Final Turn: A story of adventure, intrigue and suspense. (10 page)

Roger thought there could be no harm in an innocuous call to the land assessor. Loretta had been very accommodating in providing the man's name and Roger had made up a clinically sound reason for placing the call. He merely wanted to understand the man's credentials for future reference. The intimacy of a small town had worked to his advantage. The City Clerk had recalled the name of Edward Hamilton, the town assessor, and had shown no hesitation at giving Roger the man's home phone number.

Edward Hamilton had all of the normal rural characteristics. He was informative, honest and forthright, yet he retained the sense that it would be futile to try to deceive him. Roger asked immediately about his credentials and his knowledge of the surrounding agricultural lands. He responded with a certainty that left no basis for doubt. Then Roger mentioned the Fischer property. Hamilton remembered that immediately. Without a need for further prompting, he recalled that he had assessed the property on June 14. He had taken soil samples along all the boundary fence lines in accordance with the regulations. He had recalled the intensity of the late morning thunderstorm and commented upon the unusual nature of such an occurrence. Once the thunderstorm unleashed its fury, he had made for his car. No, he did not recall seeing anything unusual in the farmyard and certainly could not confirm that there had been a moving van in the vicinity. He had not seen one. He had parked in Mrs. Pezack's driveway, certainly. It seemed to him a perfectly natural thing to park in the driveway of a neighboring farmyard. He had experienced some difficulty in locating exactly which quarter section belonged to Fischer, as there was an error in the maps he had been given. He had parked in the wrong driveway but left his car there even when the error became apparent. Was that a problem? Roger assured him that it wasn't. He was merely trying to ascertain Hamilton's credentials for future reference.

Roger was more than pleased with that information, indicated this to Mr. Hamilton and went on to make his second telephone call. This one was to the district office of Environment Canada. The weather radar located at the airport reached out to the location of the farm and even a few miles beyond. It took some time, but the meteorologist on duty was able to recover the logs for June 14. Yes, there were notations of an unusual thunderstorm in that area. It was the only thunderstorm active at that time of day. The meteorologist mentioned that the weather office had been considering issuing a tornado warning because of the intensity of the storm. They had decided against it as the storm had dissipated itself before nine o'clock. He seemed somewhat concerned that Roger had called, perhaps afraid that the storm had spawned a tornado after all and Roger was calling to report this.

They were nearly thirty miles west of the airfield above terrain that did not look inviting. Lindquist was hanging on, hoping for some lift. He could not let go now; he was too far from the airfield and from any other suitable landing areas and it was not be possible to reach anything from the altitude they had reached. He would either have to wait until they encountered some lift or Roger would have to turn around and take him back towards the east to the club airfield. The turbulence was vicious and, while it retarded the ability of the tow plane to climb yet it always held the promise of turning into useful lift. That kept them going. Ahead another ten miles Roger could see a line of clouds forming just east of the first mountain range; there would be lift beneath them. He would wait a few minutes, call Lindquist on the radio and ask what he wanted to do.

Lindquist clearly had misjudged the day. He had believed there would be strong lift everywhere and on that basis had decided to carry water ballast. Glider pilots would carry several hundred pounds of water in special wing tanks on days of very strong lift. This caused the glider to fly faster. In case they misjudged the conditions, and the lift was weaker than they anticipated, there was a mechanism in the sailplane to jettison the water. Today Lindquist was carrying water ballast at Jack's suggestion. Roger thought that strange because there was no chance of finding up draughts strong enough to warrant that. He hoped Lindquist would realize this and jettison the water to allow the tow plane to climb faster. They could have been at least a thousand feet higher and already into the lift with some safety margin.

Roger called Lindquist on the radio. He wanted to go further, all the way to the line of clouds ahead if necessary. Stubborn. The tow plane was still not climbing well. During the last three minutes they had only gained about three hundred feet. By the time they would reach the clouds, they might not even be high enough to contact lift reliably.

