The Diva Crusade (John McRae Book 1)

by Phoenix Ford

  The plane was well into the air and almost immediately started to careen out of control as the pilot slumped over to one side in his seat. Oh my God...what am I going to do?! I don't know how to fly this plane. We're going to crash! John said out loud to himself. Sylvia was obviously unconscious and in the back, and he didn't really know how to fly a plane. His only experience was many years in the past when he was a student at the University of Texas. One of his fraternity brothers had a pilot's license and would sometimes invite John to go flying around Austin and Lake Travis in a tiny two-seater.

  Quickly John grabbed the wheel and pulled back with one hand to gain altitude while he struggled to push the dead pilot away from the controls, all the while the plane veering this way and that, almost completely out of control. So much adrenaline was pumping through John's body that he didn't have an opportunity to be afraid. He quickly climbed into the co-pilot's seat and found the pedals on the floor, though he struggled to recall what little he knew about flying from so many years ago. There was a mind-boggling array of instrumentation, much of it covered in blood and gore. After gaining some altitude he managed to level the plane and experimented with the pedals. He found that they affected the direction of the plane. He steered it back towards the sea, figuring a plane crash in the water would be preferable to land. When he felt the plane was sufficiently stabilized he grabbed a second headset hanging from the dashboard and picked up the microphone.

  "May Day! May Day!," John screamed into the mike. Hearing no response he turned the radio dial to a different frequency. "May Day! May Day!," he screamed. Turning the dial again he screamed "May Day! May Day! Please somebody help me! Please help me!"

  Colin was driving the rental car back into Kyrenia with Charlotte in the passenger seat. The British commandos were taking the contessa and her men back to their military base. One of the men was dead. "Charlotte, please call MI6 to update them. Please give them all the details we just shared with RAF Air Traffic control for Cyprus."

  "Will do," said Charlotte, already ringing MI6 on her encrypted satellite phone. "I pray that John somehow took control of that old plane and knows how to fly it," she said.

  "Well, we'll know soon enough," replied Colin with a grim look. "We might as well wait to hear what happens from the yacht," he said turning towards the marina.

  CHAPTER 42

  "This is RAF Air Traffic Control, Cyprus Command. I repeat this is RAF Air Traffic Control. Come in May Day."

  Thank God! John thought. "Hello! Please help me! I've just shot the pilot of this plane. He kidnapped an MI6 agent and was taking her back to Syria. I don't know how to fly!!!"

  "Calm down, sir. This is RAF Air Traffic Control. We see you on our radar. Please state your name."

  "My name is John McRae....I'm an American....I don't know what I'm doing! Please help me!"

  "This is RAF Air Traffic Control. Please try to be calm. Please tell me your altitude. There should be an altimeter in front of you. Most likely it will have a miniature image of wings and a picture of the horizon. The top half is blue meaning the sky."

  "Yes! It says 2,800."

  "Okay. I want you to pull back on the wheel and take the plane up to 3,000 feet. Can you do that, sir? Over."

  "Yes, I'm doing that now, but I have no idea what all these other instruments are on the dash in front of me."

  "Take a few deep breaths and don't panic. I am with you every step of the way. Have you noticed the pedals on the floor?"

  "Yes, but I don't know what I'm doing!" John could feel his heart beat racing. He took two more deep breaths.

  "Please, Mr. McRae. Do not panic. I will tell you exactly what to do every step of the way. Can you try to trust me?"

  "Yes, I will try," replied John in a shaky voice. "Many years ago I went up in a tiny plane with a friend who had his pilot's license. I believe the pedals are to bank the plane to the left or right. Is that correct?" John could feel his heart beat racing. He took two more deep breaths.

  "Yes, sir. That's correct with respect to the bottom portion of the pedals, but the top portion is the brakes which we won't use yet. Now I want you to bank slowly to the left. I'm going to be guiding you back to an RAF base with an airfield. Yes, that's perfect, I can see you on our radar screen. You are now heading west. Can you still see Cyprus over to your left below?"

