Nelson Demille - The Quest

“How do you know you can make it to a border before the Ethiopian Air Force shoots us down?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then land . In Shoan. How far is it?”

“Maybe… twenty or thirty minutes.”

She pointed out, “Colonel Gann is there. Waiting for us. The black monastery is down there, also waiting for us.”

Purcell thought about that. Vivian was crossing the thin line between bravery and insanity-or obsession at best. But she made good arguments.

He was about three thousand feet above the ground and climbing. Airspeed was a hundred miles per hour in the climb, but he could get a hundred fifty in a descent. He banked right and the Navion began turning south.

Mercado asked, “What are you doing?”

“We are landing in Shoan, Henry.” To be completely honest, he added, “Or we will die trying.”

“No!”

Vivian turned in her seat. “Yes!”

Vivian and Henry looked at each other for several seconds, and Purcell could imagine Vivian’s green eyes staring into Henry’s soul.

He heard Henry say, “Yes… all right.” He added, “We have come a long way to find the Grail, and we are too close to turn back.”

Vivian reached out and touched Henry’s face, then turned in her seat and stared out the windshield as the Navion picked up a southwesterly heading toward Shoan and began descending.

She turned her head toward Purcell and looked at him until he looked at her. She said softly, “I love you.”

“You love anyone who gives you your way.”

She smiled. “What is best for me, is best for us.”

He didn’t reply.

They continued their rapid descent and Purcell said, “Shoan, about ten minutes.” He added, “I will attempt a landing.”

Vivian said, “That’s all I ask of you.” She let him know, “You can do it.”

“We are about to find out.”

He cut his power and began a gradual descent toward the village, which was now visible in the distance.

If he let his imagination go, and if he excluded the surrounding jungle, the fields of Shoan could be upstate New York where he first learned to fly as a young man. His mother had said flying was dangerous and urged him to pursue something safer, like writing.

“I am glad to see you smiling.”

“I used to write for my high school newspaper and the hometown weekly. I majored in journalism in college. My mother wanted me to have a safe job.”

She smiled and said, “I’ve read only one article that you wrote. Are you any good?”

“My mother thinks so.”

“I lost my parents when I was twelve. A plane crash.”

“Sorry.”

“Maybe I should have picked a better moment to say that.”

Purcell didn’t know how many moments they actually had left, but he said, “We have a lot to tell each other in Rome.”

She unpinned the Saint Christopher medal from the fabric over the windshield and stuck it on his shirt. “Christopher saved a child from a river, and though he was a big and strong man, the surprising weight of the small child almost made him stumble and fall into the raging water, but he would not let go of the child-and when they reached safety, the child revealed to him that he was Jesus who carried the weight of the world.”

“I know the feeling.”

He eased the throttle back and continued their descent.

Purcell looked for an open pasture among the hundreds of acres of orchards and planted fields. He thought he needed about a thousand feet of unobstructed, mostly level terrain, but stone and wooden fences separated many of the fields, and trees grew in most of the pastures.

Purcell wanted to do a wheels-down landing, but if the ground was too wet, rocky, or potholed, he might have to do a belly landing, though he had the rocket pod to contend with.

Most importantly, he had too much fuel on board-about half a tank-and he couldn’t risk staying in the air to burn it off. He instructed Vivian and Henry to clear the aircraft quickly after it came to a stop.

He circled around the periphery of the fields, and he could see a few people near the village looking up at him. Hopefully, Gann was one of them.

Vivian asked, “Do you see a place to land?”

“Only one. That pasture ahead.”

Mercado asked, “Is that long enough?”

“I’ll make it long enough.”

The pasture was slightly sloped, and he decided to land upslope so that the land came up to meet the Navion, and the aircraft would slow sooner uphill and hopefully come to a stop before he ran out of pasture.

He lined up the aircraft with the pasture, which looked to be about a thousand feet long. He now noticed there was a stone fence at the end of the rise, but no trees or water holes.

He had no idea what the winds were doing, but it didn’t matter; this was the landing strip, and upslope was the direction.

Purcell lowered his landing gear and flaps and pulled back on the throttle. His airspeed was barely sixty miles per hour, and he estimated his altitude at five hundred feet, then four, three… He looked out at the approaching pasture of short brown grass. The goats had scattered, but now he could see rocks and sinkholes. “Hold on.”

He cut the power back to idle, pulled the nose up, and the Navion touched down hard and bounced high, then down again and up again across the rocky pasture. He shut down the engine and applied the brakes. Up ahead he could see the stone fence. He worked the rudder, making the aircraft fishtail, and he began to slow, but the stone fence was less than a hundred yards away, then fifty yards.

“Frank…”

“Brace!”

He kicked the rudder hard, causing the Navion to go into a sideways skid. He expected the landing gear to collapse, but the old bird was built well and the gear held as the wheels traveled sideways across the grassy pasture. The Navion came to a jolting, rocking halt less than twenty feet from the stone fence.

Vivian said, “Beautiful.”

Mercado said, “Good one, old boy.”

Everyone grabbed their canvas bags that held the maps, camera, and film, as Purcell slid the canopy open and scrambled onto the wing. Vivian followed quickly and jumped to the ground, followed by Mercado. Purcell joined them and they put some distance between themselves and the Navion in case it decided to burst into flames.

Purcell stood looking at Signore Bocaccio’s aircraft, which landed a bit better than it flew. Vivian unpinned the Saint Christopher medal from Purcell’s shirt, kissed it, then shoved it in his top pocket.

He heard a noise behind him and turned to see a Land Rover coming toward them. The vehicle stopped a distance away and the door opened. Colonel Gann, wearing a white shamma and sandals, came out of the driver’s side and walked toward them. He called out, “Was that a landing, or were you shot down?”

Mercado replied in the same spirit of British lunacy, “Just dropping in to say hello.”

Gann smiled as he continued toward them. “Just in time for tea.”

Gann’s hair was now very short, Purcell noticed, and jet black, and he’d lost his red mustache somewhere, and also lost his riding crop if he’d had one. Also gone was his prison pallor, replaced by a nice tan.

Gann walked up to Purcell. “Good landing, actually. Frightened the goats a bit, but they’ll get over it.”

“So will I.”

Gann flashed his toothy smile, then took Vivian’s hand. “Lovely as always.”

“You look good in a shamma.”

“Don’t tell.” He took Mercado’s hand. “Is Gondar closed today?”

“It is to us.”

“Well, you must have a good story to tell. But first meet my friend.” He waved at the Land Rover, and the passenger-side door opened.