A Rare Breed (2 page)

He headed for the ramp and, before he disappeared, turned to wave. Brit responded by raising one hand and wiggling her fingers. At that moment, she knew, knew beyond a doubt that she didn't love Michael. In a way, it was a relief to know, to finally admit it, if only to herself. More and more, they had been growing apart, their opinions increasingly distant. She wondered if her new lifestyle and more specifically, her newly acquired money had changed her. Or possibly, him. No, she refused to believe that. Their problem was love, or the lack of it.

Pondering the best way to end this relationship, Brit headed for her charter to L.A. This was another thing she couldn't get used to. When there was no room on any regular flights from Vegas to L.A., Michael had suggested that she charter a flight. So she had reserved a seat on a helicopter which made routine trips to and from L.A. Since she'd never flown in a helicopter, Brit was looking forward to the experience. Yes, she admitted privately, there were some advantages to having money, but they had nothing to do with the rich and famous, as Michael claimed.

"There'll be another couple on the flight, ma'am. I think you'll be thrilled when you see who it is," the ticket agent said when she approached the desk.

"Oh?" Brit dug out her credit card and tapped her fingernails impatiently on the counter. She did not feel particularly chatty after her encounter with Michael.

The agent grinned proudly. "It's Yolanda. I got her autograph."

Brit nodded politely. "How nice." When he finished with the paperwork, she followed him through a side door and was whisked across the tarmac in a little car to join a small group gathered beside a helicopter.

"Hi, I'm your pilot, Frank Scofeld, and this is Mr. and Mrs. Romero."

"I'm Brit Bailey." She shook hands with the pilot, then turned to the couple and recognized the comedian and TV star Michael had pointed out a few minutes ago in the airport.

"I'm Rudi." The big red-haired man nodded toward his wife. "And this, of course, is Yolanda."

Both Rudi and Yolanda were large people, both of them towering above Brit, who was not short at five feet five. Rudi's hair was curly, making his head look massive, and he sported a thick red mustache. Yolanda was nearly six feet tall and she wore her dark hair in a shoulder-length bob.

"Nice to meet you both." Brit smiled cheerfully at the couple as the wind whipped their hair around. Wouldn't Michael get a kick knowing that she'd chartered a flight with Yolanda and her husband? Ana and Kelly would be fascinated with details of how Yolanda wore three sparkling diamond rings on one hand, and her husband wore a string of gold necklaces and gold bracelets.

"What time is it?" Rudi conspicuously checked his Rolex watch. "How long will this take?"

"About an hour and a half to two hours," Frank answered.

"We have to get to L.A. as soon as possible," Yolanda explained with an impatient sigh. "I want to have plenty of time to rest this evening. Tomorrow will begin early because we start shooting the show's new season. And, after all the cash we lost in Vegas, somebody's got to get to work."

"I know what you mean," Brit responded, thinking of her own losses at the gambling tables.

"Honey, you couldn't possibly know the kinds of financial pressures I have in this business." Yolanda scoffed indignantly. "Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it."

"Yeah, babe, course it is," said Rudi, squeezing her shoulders in a quick hug with his huge arm. "Look at all the fun we're having. Every day it's something new and exciting."

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered. "This is fun? I'm hot. Can we get this show on the road?"

"I'm ready when you folks are," said Frank, rubbing his hands together.

The four of them boarded the chopper and, within minutes, were whirling aloft. Brit sat in front with the pilot, leaving the Romeros to banter in the passenger section alone. The helicopter lifted, hovered briefly, and then moved forward over the sprawl of Las Vegas beneath them. The city was much larger than Brit had thought, for there was more to it than the gambling strip.

Majestic music blared into the earphones and blocked the lo
ud thrump-de-thrump of the heli
copter's rotor blades whacking the air. Once they were moving in flight, Frank flipped the earphone switch so they could all communicate. "Folks, there's shrimp cocktail and champagne in the cooler. Any questions before we go back to music?"

