Dragged into Darkness

RUNWAY THREE-SEVEN

THE SUNSEEKER

THE LADIES ROOM

PURELY COSMETIC

POLKA DOTS

SPECIAL DELIVERY

THE HOARDER

HUNGRY FOR MORE

IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

ACCEPTABLE LOSSES

THE HEAD

THE SHOWER CURTAIN

FAITH

Excerpt from Simon Wood’s WE ALL FALL DOWN

Excerpt from Simon Wood’s PAYING THE PIPER

It was all going wrong.  A storm wasn’t predicted but the weather was turning nastier by the second.  Puffy white clouds had darkened to
a ditch
water gray and were now turning black.  The light was fading.  Rain was
splatting
the windshield but the propeller smeared the droplets out of the way.  To add insult to injury, the Cessna’s engine had caught a cold.  It coughed on a regular basis and it was obvious it wasn’t going to get Neal back home to Davis.  All in all, for a light aircraft pilot, the situation was as bad as it could get.  He had to get the plane down before circumstances did.

When it came down to it, it didn’t matter how good at flying you were.  It was about how good a pilot you were and that meant remembering the training.  Half of flight training was about how to deal with a situation when it had gone tits up.  Well, it had gone tits up now.  He would have liked to say he was being gosh-darned brave about it all.  But the amount of adrenaline he was producing said otherwise.

Some pleasure flight, he thought bitterly.  Get a grip, Neal.  Remember—training, training, training. 

He
tuned
the RT to Davis’ radio frequency.  It was a long shot.  He was forty miles from the airstrip and their transmitter wasn’t that powerful.

“Davis, this is November two three seven six two, requesting emergency assistance.”

Static.

Neal repeated his message.

He cursed.  The Cessna’s engine fluttered in sympathy.  He checked his P’s and T’s.  Oil pressure was non-existent and the oil temperature was on the rise.  He could almost hear the bearings shredding themselves into fine pieces.  As much as he hated to admit it, he would have to put the plane down anywhere he could.

He re-tuned the RT to the emergency frequency.  Anybody who was anybody would hear him and give him first clearance and any assistance they could.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is November two three seven six two, requesting emergency assistance. 
Engine failure.
 
One person on board.
 
On a northerly heading for Davis.
 
Approximately, forty miles south.”
  He released his thumb off the
transmit
switch on the column.

And waited for his knight in shining armor.

Angry clouds grumbled ahead, less than ten miles by Neal’s estimations.  For a plane of his size he was too close to a possible lightning strike.

It was senseless to continue with his current heading.  Light had been muscled out of the way and only blackness lie ahead.  He checked out the rear screen.  It was marginally better.  But even if he did turn around, where would he go?

“November two three seven six two, this is Stanton.”

“Good to hear from you, Stanton.”  Neal’s relief was apparent.  “Where are you?”

“About ten miles away, from your information.
  Can you give me a fix on any landmarks?”

Neal checked.  He banked the plane twenty degrees to the left then twenty degrees to the right, to get a better look-see.  Usually, the most obvious landmarks were directly beneath.  He spotted a large industrial works.  He referred to his northern California chart on the seat next to him. 

“Willard Oil is directly beneath me.”

Stanton didn’t reply for a moment. 
Too long a moment for Neal.
  “November two three seven six two, change to a heading of zero-three-zero.  You are cleared for a straight in approach on Runway three-seven, left.”

Neal didn’t understand.

“Stanton, confirm runway?”

“Runway three-seven, left.”

It had to be a joke.  Runway three-seven didn’t exist.  Runways ran from zero-one through three-six.  They were numbered after the degrees on a circle.  North was three hundred and sixty degrees, hence runway three-six.  There wasn’t anything after three-six.  It became zero-one.  He hoped to Christ that it wasn’t some asshole with an RT on a power trip.

Whether it was some joker or not, he turned onto heading zero-three-zero.
  With his choices limited, it didn’t matter where he came down now as long as he did in one piece.  Any place was as good as another.  Northern California was full of empty fields, he would settle for any if it came to it.

He whisked out his chart again.  He scanned for Stanton.  It wasn’t there.  Davis, Sacramento and Stockton were there and a number of others, but no Stanton.  His mouth soured.  What kind of psycho hands out bogus information to desperate pilots?

“November two three seven six two, confirm you are on a heading of zero-three-zero.”

“Zero-three-zero, Stanton.”

“Thought we lost you for a moment.”

“No such luck,” Neal said with a hollow laugh. 
“Couldn’t find you on my charts.”

“You wouldn’t.”

The frank honesty frightened him.  He wanted to ask why, but his vocal chords betrayed him
.  However, the
air traffic controller supplied the answer.

“We’re not licensed yet.  But I didn’t think you would care.”

“Not at all, Stanton.”
 

“We’ll chat when you arrive.”

“And
it’s
runway three-seven, correct?”

“Correct.  You can’t miss us.  We’ll have the Christmas lights on for
ya
.  Can you make it?”

“With bells on.”

Neal should have been rejoicing but sweat continued to form on his forehead and under his arms.  He didn’t have that warm fuzzy feeling telling him everything was going to be A-okay.  Runway three-seven did that.  Stanton might not have been on his chart because they were seeking a FAA license but runway three-seven gave them credentials built on foundations of bullshit.

Now rain was
splatting
off the cockpit.  Each strike made a rat-a-tat-tat like bullets strafing the fuselage.  More throttle had to be applied to maintain engine revs.  The engine only had to last another ten minutes and he would discover the truth about Stanton.

***

Neal estimated he would be overhead Stanton in seven minutes but the wind had other ideas.  It tossed him like a salad.  He could feel the wind lean on the plane, slowing its speed then releasing its grip only to slap him down again.  The clouds got in on the act and bore down, buffeting the Cessna further.  Neal had to drop three hundred feet to gain some control and let his aircraft know who was boss.

To Stanton’s credit, they kept in touch, which was comforting.  He had a friend with him every step of the way.  The only problem was finding Stanton.  The storm had taken all light and when Neal stared out for a visual fix, all he got was gray-washed fields.

“How are we doing, November two three seven six two?”

“Looking for a visual on the runway.”

“We have the lights on.  Descend to one thousand feet.  We should be able to see you.  Maintain your heading.”

“
Willco
.”
  Neal did as he was told.

He started to fear that he had overshot Stanton for uncharted territory.  But he had other problems to worry about.  His direction indicator and artificial horizon whirled like spinning tops.  With the weather so bad, he had to rely on instruments.  With his instruments gone, what could he rely on now?

“November two three seven six two, we see you.  It’s good to see you my friend,” the air traffic controller said.

The warm reception gave a welcome respite from Neal’s fear, but only briefly.  He looked out below and saw no runway, no lights, no nothing.  He was flying blind in every sense of the word.

“I don’t see a thing, Stanton.  And I’ve lost instruments.”  His voice showed renewed panic.

“You’re directly above.  We’ll talk you down.  Get on a heading of zero-nine-zero.”