above, and Christina shook her head. God? God, how could you? She saw lightning in the distance and wanted to go home, but her father wouldn’t leave. The smell of flowers was so sweet it was almost sickening. So many flowers. What a waste, she thought, all gonna die, just like my mom. The smell was exactly the same as the perfume her grandmother used to wear. Grammy left me too.
Christina stood there clinging to the most precious gift she had ever received. Her grandmother had been a famous pilot in World War II in the Women’s Air Corp. She held her grandmother’s autobiography in both hands and kissed it. The words inscribed inside the cover wandered through her mind.
My Dear Chrissy,
Flying airplanes taught me an important lesson.
Don’t ever think of yourself as the weaker sex. You are a human being, and you can achieve whatever you dream. All you have to do is set your mind and stay focused.
My sweet Chrissy, may you soar with the eagles.
Yours forever,
Grammy
Not the weaker sex, huh? Didn’t help my mom. In a rage, she hurled the book into the pit and turned her back. “Can we go home now?” She reached over to grab her father’s hand, but he pulled away. Oh no, she thought, lost him too.
* * *
Years passed, but the nightmares remained. After they moved to Seattle, Lt. Col. Patrick Matthews flew as a test pilot for Boeing. His life was exciting and full, but Christina was left to fight her own battles. He worked all the time, but as guilt offerings he delivered spectacular birthdays. On her sixteenth, he sent her off to adventure camp.
“Bobby, are you scared?” she yelled over drone of the Cessna 210.
“Hell yeah!” he answered. “Never jumped out of a plane before.”
“Not sure I can do it,” she pulled at her straps.
“Sure you can. Girl, I seen you in action. You got it.”
It was a dazzling June day just outside Portland, Oregon. The sky was blue and crystal clear, unusual for the great Northwest. Visibility unlimited, several majestic mountain peaks were brightly illuminated by the morning sun. Glistening snowcaps of Mt. St. Helens, Mt. Jefferson and Mt. Adams could all be seen from the summit of Mt. Hood which stood in her view. Christina held her breath and peeked out the opening. Damn, she shivered. Dad tests me more than those freakin’ airplanes.
She pushed herself back against the improvised seat and thought about her father. When she was younger, before her mother died, he treated her like the son he never had. He took her hunting and fishing and taught her at age ten how to drive his old pickup. Sure she was tall, lanky and a little strange, but she found it a source of pride. Most girls her age were squeamish bores. She never complained about being raised like a boy; she loved the attention. Now she missed it. On her twelfth birthday, she remembered shrieking with joy when he gave her a double-barreled 410 shotgun with a pearl sight. With a man-to-man look he growled, “Chris, you gotta learn how to run with the big dogs.”
She tried to concentrate. Looking out the door of the airplane once again, she made up her mind. Shit, I’m gonna jump!
It was an action packed thrill ride at the famous Northwest Mountain Adventures Camp. In just a few weeks, she had received a crash course in mountain climbing, rappelling, white water rafting and finally, skydiving.
Climbing through 8,000 feet, the jumpmaster got their attention, “Double check your gear. Ready in five.” He pointed directly at her then to the opening as if saying, You first.
Her heart pounded; adrenaline pumped as all of her senses tingled with anticipation.
“Christina. . .clear!” the instructor yelled waving her on.
She stuck her head out the opening and looked down. Some of her bad dreams involved falling, and the thought of tumbling 10,000 feet put a lump in her throat. Maneuvering into the jump position, she hesitated with a wave of second thoughts. What the hell am I doing? Why can’t I just hang out like the rest of my friends? What if the ‘chute doesn’t open?
Finally, she took one last breath, closed her eyes and pushed away, giving the familiar camp yell of a Samurai warrior, “Banzaiii!”
It was like diving into the teeth of a tornado vortex. She twisted and turned, tearing through the atmosphere at a terminal velocity of 145 miles per hour. It was an incredible rush, and time stopped as she stabilized, hanging suspended two miles high.
Suddenly she was overcome by euphoria. My God, she thought, it’s so beautiful. Squinting through her goggles for details on the ground, she felt a particular connection with the hawk and the eagle. In an eerie way, floating in a river of air, she felt at home. Earth seemed a much better place looking down from afar than it did wandering amongst the rabble of mankind. Gut-wrenching pain suffered since the death of her mother temporarily vanished. From her lofty view, there were no tumors, no hospitals, no pain, no funerals, none of the things that had burned into depths of her soul. As a matter of fact, there was nothing at all, just clear sky above and good Earth below. Soaring effortlessly, she was entranced, and her mind drifted into a hypnotic state.
After a swift descent of 8,000 feet, Oh shit! she thought. Gotta do somethin’ quick, or I’ll smack the ground like a bug on a windshield. She reached across her chest to grab the large ring, then pulled her hand back. For the first time in her life, she thought the unthinkable, What if. . .never feel a thing. Something snapped, and her mother’s dying words flashed across her mind.
Find your destiny. . .don’t let me down . . .don’t let me down.
Less than 1,000 feet off the deck, Christina pulled the ripcord and tossed it to the side. After a small delay that seemed much longer, her body jerked under a large red canopy. Dark thoughts erased, she was charged with a rush of exhilaration. As the field came up, she tugged at the control lines and arrested her fall. Pulling in the tangled parachute, she looked up at her friends floating through space and realized the enormity of what she had accomplished.
“Yeah baby!” she shrieked, pumping a tight fist into the sky.
Chapter Three
Heather Daniels, Jessica Ward and Christina Matthews were like three peas in a pod. Their camaraderie was paramount to Christina’s ability to cope with her secret curse. The girls were closer than most siblings, bonds sealed by trauma. Christina had lost her mother and Jessica her father. Only Heather had two parents, both workaholics.
Christina and Jessica were basketball freaks. They lived for the brutal competition. They both started on the team and played for Lewis and Clark High all four years. In their senior year, they went undefeated taking the school to the state championship for the first time in its history. Christina was often mentioned in the papers, but Jessica was featured by the press as a rising star and college prospect.
Jessica maintained a solid character even in a chaotic home life. She suffered dearly, but sharing with her friends was the best therapy. After her father died, her mom started drinking. Spending too much time in bars, she took up with a violent alcoholic, Roy Pitts. He had a criminal record and several convictions for drunk driving. There was never peace when he was around. He was constantly teasing Jessica with dirty innuendos. She often confided in Christina, “I hope the bastard catches a bullet in a bar fight.”
Like many female athletes, the girls shared a genuine dislike for cheerleaders. The painful truth was, cheerleaders seemed to have all the fun, while the players sweated through countless hours of grueling practice. They believed the little cuties with soft, pink skin and long, blonde hair represented the worst kind of girls. In moments of angst, Christina would whisper to Jessica, “Cheerleaders suck.”