"Got any beer?" Rudi asked.

"Yep. Help yourself."

"Oh, Frank!" Yolanda motioned to the desert floor beyond the city. "This poor San Antonio gal never had a chance to see the Grand Canyon. Are we going to fly over it?"

"No. The canyon's out of our way to the east."

"How far out of the way?"

"About a half hour, one way."

Rudi spoke up. "You want to see the canyon, babe? It's not too much trouble, is it, Frank?"

"It'll put us off schedule. I thought you folks were in a hurry."

"Not that much. What's an hour? Right Brit? You don't mind, do you? Just a quick swing by the giant hole to show Yolanda?"

Brit shrugged. She had never seen the Grand Canyon from this view. "Go ahead. I'm not in a great hurry."

"I knew you'd be a sport, Brit-babe. Can I get you a beer or something?"

"No, thanks," Brit muttered, wishing she could grab a nap on the flight to L.A. and knowing now that it would be delayed while they detoured by the canyon.

"Hey, Frank buddy, thanks a hell-of-a-lot. I’ll make this worth your time and effort," Rudi promised.

"Never mind about that," Frank said. "Let me see if I can chan
ge my flight plan and get clear
ance for this." Frank began making contact with the ground and soon gave them all a thumbs-up as they proceeded eastward.

Brit didn't give the flight change a second thought. After all, how many times did anyone get a chance to view the Grand Canyon from a helicopter? This, too, would be one of those great experiences to tell Ana and Kelly.

Less than thirty minutes later, there it was beneath them. The Grand Canyon. "Magnificent" was a mere word that provided an inadequate description. The vision before her took Brit's breath.

Frank flipped the microphone on as he made a small circle over one corner of the huge abyss and his voice replaced the music. "This is a remote section of the canyon, folks, but you get the idea. That little silver ribbon down there is a tributary to the Colorado River, which is the main, big one through the canyon."

"Awesome," Yolanda murmured. "Look at that! Like a giant scoop out of Rocky Road ice cream!"

"Enjoy," Frank said and flipped the music back into their earphones.

Brit tried to memorize the beauty beneath her so she could tell her friends in San Diego about every detail. Suddenly she noticed Frank's quick, jerky hand motions as he fiddled with the instruments.

"What's wrong?" she asked spontaneously, and then realized he couldn't hear her. Vivaldi's "La Primavera" continued to swell in the earphones as if nothing were happening. But something definitely was wrong. Brit just didn't know what it was. She watched helplessly as Frank struggled with several flashing red lights on the panel.

Brit tried to stay calm. But when the helicopter shuddered and began to dip and sway, her stomach made an abrupt flip-flop and fear knotted in her throat.

Frank switched on the microphone. "Okay, folks, we've got a little problem with the fuel line. Acts like it's stopped up. If I can land her, I think I can fix it. Make sure your seat belts are fastened. Hang on, we're going down!"

Both the Romeros jabbered excitedly at once. "Land? Where the hell are you landing? There's nothing out there! Are we going to crash? Oh, dear God, we're going down! I knew we shouldn't have-"

Frank switched them off, and glorious music blared again. He pointed to a sandbar, indicating to Brit that he was aiming for it. The sides of the canyon slipped past as they headed down. For a minute or so, it appeared they would make it. But they were moving too fast — straight down—and Brit feared they were still too far from the tiny sandbar to land on it.

Then they were spinning out of control, tilting, dropping fast toward the canyon floor. A clump of tall cottonwood trees loomed straight ahead, seeming to charge closer and closer. The copter hit the trees with a bone-jolting crash, rotor blades biting like scythes. Leaves and twigs hurtled past the windows and thwacked the fuselage as the craft slammed between two branches with a wrenching screech of metal. Brit felt herself hurled sideways. The copter caught, teetered, caught again, and came to rest on its side, Brit's door jammed, motor grinding, swaying slightly like a suspended tree house.

