by Ward, Steve
The clock had become their biggest enemy. Benson looked out over the building waves wondering when they would have to call it quits. He was already beginning to feel sick, and the huge breakfast he had eaten at the hotel was threatening to emerge. Wells seemed convinced there were survivors somewhere in the region. But, if they were to locate the young people alive, it had to be quick.
The day before they had passed some fifteen islands, circling the perimeter at close range looking for any signs of habitation. They had spotted some interesting debris, and Jamal Jones had escorted them on two islands for a closer look. One actually revealed the wreckage of a single engine airplane, but it wasn’t a Saratoga. It had clearly been there a long time.
As people across America were celebrating with picnics and fireworks, the search team had only about eight hours before the weather moved in. Around noon, after zooming past twelve more islands and examining three false alarms, time was short. The wind was blowing like fury, and Watkins made it clear they’d have to head back to Congo Town soon.
“We’ve only got time to hit these three on the chart.” He marked the islands with a pen. “The water’s relatively shallow in this region so the waves shouldn’t get too high until the hurricane gets here.”
“Okay, if you say so,” Benson agreed reluctantly. There was a lot of money at stake, and he didn’t want to go back empty handed.
The next island was bigger than most, about two miles wide and ten miles long. Approaching close enough to see details, Wells started waving his arms shouting, “Stop right here!”
The powerful boat plowed to a stop, rolling in the building waves.
“I feel something here. I need absolute silence.”
What a joke, Benson thought.
Wells put his hands on his head and closed his eyes. His face turned red, his temples throbbed, and it looked like he was about to explode. Finally, he relaxed.
“What’s goin’ on, Bill?” Benson asked. He was having a hard time with this psychic detective bullshit.
“This is it!” Wells shouted over the wind. “I’m sure of it. Carl would you please hustle up to the other end and look for a beach? I believe we’ll find them.”
“Sure,” Benson mumbled to himself rolling his eyes.
They pulled around the leeward side to get some protection from the wind and made a mad dash for the north end. Benson pulled out his video recorder and started shooting.
“Head over there,” Wells said, pointing.
Even from a distance, it was obvious there was an abundance of debris. Carefully picking their way through coral heads, they pulled right up on the sand.
“My God!” Benson exclaimed. “Look, there’s stuff scattered everywhere.” He tried to keep the camera rolling as he jumped over the side. He saw a huge fire-pit that looked like it was smoldering. He dug his hand in the ash and jerked it out when he touched hot coals. There were four graves, two of which were marked JW and HR, carefully inscribed with colored pebbles. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “Guess this psycho shit really works.”
Wells looked at him with a sad face and said, “Jessica Ward and Hank Rogers. . .they didn’t make it.”
“So who’s in the other two?”
“Don’t know, but there’s an evil presence there,” Wells answered. “You’d do well to keep your distance.”
Benson was beginning believe this weirdo. He quickly backed away and started looking through the debris. There was a piece of luggage with a nametag, Christina Matthews. He looked at Wells and asked, “Now that we’ve found the island in question, where the hell are they?”
Jamal came running toward them from down the beach, waving his hat and screaming at the top of his lungs, “Somethin’s weird down there. Tire tracks. Looks like somebody drove a Hummer right up on the beach.”
When Benson worked for the Atlanta Police Department, he had photographed and set tire tracks on numerous crime scenes, but he’d never seen tracks like these. They looked quite odd. Where the veins were normally zigzagged, these were straight. As he walked further up the beach, there was something even weirder. A third track seemed to skip along between the other two. Now he was really going to test the skill of the alleged psychic.
“What do you make of this, Bill?”
“Simple. I thought you were an investigator,” Wells yelled over the wind. “You don’t recognize it?”
“No, never seen one like. . .”
“It’s an airplane. . .landing gear. They started at the top of the beach, lifted the nose there and took off down at the other end. Probably on their way home.”
“Well, I’ll be goddammed! That’s why there’s been no aircraft debris. You’re right, these tracks are fresh,” Benson stated, squatting down with his hand on the sand. “They had to be laid after the rain showers went through no more than two hours ago.”
“They’re gone,” Wells said emphatically. “Let’s take some pictures and gather up anything that looks valuable.”
“Time to get the hell out of here,” Watkins yelled. “I’ll give you five minutes.”
Chapter Twenty
The Piper Saratoga purred like a kitten, blue sky above and pearly white clouds below. Christina was itching with anticipation. My God, just one hour away from a hot shower. Even though she had come to believe the radio gear was inoperable, she decided to try the emergency frequency. She knew it would be dangerous to fly into the busy airspace of Miami International without contacting someone.
She checked to make sure the microphone was plugged into the console, pushed the button and said, “Mayday, Mayday, this is November Two Eight Niner Niner Kilo. Anybody read?”
