Steven Havill: Heartshot

“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.”

“Sounds good.”

“Do you know how to turn the autopilot off?”

“Affirmative.”

“Look at the instrument if you would and tell me what make it is.”

“It says ‘Four hundred B Navomatic’ on it.”

“Bingo. Good deal. All right, we’re going to use that little gadget to do all the flying…even the turn. First, look at the autopilot and see if there’s a little toggle switch that says something like ALT. It should be on the right side.”

“Ten-four. It’s the bottom one of three switches.”

“Forget the others. Don’t get creative on me. Turn the ALT switch to on.”

“Ten-four. It’s on. Now what?”

“Now the autopilot is maintaining your altitude for you. Makes life easier. Now, just do what I tell you. And remember this. Most folks make mistakes with airplanes because they try to use brute force. Be gentle. Do everything in tiny amounts, and smoothly. All right? If I think you really need to horse something, I’ll say so, and then use some muscle. Otherwise, fingertip time. You understand me?”

“Affirmative. The old beautiful-woman trick.”

“Now you got it. Tweak her gently, son. And by the way, you got any stick time at all?”

“Meaning what?”

“You ever flown? Ever grabbed the wheel?”

“Nope.”

“Well, good. No bad habits, son.” I glanced over at him when he said that. By God, there was more gray hair over there than on my head. The white mane was visible even at fifty yards. He talked me through the turn…it was no more complicated than turning a small knob and turning it back. The Centurion and my escort banked gently and the compass rotated. It wasn’t much of a course correction.

“Mike Bravo…the hell with that. What’s your name, sir?”

“Bill Gastner.”

“Bill, you’re talkin’ to Everett Wheeler. You ever need prize-registered beef, you look me up in the Animas phone directory.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Here’s what we need to do, Bill. We need to get that white bullet slowed down. I mean, we got us two planes here that are faster’n a spotted dog caught under a red truck. You can’t land at a hundred fifty.”

“I knew there was a catch somewhere.”

The remains of a chuckle came across when Wheeler keyed the mike. “Now, your man Bergin is going to be talkin’ to you in about twenty minutes. By that time, you’re going to be a pilot, Bill. And we’re going to cut through all the bullshit and only talk about the good stuff. Everything working in that airplane?”

“As far as I know. Everything except the pressurization.”

“Last thing we need. You’re set fat as a feedlot calf. Now tell me…you’re sitting there hands and feet off everything, right?”

“Right.”

“All right. Don’t do anything until I finish the entire sequence. You got that? Don’t do a damn thing until I say so. What you’re going to do is this. There’s three pull handles dead center in the dash, under the radios. I don’t remember what color they are in a Centurion, but it don’t matter. We’re going to get rid of two of them, and you’re not going to have to worry about them again. Fair enough?”

“All right.”

“The one on the right. Right, Bill. You right-handed?”

“Affirmative.”

“Right. Repeat that.”

“Right.”

“Wave your right hand at me through the window.” I did so. “Good. Right. Push that one in so you only have about the width of your index finger.”

I looked at the three knobs. The one on the right was red, and beside it, in vertical letters, it said “Mixture.” “You want me to push in the mixture knob,” I said.

“Affirmative. By God, the boy can read.”

I pushed the knob in. There was no change that I could detect. “Done.”

“Big fizz, right? We’re just going to work our way across. The next one, the one in the middle, is propeller pitch, but you don’t need to know that. Just bang that one all the way in. You’ll hear a change in engine RPM. Just ignore it.”

“Now?”

“Now.” I pushed in the black knob. The engine pitch stepped up slightly. “All right. The autopilot is making any compensation that needs to be made. Just let it work. Time for the left knob. Don’t touch it.”

“Throttle, you mean.”

“That’s right. Let me tell you what we’re aiming for. We want eighty when you touch down. That’s a good speed. And let me tell you something else.” I got the impression old Everett Wheeler was enjoying the hell out of my predicament and his chance to be the rescuing angel. “When you fly at eighty, the nose has to be a lot higher than what it is now. That make sense?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You’ve seen planes land. Ever notice they got their snouts way up in the air?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s a reason for it and we don’t need to go into it here. Just take my word for it and don’t panic when the nose comes up. All right?”

“Ten-four.”

“To see how slick that autopilot works, here’s what I want you to do. Forget any damn gauge except the one for airspeed. Find that one.”

“Got it.”

“Now. Slowly. Slowly, did I say slowly? Slowly pull the throttle back just a mite at a time, until you got a hundred on the airspeed. Slowly, now.”

I wheedled out the throttle. Eventually I heard an RPM change, and equally slowly, the nose of the airplane lifted. “This is easy,” I said without keying the mike. One fifty dropped away to one forty, to one thirty, to one twenty, and finally down to approximately a hundred. I took my sweaty hand off the throttle and let the plane plow along with its nose aimed at the clouds many thousands of feet above us.