As soon as they stopped moving, Frank jerked off Brit's headphones and began pushing her toward the door. "Out, get out! Quick! Climb out of here and run! Get away from the craft so it doesn't fall on you!"

Pushing nervously on the door, finally kicking it open, Brit obeyed Frank. She could hear him yelling at the Romeros and their frantic, screaming responses.

As Brit climbed out of the chopper and began crawling along a branch, she was vaguely aware of the nearby sounds of rushing water. Closer, and much more frightening, were the cracking and popping of metal all around her. She inched along the flimsy limb until it dipped under her weight and dumped her into a shallow stream. With Frank's warning to move echoing in her head, she crawled and scrambled through the water as fast as she could. Seconds later, the main body of the helicopter crashed to the streambed.

Panting, Brit sprawled on the rocks near the shore and watched
in horror as the helicopter be
gan to break up and metal parts were washed away, rushing madly to God knows where. Brit lay there for a few minutes, trying to gather her senses and her breath. They had landed, no . . . they had crashed somewhere and now the helicopter was falling apart. Where was everyone? Were they safe? Was she all alone?

In a few moments, Brit's worst fears were dispelled. She heard voices and spotted her traveling companions lurching across the stream toward her. There was something poignant about the sight of all three splashing, stumbling, helping each other, drenched and bedraggled—but safe— and it made Brit want to laugh hysterically or cry with relief.

As if drawn by the same magnet, they gathered in a tight little circle, all talking at once. Half an hour ago, they were strangers. Now survival had made them kin.

A loud popping noise turned their attention back to the crash scene. They watched helplessly as a large portion of the helicopter broke apart and floated away. At that moment, they knew their way out was gone.

"Can't we salvage anything?" Yolanda cried, suddenly aware that they were losing everything they had brought along with the chopper.

"Too dangerous to try." Frank's voice was dull with shock.

"Hey, bud, we have some valuable things in our luggage!" Rudi gasped, lunging forward. "I have to get them!"

Frank grabbed his arm. "Don't, please. I'm serious about it being too dangerous. The bird's falling apart. Anyway, I think we're too late."

Yolanda pointed. "Look!"

They all turned to watch their luggage plunge into the water, one bag after the other, as if they were on a conveyer belt that was supposed to dump them systematically into the river. They bobbed briefly, and then disappeared.

Everyone was quiet for a few stunned minutes, observing a private, helpless vigil to their lost possessions.

"Gucci . . ." Brit murmured, silently recalling how much her new bags had cost. And now they were gone.

"You, at least, have your purse," Yolanda said bitterly. "Mine's feeding some damn fish right now!"

Brit looked down and, sure enough, her purse was still strapped across her shoulder. She had her cash, a book, and breath mints. And what good were any of those to her right now?

"There goes my camera!" Rudi yelled, cursing violently. "And my new leather jacket!"

"And my new diamonds!" Yolanda whined. "I put them in my
bags! Thousands of dollars
are being washed downstream to feed some big mouth bass!" She clapped her hand over her mouth as if to quiet a scream.

Brit realized that her entire brand new, expensive wardrobe that she'd bought with the first big check was floating down the river, too. She joined in the lament. "Oh no! My clothes! My Italian sandals! My Irish sweaters!"

"Only one consolation, folks," Frank said in an irritatingly calm tone. "We're safe."

"Do you know how much that camera plus all the attachments is worth?" Rudi demanded.

"Well no, but I'd guess you folks are insured," Frank reminded them.

"Insured? Who cares about that? Some things can't be replaced. How would you like a lawsuit the size of Montana?" Rudi threatened.

"Frank's right, Rudi," Brit agreed in a tone meant to soothe him. "At least, we're not injured. It could have been much worse. We could have been ki—"

"Yeah, Rudi," Yolanda interrupted sarcastically. "We can always buy more stuff. You’ll like that. You're so good at it."

"I'm good at it? What about you?" Rudi snarled.

"My job is making the money, remember? That's why we were headed for L.A. Yours is