Steven Havill - Heartshot

“She’ll fly like that all day, Bill.”

“I believe it. I can feel the controls working, though.”

“Course you can. A fast airplane flies like water-logged shit at slow speeds. Not enough air going over control surfaces. Now, we can have some fun, Bill.” He said that and my palms sprung more leaks. “To the left of the throttle is a funny-lookin’ knob that looks like a little black tire.”

“The landing-gear selector, you mean.”

“Damn, I’m bein’ hustled. That’s the one. Push it to “Down” and tell me if you got a green light.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“We’re nowhere near Posadas, are we?”

“Who gives a damn. Do it anyways.”

I did, and all sorts of thuds and aircraft motion ensued. “Shit,” I muttered, and then the plane settled down. Out the window, I saw the right main gear hinge into place.

“You got three. By God, you do good work, Bill. Still pegged at a hundred?”

I looked at the airspeed and my heart skipped a beat. “No. Below that.”

“Right. You got some drag now. And the nose is a little higher. But look at that altitude.” I did so. “Right where it started, ain’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Now let’s go for the rest of the show.” I didn’t have time to protest. “To the right of the throttle, prop, and mixture knobs is a funny-lookin’ thing that’s supposed to look like the trailing edge of a wing. The flap selector.”

“I see it.”

“Push it down to the first notch.”

I did so and Centurion humped like someone had kicked it in the belly. “Altitude ain’t changed none, has it?” Everett asked, and didn’t wait for an answer. “Now the nose did a little, but who the hell cares if you ain’t goin’ down? Right?”

“I suppose.”

“One more click down. We want twenty degrees of flaps.”

“One more notch?”

“Right.”

“Now?”

“Now.” I did, and felt out of control. “Bill, you’re doin’ good. You ain’t dropped an inch…and who the hell cares what the nose is doin’ if you ain’t goin’ down. I said that before. Now, back on that throttle. I want exactly eighty on that airspeed. Not seventy-nine. Not eight-one. Give me the big eight-zero. So do it slowly, boy.”

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until around eighty-four. At that point, I had to take my hand off the throttle and relax back, sucking air. “A little more,” Everett prompted, and like a chastised pupil, I went back at it. Eventually, I had eighty. I have visions of the Centurion looking like a big white duck about to splat into a pond. Its nose was high, flaps hanging down, feet groping for the ground. “Ain’t she pretty?” Everett said, and I tried to relax. “Just sit back and watch,” he coached. “That’s what she’s going to be like comin’ in over the end of the runway at Posadas. When you pass over the end, what do you think you’re going to do?”

“I don’t think I’ll be alive for that,” I said, only half-kidding. “Pray a lot, if I am.”

“That too. But think throttle. Just ease back on the throttle. And did you ever drive a go-cart? Something that steers with pedals?”

“Sure.”

“That’s how an airplane steers on the ground. Those two big pedals on the floor. And be gentle. No big movements. Now, put your feet on the rudder pedals.”

“All right.”

“Now, don’t push the pedals. The tops of the pedals are the brakes. Tip your toes and push the brakes. Both at the same time. Feel them? That’s the tricky part. Brakin’ without putting differential pressure on the steering. Just kind of bear that in mind. You don’t want to see-saw the pedals. Go easy. Better to coast off the end than go cartwheelin’, my boy.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“You ready for a little test?”

“No.”

“We’ll do it anyway. You see the Off-On button on the autopilot?”

“Yes.”

“That autopilot has the airplane all trimmed for you. I want you to put your hands on the yoke and feet on the pedals. When you’re set, I want you to reach over with your left hand and snap off the autopilot. And then, try for as little control input as you can. If the nose starts to drop, gentle back. Nose up, gentle forward. Right wing drops, left, and so on. When I tell you to turn the auto on, do it. Right? Go ahead.”

I looked at that Off-On switch for a while, then reached over and snapped it off. The Centurion continued as smooth as silk for about ten seconds, then the left wing began to drop. I turned the yoke and then found myself sawing back and forth. “Auto on,” Everett barked in my ear. I did and the electronic brain took over.

“Good work,” Everett said, but I didn’t share his enthusiasm. “You didn’t believe me when I said ‘gentle,’ did you? You got to be gentle. Let’s go back up to speed. Just do things in reverse order. Flaps, gear, then throttle. Autopilot is on, so let it do all the work. Go ahead.”

This isn’t going to work, I thought as I went through the sequence. Soon enough, we worked back to 150, but we were also a nice, safe half mile above the ground. I thought about the rocky approach to Posadas, over the low mesa top. And then I glanced over at Harlan Sprague’s corpse. “You aren’t going to win,” I said aloud to my silent passenger. I keyed the mike.

“Let’s try it again, Everett.”

I didn’t have long to dwell on any misgivings. In what seemed like only a handful of minutes, I recognized Animas Peak ahead and to the right. Then we started down. It was as easy as punching off the “Altitude Hold” button on the autopilot and retarding the throttle. This time, as Wheeler joyfully pointed out, airspeed remained constant and altitude changed.

“Give me a car anytime,” I said after we had descended to an even eight thousand feet on the altimeter.

“You just stick with me,” Everett Wheeler said, and then Jim Bergin’s voice interrupted us.

“Gastner, this is Posadas Unicom. How do you read?”

“Loud, clear, and nervous,” I said.

“He’s doin’ fine,” Wheeler cheered. “Two-two-one this is Whiskey Charlie on escort. We’re at eight thousand, twenty-five southwest. Winds permitting, he’ll be straight in for six.”

“Roger, Whiskey Charlie. Winds are light and variable. Take six. There’s a lot of room at the end for overrun. Make sure he doesn’t come in low. The mesa edge is about one hundred yards before the runway threshold.”

“Roger, Posadas. Bill, you ignore all that and just do what I tell you. Right now, go through the procedure for slow flight. Autopilot on, altitude hold on, throttle to a hundred, gear, flaps, throttle back to eighty. Got that?”

“Ten-four.”

“All right. Now, I just want you loafing along, with the autopilot doing all the work. Don’t get fancy and decide to do something on your own. Go for it, son.”

I ran through the procedure more quickly and expelled a loud breath as the plane once more settled at eighty and held altitude. “I need to go down and take a quick look at this airport, Bill. I’m going to buzz ’em and be right back. You all don’t go anywhere, you hear?”

The Bonanza peeled off just as they do in war movies. “Bill, is there anything I can do for you?” It was Bergin.

“Get Estelle Reyes out there.”

“She’s already here. So is Sheriff Holman and a couple guys who look like feds. And some spectators.”

“You ought to be charging admission. Put Detective Reyes on.” There was a moment of silence.

“Reyes here.”

“Estelle, I’ve got a tape that I hope caught my conversation with Harlan Sprague before our little, ah, altercation. I’m going to leave it in the machine, in my flight bag, for protection. It’s right in front of my seat. Make goddamn sure that you get it if something happens during the landing.”