Heartshot (19 page)
I shook my head slowly, no longer really caring what Sprague had to say.
“Barrie decided it would be cute to use the old Consolidated Mine. The security guard there, as you no doubt already know, is something less than bright, and was thoroughly enjoying some extra income. The last flight, we came in right at dusk. That’s a tricky time, as you are probably well aware. Barrie was on the ground, and took the handoff. I suppose the Salinger boy saw the radio-controlled plane, or heard it, and drove down the road to see it. For whatever reason, Barrie was not able to just ignore his audience. He caught the fence coming in and crashed the plane. Salinger, being the helpful soul that he was, rendered assistance and saw the wrong things. So Barrie shot him. You know the rest.”
He looked at me and frowned. “Or at least, if you don’t, it doesn’t matter, does it?”
I wanted to swear at Sprague, or punch him, or something. But I was gelatin. “You’re too persistent, Sheriff,” Sprague said. “Reyes, I don’t worry about. She jumps when you tell her to jump. And that idiot Holman is just that. Your illness is convenient, however. I’m sure it will be another jolt to our little town to have another funeral so soon. But believe me, the jolts haven’t even started, Sheriff. They haven’t even started.”
I tried several deep breaths, and even that was too much effort. The giant vise was again constricting my chest. Sprague’s voice was soothing.
“Sixteen thousand feet, Sheriff. That’s quite an accomplishment for a man as sick as yourself.”
Sixteen thousand? A little clear space formed in my muddled skull. I knew I had to act now. There was no more time, no more air. And maybe I had waited too long.
Sprague reached forward and fingered a small switch. The airplane bumped slightly as the autopilot disengaged. Sprague’s hand was on the yoke, and he pulled back gently. The aircraft’s nose lifted a little more until we were climbing steeply.
“There’s no point in prolonging your agony, Sheriff. It should be quite peaceful up a little higher.”
The urge for self-preservation did wonders. “There will come a time when you won’t be able to lift a finger,” my son had said. I remembered his exact words. I turned toward the window, willing every particle of effort to my right hand. It moved, but agonizingly slowly. The stubby-barreled Magnum was covered by the loose tail of my sport shirt. I could hardly feel the butt, but my fingers closed automatically and my thumb pushed the holster snap. I drew the revolver clumsily. Sprague watched me, and smiled.
“Incredible,” he said.
“Down,” I mumbled. “Take it down.”
He shook his head, unperturbed. “It would be almost comical if you shot me, Sheriff. This airplane will do almost anything, but it does require a pilot.” He grinned, and reached down to spin a big wheel low down in the center console. My peripheral vision was long gone, and the black walls of the tunnel grew narrow. I wondered if he had thought that all the other deaths were comical. He was looking down at the short barrel, no doubt wondering what small flick of the wrist was necessary to twist the gun from my grip with minimal danger to himself. I didn’t have the strength to squeeze the trigger. But at two feet, the bull’s-eye was a big one. I didn’t need to squeeze. I concentrated on my right index finger, and jerked the trigger. The explosion of the .357 Magnum inside the confines of the airplane was so violent that my vision cleared for a short moment.
Harlan Sprague rose up tall in his seat, mouth wide open. His hands flew off the control yoke and fluttered wildly in the air even as his body sagged forward. His eyes were open and staring as his head slammed down, cracking against the yoke. The Cessna’s nose jarred down in response to the weight on the controls. Sprague’s arms hung straight down, hands almost touching the floor.
I didn’t have any time to congratulate myself. My own tunnel vision narrowed, and the light at the end gradually flickered to gray.
Either machine guns or static on the radio jarred me to a form of agonizing consciousness and washed away the gray. My head was ready to split, with pain lancing down between my eyes so savagely my cheek-bones ached. I groaned and tried to move stiff joints. And then I remembered where I was and came fully conscious with a jerk that damn near threw my back out of joint. All the pain suddenly became a source of wonder mixed with relief.