Below the terrain had taken on the look of the rumpled skin of a caterpillar. Heavy trees carpeted the angular slopes; outcroppings of rock jutted between the scrawny trees that grew defiantly in the merciless winds and the sparse soil of the upper ridges. Nowhere could Roger see the line of a road or even a trail, he saw no burnt out areas, no natural clearings - no emergency landing sites. The narrow gorges between the slopes occasionally sent up a silver flash as the sun found its way down to a small stream and back out again. Roger instinctively checked all the gauges, the pressures, the temperatures and the fuel level. Rough, unwelcome terrain always made him do that. Everything was running well. Over many years and many hours of flying Roger had acquired a sense of quiet confidence in airplanes. It was almost like a faith, a trust that went beyond mere understanding. It came not only from the knowledge that there was nothing wrong, more from a sense that he had been here before and he knew the way.

Roger looked into the mirror that was mounted outside on the wing strut to watch the towrope stretch back into the nose of Lindquist's sailplane. The sleek white craft stayed mostly in position, centered in the mirror while an occasional turbulent jolt would send it out of the mirror's field of view. The rope would curve away in an arc and Roger would anticipate the jerk on the tail of the tow plane as the rope snapped tight again. They were within a few miles of the clouds. Vaporous tentacles at the edges curved outward and upward, churning in the invisible thermal suction. But it was still well above them. Roger called on the radio again. A few more minutes. He couldn't blame Lindquist for wanting to wait. They flew on into the sinking air that normally surrounds thermal up draughts. There they lost altitude. The terrain was rising to the west and they were barely climbing away from it. Roger persisted with the knowledge that within seconds they would catch the lift and begin to climb steadily. A few more bumps and they were there. The rate of climb indicator abandoned its erratic bouncing act and moved with determination to show a positive rate of climb: three hundred feet per minute, then five hundred and more. It felt like a kick in the seat when that happened. They were being hauled aloft by the relentless power of the atmosphere. It had all paid off. It always seemed immensely rewarding to enter good lift following a punishing, jolting ride.

Then Lindquist did the unexpected. He released. He released too soon. Roger could feel the slight jerk as the towrope let go from the sailplane and the tow plane began to accelerate. A glance in the outside mirror caught the towrope falling away and he saw the sleek white belly of Lindquist's sailplane as it turned hard to the right. He was gone. Lindquist clicked his microphone twice with the customary 'thank you' sign and flew off to the northwest. Roger turned steeply to the left and reduced the power to maintain level flight. As he came out onto an easterly heading towards the airfield he glanced back out the right window. He could see Lindquist turning in the lift with a long vaporous trail flowing out behind him. He had decided to jettison his water ballast after all. It streamed to the rear like a contrail from a highflying jet. Smart thing. Why had he taken it to begin with?

Just as Roger settled into the seat for the bumpy ride back to the airport, the unexpected happened. The engine stopped. It just stopped. It didn't sputter, cough or gradually loose power. It just stopped. Roger's reaction was automatic and practiced. He lowered the nose to maintain his airspeed and checked all the gauges. The fuel gauges were still sitting at one quarter full for both tanks. The fuel shut off valve had not moved. The propeller was sitting idly across the windscreen. There was only the noise of the air streaming over the aircraft. He called Lindquist on the radio. No response. Many of the glider pilots shut their radios off when they were busy trying to establish themselves in the lift. Roger looked down and realized he didn't have much time. The ground elevation below him was still rising. He estimated he was only about two thousand feet above the tops of the hills. That gave him about four minutes. Four minutes to restart the engine or set up for a crash landing in the trees and the angular terrain below. He had to restart the engine. There was plenty of fuel. He pumped the primer three times. It went in too easily, like there was no fuel in the lines. There had to be. Then he pushed the starter button. The propeller turned; it turned but the engine didn't catch. He tried again. No result. Once more with the primer. If he flooded the engine he would cut off his last chance. He pushed the starter button and watched the propeller pass the windscreen with a determined sweep. Nothing. Fuel was not getting to the engine. He checked the fuel gauges again. One quarter full. He tapped them with his knuckle. No change. Quickly he placed a call to the ground based radio back at the club airfield. He let them know where he was and that he was going down. He got back a scratchy reply, badly broken up and distorted with static. He realized he might already be too low to have good radio transmission to the airfield. The reply had been brief, as if someone were asking him to repeat his message. He tried again. This time he got no response.