  "Yes, but I have no idea how to land this plane!" John exclaimed. Oh my God, I'm going to crash this plane. Sylvia and I are going to die!

  "Mr. McRae, sir! Don't even think about landing. Just stay with my voice and do as I say. Take three deep breaths and calm yourself. We'll have a beer together later to celebrate."

  Yeah, right, John thought.

  "Now I want you to bank a bit more to the left," said the officer at RAF Air Traffic Control. Yes, that's perfect, I can see you on our radar screen. You are now heading southwest. Can you still see Cyprus over to your left?"

  "Yes!"

  "What is your speed, Mr. McRae?"

  "Let's see....oh gee...there are so many controls, and many of them are covered in blood and gore!"

  "The speedometer should be one of the larger ones. We are uncertain what make and model of aircraft you are flying, but the speedometer should be one of the most prominent instruments."

  "There it is!" exclaimed John. "191"

  "Very well. Now can you tell me how much fuel there is?"

  "I'm not sure. I see all sorts of strange instruments, but I'm not sure which one is for fuel." John suddenly felt a surge of panic. Please, God, help me!

  RAF Air Traffic Control could hear the fear in John's voice. "Please, Mr. McRae. Don't panic. Just stay with my voice, and do as I say. You are going to be okay. Can you see the western coast of Cyprus yet?"

  "Yes!," replied John. "I see the coast."

  "Good. Now continue in the same direction. When you are almost on top of us you should be able to see our airfield. You're doing very well."

  Within a few minutes John was over land again. He was looking intently below trying to spot the airfield. "There! I think I see you!"

  "Yes, sir, that's our airfield. I am in that control tower, and now I can see you too. Now, I want you to continue west beyond the coastline. Then we're going to make a wide banking turn to the left and turn back east to fly over the airfield at a lower altitude. This will just be a test fly-over. We aren't ready to land yet."

  After the banking turn John saw that he was rapidly approaching the airfield again.

  "McRae, here. Should I descend or continue at this same altitude?" He tried to sound calm but was actually more terrified than he could ever remember experiencing.

  "RAF Air Traffic Control. Yes, John, please descend to 1,500 feet. Do you know how to reduce your speed?"

  "No!" How can Sylvia and I possibly survive? he thought.

  "Okay. I want you to look for three levers close to each other. Because we don't know what make plane you're flying I don't know which side of the instrumentation panel they're on, but they're probably on your left within easy reach. Over."

  "Yes! I see them," replied John.

  "Excellent. Never mind what this means, but we're pretty sure your plane has mixture control. I want you to very slightly push all three levers downward so that I can confirm that's the right direction for throttle-prop-reduction. Don't worry. If that's the wrong direction the plane will simply go faster instead of slower."

  "Okay, I did it," replied John in a terrified voice. "Yes! The speed has dropped to 174."

  "Very well. You will be ready to get your pilot's license after today!" replied the Air Traffic Control officer, trying to inject a bit of humor to lighten things up.

  "If I live through this I may never board an airplane again!" replied John.

  "RAF Air Traffic Control. Okay, John, now please descend to 1,200 feet, line the nose of the plane up with the longest landing strip and simply fly over it. Do you know how to keep the wings level when you fly over?"

  "Yes," replied John. That'
s maybe one of the few things I remember from so long ago."

  "Good. We're just going to fly over the landing strip at 1,200 feet with the wings level and the nose of the plane lined up with the center of the landing strip."

  "Okay, I can do that," said John with slightly more confidence.

  After the fly-over John let out a sigh of relief. "McRae, here. How was that, officer?"

  "Perfect! Now please continue east for a few minutes. Then we will bank wide to the north which is to your left and swing back around to the west to repeat this same maneuver." The officer didn't mention John would be landing the plane this time. He didn't want him to panic.

  After John circled the plane to fly back to the landing strip he spoke into the microphone: "McRae, here. Okay I'm back in position headed towards the landing strip."

  "RAF Air Traffic Control. Yes, I see you. Is your altitude still at 1,200?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Now descend to 800 feet, and pull those three levers down to reduce your speed to 100 knots."