“November Two Eight Niner Niner Kilo, Miami Center, loud and clear. Are you declaring an emergency?”
She was dumbfounded. Of all the times she had tried the radio on their fateful descent and on the island, she had never heard one word of response. Now, the voice was crystal clear.
“November Two Eight Niner Niner Kilo, this is Miami Center. Do you read?”
“Aren’t you gonna answer?” Billy asked with a puzzled look.
Christina choked as she mumbled to herself, “What did Furgeson say?”
Tell them who you are, where you are, type of aircraft and what you want to do.
She went for it. “Niner Niner Kilo is a Piper Saratoga, 145 miles southeast of Miami in route to Miami International.”
“Niner Niner Kilo, this is an emergency frequency; are you declaring an emergency?”
What an understatement, she thought. “You damn right.”
“Then state the nature of your emergency!” the controller barked impatiently.
“Okay!” she shouted. How can I sum this up? “Let’s see, the pilot of this plane is dead. Got it? D.E. A. D. We’ve been stranded on an island and just had to fly through a thunderstorm to get away from a hurricane! On top of that, I’m trying to fly an airplane I know very little about. Does that qualify for an emergency? Over,” Christina made her case indignantly.
“Niner Niner Kilo, squawk 7700 and ident.”
“Roger.”
Billy followed the instructions, and the transponder flashed showing they were under radar surveillance.
“Niner Niner Kilo, Miami Center, we have radar contact. You’re ninety miles due south of the Freeport VOR. State your altitude and your request.”
“We’re at 12,000, and I’m requesting all the help I can get for landing at Miami. I also request we be met at the airport by the police, customs and the fire department in case I crack this thing up on the runway.”
“Niner Niner Kilo, we need to divert you to another airport. Miami is Class B airspace.”
Christina remembered another of Furgeson’s mini-lectures:
Don’t forget. When you’re in the left seat of that airplane, you’re God. The Pilot-In-Command is legally responsible for the lives of the passengers. Don’t let a traffic controller, or anyone else for that matter, tell you to do something you don’t th
ink is right. You’ve got the responsibility and the authority to do whatever it takes to get your passengers down safely.
Christina bolstered her courage and cleared her throat, “Unughn, I don’t give a shit what you need. You don’t seem to understand. I’m a student pilot with twelve hours total time. I have no IFR experience. I’m going to have to fly through these clouds and land this airplane. I’ve got the GPS programmed for MIA with the autopilot on, and I intend to land straight-in on the longest runway you got.”
“Niner Niner Kilo, Miami Center, read you loud and clear. Miami’s reporting 5,000 feet overcast and ten miles visibility with light winds. We’ll get our traffic rearranged and call your descent. You keep that autopilot on until you break under the deck. May I ask your name?”
“Christina Matthews,” she said with a sense of pride.
“Oh my God, you were on that plane lost in the Bermuda Triangle. You’ve been all over the news for weeks.”
“It’s a long story, but the only remaining survivors, Heather Daniels, William Rogers and myself managed to fly this plane off an island just before the hurricane hit.”
“Roger, Niner Niner Kilo, expect to start your descent seventy miles out. When you break out of the clouds, we will vector you to Runway 27 Left. Do you need us to get someone on the horn familiar with the systems on the Saratoga?”
Christina looked over at Billy with a big smile. “My co-pilot, William Rogers, is familiar with this airplane, but that wouldn’t be a bad idea in case something crops up.”
“Roger, Niner Niner Kilo. Just relax, and we’ll get you down safe and sound.”
“Christina, time to switch tanks,” Billy said.
“Who designed this fucked up fuel system anyway?” Christina complained with a frown as she reached down to switch the lever. “This is a pain in the ass!” She was beginning to feel like they were going to make it. Even if they had a problem on the way in, radio contact assured they would be quickly rescued. The Saratoga was performing flawlessly, and she had already proven they could use the autopilot to help traverse the cloud layer. Her excitement continued to build as she watched the GPS countdown to Miami.
“Niner, Niner Kilo, Miami Center, we’ve got you seventy miles out, start descending at your discretion.”
“Roger, Miami, we’re going down.” She pushed the nose forward, and they were screaming at 175 knots. Forty miles out, Christina started to tense again at the top of the cloud layer. She double-checked the autopilot to make sure it was working.
“Niner Niner Kilo, Miami Center, contact Miami approach on 120.5.”
“Roger,” said Christina. Billy put in the new frequency. “Miami approach, this is Saratoga Two Eight Niner Niner Kilo, descending through 9,000 just above the clouds.”
“Niner Niner Kilo, Miami approach, make sure you leave that autopilot on and give me a call when you brake under the bottoms.”
“Roger that.”