The ground came up fast. Soon there was nothing out the front windscreen save trees and rocks. One more quick attempt to raise Lindquist to let him know his plight. No response. Roger quickly switched to the international emergency frequency and called in a May Day. He gave his position as he best knew it and the call sign of the airplane and then it was time to concentrate on making a survivable emergency landing. Survivable would be the best to hope for. Nowhere could Roger see anything that offered even a chance to bring the plane down without destroying it and probably himself. His thoughts returned to restarting the engine. Trying to start it now might be dangerous. It would take up precious time and even if it did start it might quit again. He put the engine out of his mind.

He leaned forward and studied the terrain below him. There was little advantage in one spot over the next. They were all bad. Slightly to the left was a ridge with a slight plateau on top. It ran to the west, into the wind. To pick the top of a ridge would give him less time but it would improve his chances of being found sooner. He turned for it. He lowered the flaps, shut off the main fuel valve and tightened his shoulder harness and cracked open the door beside him to prevent it being jammed shut by the impact. He closed the throttle and shut off the electrical master switch. That would minimize the chances of a fire. His head felt naked and exposed without a crash helmet. There was nothing to do but just fly down into the trees. It really wasn't something where skill made a lot of difference.

Suddenly it seemed ridiculous to deliberately fly an airplane directly into the trees. It was not exactly deliberate but still it felt stupid to ruin a perfectly good airplane, intentionally ram into the trees. His mind began to fill with visions of tearing metal and splintering wood. He pushed those visions away. Then he thought of Sam, she would be torn between anger and sympathy when she found out about this. 'What a hell of a way to spend the weekend' she would say. Roger had a fleeting distraction that this wasn't really happening. The engine would catch or he would spot an open field just beyond the ridge. Immediately he felt the cost of his fantasies. He was suddenly upon the trees and not completely ready. He glanced to each side for a better option. There was none.

The top of a ridge had been the right choice. The trees were smaller and sparser. He could clearly see the ground between them. Roger pressed the rudder pedal to skid the airplane to the left to miss one particularly tall pine tree. Ahead were two trees spaced apart just wider than the fuselage. That would have to be it. He pulled the nose up to slow the plane as much as possible. His hand felt sticky on the rubber handgrip of the control stick. The plane began to shudder as it entered into a stall. He needed to time it just right. He was flying dead into the wind; that helped. He had to hit the trees at the lowest possible speed but still maintain some control of the airplane. It would not do to slam directly into a tree trunk. If he passed between the two trees ahead the wings would likely shear off. That would slow him and leave the wings and their fuel tanks behind. If they did explode or burn he might be well forward of the fire. Seconds to go. Roger skidded to the left another touch just as he came up to the trees. Perfect. He let go of the controls and crossed his arms in front of his face.

Bang! With a terrific jolt the trees slammed into the wings on each side of him. The sound of crushing metal and tearing cables exploded behind his head. Suddenly there was a blast of cool air inside the cockpit. Roger's peripheral vision showed the whole top and most of the sides of the fuselage behind him had gone with the wings. Somehow, he had the presence of mind to listen for an explosion. Nothing. It seemed as if the loss of the wings had accelerated him. Inside the narrow hapless cabin he flew forward like an arrow. Ahead were more trees. He no longer had any control. It didn't seem like he was falling. The cabin screamed through the branches of a large spruce tree narrowly missing the mighty trunk. That deflected the fuselage to the left and it began to roll to the left as it careened through the air. It rolled onto its side and Roger fell against the left window. A second later there was another terrific bang and the fuselage was jerked violently to the right. The landing gear, sticking out horizontally to the right, had caught on a tree. Before it tore free from the wreckage, it had pivoted the body of the airplane through nearly ninety degrees. The jolt had snapped Roger hard against the back of the seat. Now he was propelled through the air with the top of the fuselage going first. Above him was nothing, just a hole where the wings had joined. He covered his head as best he could and heard a terrible crashing of branches and shattering of Plexiglas. Then everything stopped for a moment. His ears were ringing and then went quite. He felt himself swaying. He felt the blood drain from his head. The cockpit filled with broken branches and chunks of bark. He had stopped. Where? There was a shudder, a slipping and he was falling again. The fuselage rolled upright again as it fell from the tree a dozen feet and struck the ground flat on its belly with a terrific thud. Branches and pieces of the tree fell into the opening above him. Nettles from the spruce tree sprinkled into the cabin. Dust filled the air; it was drawn into Roger's nostrils. It did not come out again.