  After a couple of minutes John said "Done. What next?" His adrenaline was pumping again. Oh my God. Oh my God.

  "We can see that the landing gear and flaps are still down from take-off. That's good, one less thing for you to do."

  My God, I'm going to crash this plane, and we're going to die! John was close to panic.

  "We have a good visual of your plane. Now drop to 400 feet and reduce your speed to 80 knots. Drop to 300 feet, now 200 feet and reduce your speed to 50 knots. Line up the nose of the plane with the center line and drop to 100, now 50, now 20, now 10, now to ground." The plane bounced roughly a couple of times and started to veer off to one side, but John managed to steer it back to the center line with the pedals.

  "Gently push the tops of the pedals down. Gently, gently! Now push them hard!" The old transport plane slowed down near the end of the runway where it shuddered to a stop. "Congratulations, John! You did a fine job!" An ambulance and fire truck drove up to the plane.

  Thank you, thank you, God! John's heart was racing so fast as he slumped over the wheel of the plane in nervous exhaustion. His whole body felt like it was shaking. Sylvia! I must get to Sylvia.

  EPILOGUE

  The next day

  At five o'clock in the afternoon John was lounging in a deck chair on the rear deck of the yacht. He had just sat back down after getting up to put on a light-weight sweater. It was cool, almost chilly, this late in the day. As he looked up he saw Sylvia walking along the pier towards him. He stood up and flashed a broad smile as she boarded the yacht.

  "You can't imagine how happy I am to see you in one piece he said," enveloping her in a bear hug and lifting her off her feet. She laughed delightedly.

  "You are my hero!" replied Sylvia. She kissed him on the cheek as he gently let her go when her feet touched the deck again.

  "Come on, you can do better than that!" he smiled again briefly before planting a firm kiss squarely upon her lips. "I guess you know it's a miracle we are alive! Have a seat over here," said John pointing to another chair close to his at a small table. "I have a bottle of champagne and a bottle of Pelegrino chilled. We're going to celebrate the continuation of our lives!"

  Sylvia laughed. "I can't argue with that. I understand you performed quite a feat with those two Islamic State terrorists, somehow jumping on that plane and then safely landing it. I had no idea you could fly."

  "Neither did I," John smiled, setting the champagne bucket and two flutes on the table. "But fortunately the RAF Air Traffic Control officer did know how to fly and to land. I simply followed his instructions." He popped the cork and poured the bubbly into one flute and the Pelegrino mineral water into another, handing the champagne to Sylvia and raising his flute of mineral water in toast. "Here's to life, to wonderful life!"

  "I'll drink to that!" smiled Sylvia, clinking her flute against John's. "Colin filled me in on how you shot the pilot and took over the plane, but tell me how did you find us? How did you eliminate the other Islamic State man?" She looked at John in bewilderment, taking one of his hands in hers.

  "Well, it's all a blur in my mind. My heart was racing so fast with adrenaline pumping me into action. I really didn't have time to think about anything. For a while I managed to follow their vehicle, but my motorbike couldn't catch up. At that point all I knew was the general direction. I made one wrong turn, but after returning to a fork in the dirt road the other direction proved correct."

  "But you didn't even have a gun!" Sylvia continued to look bewildered.

  When I saw their vehicle by a small building I hid my motorbike and sneaked up behind it. That's when I saw them carrying you to the plane. You appeared to be unconscious, but I didn't really know because they had put a black hood on your head. I could tell your hands were tied behind you. One of them got in the cockpit and started the engines. For some reason the other man hurried back to the small building where I was crouched behind a wide swinging door. I caught him by surprise. I picked up a large rock and slammed it down on his head. I don't know whether he's alive or dead."

  "Dead as a door nail," replied Sylvia. "I'm grateful that you killed him. But that still leaves the other one in the cockpit getting ready to take off."