The Centurion was thundering through the blue skies with its left wing slightly low and the nose just barely dipping below the horizon. I could breathe almost comfortably. I rubbed my face and looked over at Harlan Sprague. Blood ran from his nose and mouth. The puddle between his feet was enormous. And then I really woke up. “Son of a bitch,” I said aloud. And then added, “Jesus H. Christ.” I hated airplanes. I knew nothing about them. The hundred or so dials and switches on the Centurion’s dashboard looked me fair in the eye and dared me.
“Shit,” I said. It would have been easier to remain unconscious. “Use your head, Gastner,” I said, and I leaned over toward Sprague and looked at the controls. The autopilot switch was pretty obvious, and even I could see the “Off” and “On” designations. I unfastened the harness that held me and then gently pulled on Sprague. I was weak as a kitten, but I was ahead of the rigor, and I managed to pull him back until the controls were free. The Centurion immediately lifted its nose.
“Shit,” I muttered. I yanked Sprague’s shoulder harness tight across his bloody shirt and ignored the airplane until I was sure the corpse was going to stay put. Then I pushed on the yoke, and was pleased to see the nose drop. I knew that pilots turned the yoke to make the wings flip-flop, and I experimented. With the plane at what I thought was level, I snapped the autopilot switch to “On.” The wings stayed level. I released the yoke. The nose lifted.
“Well, son of a bitch, how the hell do you keep this thing down!” I shouted. “What the hell good is an autopilot if it doesn’t work?” I sat for a minute with my hand pushing on the yoke. With a little work, I could manage to keep the Centurion on a mild porpoise through the skies. My head still pounded, but it felt good to be in one piece, if only for a little while. I searched and finally found the little things that had to be fuel gauges. There was plenty. The airspeed indicator was simple enough. It told me that I was going about 150 miles an hour…to where, I had no idea. The damn altimeter was something else. It had three hands. I squinted, then gave up. What did it matter? I could breathe, and wasn’t in any danger of hitting trees. I guessed something on the order of eight to ten thousand feet, and what I could figure out from the altimeter agreed.
I looked down. The terrain was an even, scrub-dotted adobe. I leaned forward and looked at the compass. The needle was pasted just off south at 176 degrees. With my luck, I would be south of the border. If that was the case, I’d be seeing the bleak inside of a Mexican prison for the next thousand years if I pulled off a landing. It’d be tough explaining the corpse. The Centurion had spiraled down from probably close to seventeen thousand feet, and I had no idea how much air space that took. “Why not north?” I said. Tentatively, I tried turning the yoke to the left. I felt resistance and remember the autopilot. My hand hesitated, but I took the plunge. I snapped off the autopilot switch. Holding my breath, I moved the yoke about a thousandth of an inch. Sure enough, the Centurion turned ever so slightly. “My kind of turn,” I said, and then to Sprague’s quiet form, “Too bad you can’t see this, you miserable bastard.” I glanced at the compass. I had 172. “More, Gastner,” I said. I was too eager. As I turned the yoke, still pushing forward against the plane’s tendency to climb, the left wing dropped smoothly. I overcorrected like an old lady on icy pavement. The Centurion bellowed up and to the right, and I cussed a blue streak. “Go left, you son of a bitch,” I said, and wrenched the yoke. The Centurion hauled around toward the north. I fought the airplane for four or five minutes, until I was wet with sweat and my heart was banging a tattoo against my ribs. But I won. I snapped on the autopilot, tried to maintain a constant pressure against the yoke, and looked at the compass. The needle settled on a couple of clicks off north.
I sat very still, letting my system settle down. The vertical speed caught my eye. I was still climbing, and I put more pressure on the yoke. “He didn’t do this,” I muttered. I looked long enough and eventually saw the label that said something about trim. It was a big wheel on the left side of the center console. I looked at it for a while before I touched it. It was marked so that even an aeronautical idiot like me had a chance…“Up” and “Down” nose trim. “Down,” I said. I turned the big wheel a little. Not much happened. I turned it some more and almost immediately felt the yoke relax away from my push. I grinned. After several minutes of fussing and experimentation, and with the cooperation of smooth, clear skies and the autopilot, I achieved level flight to the north. I figured out the altimeter and settled for the 9,500 feet that it indicated.
