Steven Havill - Heartshot

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.