  "Well, I grabbed the pistol the first one dropped when I slammed the rock on his head. The other guy must have seen what happened because he started revving the engines for take-off. I ran to the plane which was already starting to move. The side cargo door at the rear of the plane was open, and I jumped in just as the plane started picking up speed. I wanted to stop the plane before it could take off, but the pilot fired a couple of shots at me. By the time I managed to crawl up to the front we were already in the air!"

  "I simply shot the pilot in the head!" John said, pausing to take a large gulp of his mineral water.

  "But you said you didn't know how to fly!" Sylvia replied continuing to look bewildered.

  "That's right, I didn't," said John. "But there we were, you unconscious in the back and I in the cockpit. I had to do of something. Somehow I pushed the dead guy back from the controls and jumped into the copilot's seat. The plane was already descending and veering wildly, almost out of control. Many years ago during my university days I had gone flying around Austin, Texas with a friend in a little two-seater. I vaguely remembered him saying you must pull back on the wheel to gain altitude, so that's what I did. It worked, and I got on the radio. By the grace of God the RAF heard me. The Air Traffic Control officer told me everything to do after that."

  "I don't know how you did all that!" Sylvia looked at him in amazement, taking a large gulp of her champagne too. "It's almost unbelieveable."

  "Well, the fact you and I are sitting here alive and pretty much intact is proof that it's all true. I was practically in shock when we landed. An ambulance quickly took you to the infirmary. The Air Traffic Control officer, John somebody, got someone to replace him in the tower and took me to the officer's club where he insisted I drink a shot of whiskey. When I told him I can't consume alcohol he called a doctor who joined us. The doctor gave me a mild sedative. Colin and Charlotte were apparently already at the base, and they joined us. I explained to Colin what happened as best I could. He told me the doctors assured him you would be okay but would be required to stay the night under observation. Those Islamic State fanatics had injected you with some type of knock-out drug. He told me that the contessa and her men except for one who was killed were locked up in the brig." John paused to catch his breath. "So now, it's your turn to tell me what happened." He pulled the champagne bottle from the bucket and refilled Sylvia's flute.

  "Certainly," replied Sylvia. "I was discharged from the infirmary early this morning. After catching up with Colin and Charlotte I visited the contessa in the brig."

  "How did that go?" asked John.

  "I made an offer she couldn't refuse. I told her that if she would use her contacts in Syria to serve as spotters for the Allied bombing raids inside Syria and agree to
cooperate with our efforts we would not prosecute her or the others for the crimes she, her men and the monsignor have committed. However, I required her to sign a written confession that she had requested her men to kill you. It took a while to get her to agree to that part, but after I assured her the confession would be sealed and kept in a safe place so long as she cooperated she finally acquiesced. I made it clear that we had sufficient recorded evidence to send her to prison for a very long time. By the way, it seems that the man killed in the shootout with the commandos was her cousin."

  "But what about that warehouse guard murdered in Paris?" asked John.

  "She claims she gave only general instructions to her cousin for activities in France and says he outsourced all activities there to some other criminal organization. It's not perfect justice, but because her cousin was killed I feel that the final outcome is close enough. She also agreed to forfeit the $400,000 we found in her briefcase to the Hotel Langlois in Paris for repairs due to the bombing of your room. It's clear that her motive to eradicate the Islamic State to protect the Syrian Christians was pure even if her means were not." Sylvia took a sip of her champagne and looked squarely into John's eyes. "Thank you, thank you, my darling, for saving my life."

  John took the flute of champagne out of Sylvia's hand and placed it on the table next to his mineral water. He stood up and pulled her up next to him, wrapping his arms around her. The two of them lost themselves in a long lingering kiss.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Phoenix Ford is a retired American lawyer living in a resort town on the Pacific coast of Mexico. A world traveler, he has been writing since he was six years old in one form or another. He actually finished writing his first novel twenty years ago before the world of self-publishing really took off. Although he found one publisher interested in his book all those years ago it was never published due to a big upheaval in his employment. He plans to retrieve that manuscript from his storage unit in the U.S. in September, 2017, and then self-publish it. Phoenix uses his extensive travels and experiences as a lawyer to create the stories he likes to spin. He hopes you will stay tuned for his future publications!