I had no idea where I was, but every flash of the prop had to be taking me closer to friendly skies. I decided to wait. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. I had an airplane humping along at 150 miles an hour a safe distance above the ground, under the intelligent command of diodes and transistors. There was nothing to lose by waiting. At worst, I’d end up in Montana. I knew radios, and when I called someone, I didn’t want them coming back at me with frijoles and enchiladas.
I needed to listen to the radio traffic, though. It would help keep my mind off the hollow feeling just behind my breastbone and the pain that had settled into a hard ache from left shoulder to fingertips. The only headset I could see was the one on Sprague. I reached across and pulled it loose, grimacing at the blood that came with it. I wiped off the headset on the edge of the seat and slipped the unit on. There was silence. I looked at the radios. The frequency was digital, and I saw, just above the sets, a switch that said “Com-1” and “Com-2.” The top radio was showing 123.6, the other 125.1. The switch said 123.6 was on the air. If that was the case, no one was saying much. I turned the volume up until I heard hissing, and then turned the squelch up to the bark and back. I set the knob at half volume and sat back to wait.
When the voice came, it startled me so badly I jumped. “Great airline pilot,” I muttered, and then listened carefully. They talked on the radio with more marbles in their mouths than cops did, but at least it wasn’t in Spanish.
“Piper seven niner niner kilo, winds two-five-zero at five, altimeter three-zero-point-six. Traffic is a Cub on downwind for two-six and a Bonanza ten east, inbound.”
“Roger, Douglas. We’re number two for two-six behind the Cub.”
Douglas? The only Douglas I knew was Douglas-Bisbee. My heart skipped a beat with relief—and probably literally, too. I waited another couple of seconds, then reached over and pushed the yoke switch.
“This is Mike Bravo one-seven-eight. Who have I got?”
There was no response, and I repeated the broadcast. This time, the reply was immediate.
“Mike Bravo one-seven-eight, Douglas-Bisbee on one-twenty-three-six.”
“Douglas-Bisbee, I need to know where the hell I am,” I said, not adding that I needed a good deal more than just location.
“Mike Bravo one-seven-eight, are you transponder-equipped?”
“Whatever that is,” I said. “Douglas-Bisbee, I’m not a pilot. The aircraft is currently on autopilot, heading just off north. About zero-one-zero. The pilot is, ah, incapacitated.”
There was a stony silence. “Mike Bravo, say altitude.”
“About nine thousand.”
“Mike Bravo, say airspeed?” He sounded a little skeptical. Maybe it would have helped if I had babbled and screamed, but actually I felt quite proud of myself. I would have felt completely successful if Sprague had been alive and cuffed up in the back, but he had made that decision himself.
“About a hundred fifty.”
“Make of aircraft, Mike Bravo.”
“Cessna Centurion. I think it’s a T-two ten.”
“Do you know your fuel situation?”
“Three-quarters, at least.”
“Mike Bravo, we need to pick you up on radar. Do you feel secure enough to make turns?”
“Negative. I chased this thing all over the sky to get my present heading. It’s flying straight and level now, and that’s the way I want it to stay.”
This time there was a little humor in the voice. “I bet. Mike Bravo, look just below the radios on the instrument panel. There should be an instrument there with four little digit windows and a small switch on the left side that says something like ‘Off-Standby-on-Test’ or close thereto.”
“Affirmative.”
“All right, Mike Bravo, that’s the transponder. Is it on?”
“Negative. Now it is.”
“What frequency shows in the windows?”
“One-two-zero-zero.”
“All right. The small knobs or buttons under each window set the frequency. Give me seven-seven-zero-zero.”
I clicked the numbers up. “Did I win?”
“Mike Bravo, you’re four-seven miles southeast of the field. We’ll want you to navigate straight in. We’ll clear traffic.”
“Just a minute.” I sat back and stared out the window. After a moment’s thought, I reached into my travel bag and shook out a couple of my pills. The altimeter said nine thousand feet. I would feel better lower, but I wanted lots of spread between the plane’s aluminum belly and the trees and rocks below.
Someone else came on the radio, and my friend sent him to another channel.
“Douglas, things are pretty stable. What heading would I have to fly for Posadas Municipal Airport, New Mexico?”
