David Gilman - The Devil's breath

Max held!Koga tighter across his chest and headed for his dad’s plane. Knowing what he had to do when he got there was scary enough.

The sight of the trees encouraged him. The sand yacht had faltered, a couple of kilometers away, when the ground changed into shrub and grassland. He had let it slow, easing the sail so it spilled the air, ensuring they didn’t tip over.

Carefully lifting!Koga out of the yacht’s cockpit, he carried him at a slow jog, stopping every once in a while to catch his breath. The wind was gaining strength, a more consistent push against his back-the storm building itself, ready to release its pent-up rain. If the storm broke before he could reach the plane, the ground would flood and the wheels would never get through it. Max’s heart pounded, not from the exertion but from the anticipation. He had to fly the plane out.

His visual memory snatched at images, like scenes from old movies, remembering things Kallie had done when she flew him in; trying to hear her voice as she explained things; but they wouldn’t gel. They didn’t make sense. Fractured elements of recall made their own jigsaw puzzle.

And then they reached the plane.

Max pulled aside the camouflage netting, climbed into the Cessna, then turned and dragged!Koga in behind him, ever mindful of the boy’s injury. It took longer than he wanted, but he couldn’t rush this, not now.

With!Koga securely fastened, Max clambered into the pilot’s seat. The last time he had sat there, his mind had focused on the opening through the windscreen and a changed consciousness had taken him high up, letting him see the landscape and the way to the Devil’s Breath. But not now. Now his hands rested on the controls and he could barely think straight.

The way ahead was clear of camouflage net and branches. He needed to start the plane, roll it forward and then turn onto the flattened grassland. His eyes glazed over at all the instruments. He chastised himself. Come on, you do one thing, then something will happen, then you do the next thing, and so on. It’ll happen. It’ll work. Something will click and you’ll do it .

He pointed at a dial. What’s that? “Fuel gauge,” he answered himself.

And that? “Airspeed indicator.”

And? “Altimeter, lights, master switch, ignition and magnetos! Right! OK, got it!”

It came back to him. He pulled down the sun visor and the worn tag that held the key fell into his lap. He put it in the ignition. There were things he should have checked, he knew that. At Windhoek, Kallie had done a complete visual check outside her own aircraft. Well, that took time, which was a luxury; this was time-has-run-out time. The sign on the control panel warned him to make sure there was no water contaminating the fuel-another risk he had to take. This was his main chance. Some things had to be left in the lap of the gods. There was a toggle switch to prime the engine. That made sense. You primed a lawn mower before you started it. How long? Couple of seconds, five, ten? Middle. Five should do it.

Fuel selectors. He fingered the small lever into the Both position. Kallie was a great pilot and she had warned him about getting things wrong. What had she said? It seemed a lifetime ago since he had seen her. He reran the video clip in his head. Meeting her, liking her, no, not that stuff, what else? The flying. Leaving Windhoek. The old plane, the … saying. There was a saying.

He pictured the instruments in her plane. There was a small sign. My dad worries. He taught me how to fly . That was what she’d said. And there was a tattered laminated postcard stuck on the panel. She hadn’t remembered what it was called. It was a mnemonic, he had told her. That was right, an aide-memoire , she had agreed.

He could see it. Almost. The words were there, forming in his mind’s eye. Rather Too Many Pilots Forget How It Goes . That was it. His mind raced with anticipation as his fingers did the work.

Radio and Rudder-check.

Trim Elevator for takeoff-OK.

Throttle tension, set for start-done.

Mixture, rich; Magnetos on-got it.

Fuel select, both tanks-already done.

Flaps. Something about flaps.

What else did F stand for? Forgetful.

He couldn’t remember what the other letters meant, but he had done what his memory told him and everything had flickered into life. The engine coughed and spluttered, the propeller suddenly spun, and when he released the parking brake the plane moved forward. Max let out a cry of victory. As he eased the throttle forward on the instrument panel, the propeller roared louder and they broke free from the safety of cover.

It demanded all his attention. The Flight Simulator game on his computer at school was one thing, but this was quite another, and he was going too fast, like driving a lorry with his foot flat down. He had jammed his feet on the pedals and his hands turned the controls, but he had gone the wrong way. He had to face into the wind for takeoff.

Rudder, controls, throttle eased back-the plane turned.

The brakes were awkward, sitting just above the rudder pedals, and they pulled to one side. But he raised his foot slightly, found the right position, and the plane wallowed to a halt. Now it sat, braked, facing the wind. Max could feel it trying to lift the wings-exactly what he wanted-but through the high-speed blur of the propeller he could see the leaden sky. It flattened all the color of the landscape: the malignant clouds in turmoil, the storm fit to burst. Max had to take off, but he couldn’t stay on that heading once he was up there. That turbulence would chew him up and spit him out. In pieces.

He hesitated. The radio had hummed into life once the engine started. He could just call for help, the batteries were charging now, he could simply keep on calling until someone heard him, and then they’d come and rescue them. Maybe.

The decision was made for him.

The same pickup truck that had hunted!Koga was coming straight for him, from exactly where he had abandoned the sand yacht. Men hung on in the back as it jolted across the uneven ground-they’d obviously seen him, but they couldn’t get a clear shot at him yet.

Max scanned the dials and gauges. Had he forgotten anything? Too late to worry about it; he released the footbrakes, pushed in the throttle, and the plane bucked forward. It veered, lurching because of the propeller’s gyroscopic pitch-not that Max knew why it had pulled. Instinctively he tapped the left brake with his foot and it corrected itself. But the plane still swung left and right, the tail wheel bouncing across the uneven ground, causing it to sway. Max didn’t know what to do except ride out the problem. Then, as the airflow moved across the wings, it stabilized.

Faster now, trying to maintain direction with the rudder pedals, heading straight towards that heavy sky on the horizon. More speed; fifty knots, he had to go faster. He shoved the throttle all the way forward; sixty, seventy. Bumping badly now, the controls vibrating in his hands; the men less than two hundred meters off; the end of the grass in sight-it had to be now. Eighty.

Max pulled back the controls and the plane lifted its nose-if he went too steep he would stall-he remembered, light touch, nothing too brutal with a plane-nurse it upwards, let it do the work. Hailstones clattered against the fuselage … three holes appeared in the port wing-they weren’t hailstones. Come on! Come on! Take off! The pickup truck was almost on him. The men’s mouths yelled silent curses. The plane soared upwards.

As the wind helped lift the wings, the altimeter told him he was already at three hundred feet. He adjusted the throttle until the air speed indicator showed he was flying at a hundred and twenty knots. Max eased the plane around in a long, sweeping turn, watching to see that the nose stayed up, the propeller tip nudging above what he could see of the horizon-he knew that was the ideal attitude for a plane. Now he had the storm at his back, it was time to call for help.