“Guys, tighten up your seat belts. It could get rough again.” Christina looked back at Heather; she looked terrified. They penetrated the cloud deck with a jolt, and visibility went to zero. But the air inside was smooth, and the autopilot continued to track perfectly. She kept forward pressure on the yoke. Staring at the artificial horizon and the vertical speed indicator, she trimmed the nose down for a constant descent rate. After about ten minutes, they broke under the ceiling, and an incredible panorama unfolded right before their eyes. Not only could they see land, but the City of Miami popped out of the horizon only fifteen miles away.
Heather and Billy cheered with excitement.
“Hallelujah!” Heather said. “I can’t wait to sleep in a clean bed.”
“I want a Big Mac with a large order of fries,” Billy said. “Swear to God, I’ll never eat fish again.”
“Damn, that’s a pretty sight,” Christina said calmly. “I could swim that far if I had to.” Out of nowhere, an image of Jessica shot through her mind, and a sharp dagger of pain cramped her stomach. “If only Jessica were here to see this.” Back on the radio she took a deep breath and said, “Miami approach, we’re clear of clouds. I’d like to leave the autopilot on to five miles out, then you can vector me to the runway of your choice.”
“That’s a Roger, Niner Niner Kilo; you’re cleared into Class B. Descend to 2,500 and give me a call when you have the airport in sight. Expect 27 Left.”
At seven miles out, the parallel runways of Miami International came into focus. It was a sight for sore eyes. They were home free now. All Christina had to do was make a simple landing under ideal conditions. She looked at the fuel gauges, and once again started to tense. Both gauges pegged on empty.
Just give me enough for seven more miles, she prayed. “Miami approach, Niner Niner Kilo, airport in sight.”
“Roger, Niner Niner Kilo, contact the tower on 123.9.”
Billy dialed in the new frequency.
“Miami tower, this is Saratoga Two Eight Niner Niner Kilo, airport in sight.”
“Roger, Niner Niner Kilo, turn right to Three Six Zero and descend to 1,200.”
“That’s three-six-zero, down to 1,200.”
She flipped off the autopilot and made the right turn. “William, let’s get the gear down.”
He pulled down the landing gear knob, and the engine started to sputter. Panic grabbed her by the throat, and she gasped with fear. They were still well out over the water with very little altitude.
“Switch tanks, quick!” Billy yelled.
Bending down and switching to the other tank, she felt the engine surge, and it returned to normal. She started breathing again.
“I guess the left tank is dry,” Billy stated the obvious.
“Niner Niner Kilo, turn left to Two Seven Zero. That’ll put you on a straight final for 27 Left. You have a five knot tailwind, but it shouldn’t be a problem. That’s a 10,000 foot runway.”
“Roger, we’re lining up on 27 Left.”
Billy yelled in a frightened voice, “There’s something wrong with the landing gear. Those three lights are supposed to be green. The gear didn’t come down.”
“Shit!” Christina cursed her bad luck. “Just what we needed. What else can go wrong?”
“Miami tower, Niner Niner Kilo. Looks like we have another problem. The gear won’t come down.”
“Niner Niner Kilo, standby one.”
A second voice came through the controller’s mike. It was the calm, cool voice of a female.
“Niner Niner Kilo, hello Christina, my name is Janet, and I fly a Saratoga. Glad to give you a hand. Now tell me, did you pull down the gear knob on the console?”
“Roger that, but we have only one green light of the three. I’m afraid we damaged something in that thunderstorm.”
“Niner Niner Kilo try pulling the gear lever back up, wait a few seconds and put it back down firmly.”
Billy cycled the landing gear control, but the result was the same.
“No go. Only one green,” Christina reported.
“Niner Niner Kilo, there’s a small red knob on the floor between the two front seats. It’s the emergency gear release. Do you see it?”
“Got it!” Billy yelled quickly.
“We see it,” Christina reported.
“Push that knob down hard and hold it down.”
Billy shoved the little knob down hard and noticed two of the three lights flashed, then held a constant green, but the third indicator was still out.
“Left gear’s still hung,” he reported.
“Miami tower, the indicator shows the left wheel still up.”
“Niner Niner Kilo, we suggest you plan to go around in left closed traffic while we work on this.”
“Forget that!” Christina barked back. “We’re running on fumes. I’m gonna put it down, gear or no gear.”
The voice came back and said, “Christina, listen carefully. Let’s see if you can kick that wheel loose. Slow your airspeed to about 90 knots. Have your co-pilot hold down the emergency gear
release and kick each rudder pedal hard, one at a time.”
“We’ll try it.” Christina pulled back power and lifted the nose. When the airspeed hit 90, she told Billy to hold down the release. She stomped on the right rudder pedal as hard as she could. The nose of the Saratoga jumped to the right, but there was no change. She kicked the left rudder even harder, and the plane jerked violently. Suddenly, the third light flashed. It was three green.