“Mike Bravo one-seven-eight, that’s a heading of zero-six-zero. Approximately one hundred miles from your current position, but I can’t recommend that. In fact, we are requesting that you follow our instructions for an emergency landing at Douglas. We can talk you down, no problem.”
“That’s all right. I appreciate the offer, but I’m going to take Posadas.”
“Ah, Mike Bravo, we show you as originally filed out of Posadas for Tucson, and then Nogales. Pilot-in-command is listed as Harlan Sprague, Jr.”
“Affirmative. Not anymore.” It hadn’t taken them long to double-check the aircraft number.
“Mike Bravo, if you are not a pilot, we request that you declare an emergency and use this field. We have someone here current on the Centurion who can talk you down. No problem.”
I’m sure you do, I thought. “Negative, Douglas. I’m going to Posadas unless you’ve got missiles down there you intend to use. How long can you keep me on your radar?”
“At your altitude, most of the way.”
“Then do that. And call Posadas Municipal Airport and tell the FBO there I’m inbound. The man’s name is James Bergin. What frequency will I use to talk to him?”
“Mike Bravo, tune your top radio to one-twenty-one-five and monitor. Can you do that?”
“Yes. Radios, I’m good at.”
“That’s the emergency frequency. You’ll have all the help you need. We’ll be talking to you on that frequency. Tune the second radio—it’s probably marked Com-two—to one-twenty-two-eight. That’s Posadas, and you can go back and forth between us and them with a flick of the switch up above. Please make that frequency change now.”
“Affirmative.”
I fiddled with the little push buttons and the correct digits popped on the little screen.
“Mike Bravo, how do you read?”
“Loud and clear,” I said.
“Mike Bravo, I would recommend that if possible, you climb and maintain ten thousand. You have some mountain peaks between you and Posadas, and we’ll be able to hear you better. We have a pilot here with us who can talk you through that procedure.”
“Ah, Douglas, I have a problem with climbing any more. I can’t take the altitude.” I knew that another thousand feet probably wouldn’t make much difference, but I wasn’t about to gamble again. The only reason I was still alive was that I had spent twenty years adjusting my system to mile-high climates. I didn’t want to increase the point spread.
“Say again, Mike Bravo?”
“This plane is not pressurized. I don’t want to go any higher.” Hell, tell them, I thought. “I’m a heart patient. I’ve already gone through one bout of hypoxia. I don’t want another.”
If the controller was surprised at that, he kept it to himself. All I got was the calm, generic reply, “Roger, Mike Bravo.” If I could stay as unflustered as my man on the ground, I’d have it made. Ten seconds of silence followed, and then Douglas-Bisbee said, “Ah, Mike Bravo, we have another aircraft in the area. He’s familiar with your two-ten, and he’s volunteered to intercept you and fly escort. He should be able to give you any assistance you need. Two-two-one Whiskey Charlie is a Beech Bonanza, and he should be off your right wingtip in another couple of minutes.” Even before he finished, I turned and saw the plane a mile or so out and closing. It was single-engined and V-tailed. The pilot sidled the plane to within fifty yards, keeping pace beautifully with my autopilot…and just far enough away that he didn’t make me nervous. He lifted a hand in salute.
“Mike Bravo, how’s it going?”
“Swell,” I said. “As long as I don’t touch anything, this thing flies just fine.”
“It’s a bitch, ain’t it?” The voice chuckled, and I liked Whiskey Charlie immediately. “You sound like you have a pretty good handle on things over there.”
“Until I run out of gas, I’m fine,” I said.
“Well, you’re to be commended for keeping your head bolted on straight. As you can see, that airplane flies itself real well. You got gas, I got gas, and we got wonderful weather. Is there any chance the pilot will be able to assist you?”
I glanced at Sprague. “Negative. He’s dead.”
There was silence for a few seconds. “You’re all right, though?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Let’s get to work, then. About the change in altitude. That’s not necessary as long as you don’t dink with anything. I read you at about eight thousand seven hundred right now. We’ll just stick with that. If you need to climb, we’ll worry about that when the time comes.”