Pilot Error (7 page)

"Oh, hell!" Banking hard to port, her right hand shoved the throttle all the way in for maximum power.

"Get us out of here!" Luke shouted over the intercom.

"What do you think I'm doing?" Micki shouted back, already climbing and heading back toward civilization. "Turning around so that they can have another go at blowing us out of the sky?"

On cue, the injured Cessna began to splutter.

"Damn it!"

"What?" Luke's question was clipped, precise, and oddly calm. Binoculars to his eyes, his attention was riveted on whatever was happening behind them.

Micki reached over and tapped the gauge in front of him. "We're losing oil pressure—fast. They must've nicked the line. We have to land or I'll blow the engine."

"They're following in two of the boats," Luke reported. Lowering the binoculars, he looked at her directly. "If they catch us, Micki, we're dead."

"What do you mean dead?
Dead
dead? Who were those blokes, anyway?"

"Unfriendlies I hoped we wouldn't meet."

"What?" The next thought that occurred to her was one she didn't like at all. "You knew they were there?"

"Just concentrate on getting us back to Marathon in one piece. I don't think they'll try anything in a populated area."

"Easier said than done." Backing off the throttle, Micki let the Cessna's laboring engine whine down to idle. Gently, she pitched the nose up to slow her airspeed and gain what altitude she could. As the speed dropped under 65 knots, she extended full flap, lowered the nose again, and trimmed her glide path for optimum range. "We're not going to make it back to Marathon."

"Are you crazy?" Luke asked, exasperated. "I'm telling you, if they catch us, they'll kill us!"

"And if we don't land, we'll kill ourselves."

"You mean... we're going to crash?" That shut him up.

Silently running her emergency checklist through her head, Micki spared him only a small portion of her attention. "Never say 'crash' to a pilot, Mr. Hardigan. What we're doing is making an emergency landing."

"Where?"

"There." She nodded out the front window at the white sand of the key that was coming up quicker than she liked. "On that beach. Don't worry, I've practiced this hundreds of times."

"Practiced? How many have you done for real?"

"One."

"When was that?"

"About two minutes from now." Flicking back to radio contact with
Miami Flight Service
, she scooped the mike out of its holder on the dash between them and brought it to her lips. "Mayday—"

There was a choked crackle over the headset as Luke ripped the coiled wire from its connection under the instrument panel, then silence. "You can't send that. Those guys back there are sure to be listening."

Micki stared at him, dumbfounded. "You idiot! I swear, if they don't get you, I'll kill you myself!"

"Do you want them to know that they were on target with those guns and that we're going down? If that's the case, beautiful, then you might as well just send them an engraved invitation to come pick us off, 'cause they'll be here a hell of a lot faster than any rescue team."

"Shut the hell up, Hardigan!"

"No, you shut up and listen for a change. I'm telling you to lose them first. Hug the treetops and get around that peninsula—there." He pointed to the end of the island below them. A couple more tiny dots of land lay like stepping-stones across a short expanse of water. "We have to put some distance between us and them, Micki, our lives depend on it."

She locked eyes with Luke for a split second that lasted an eternity. Her gut told her to complete the emergency landing she was all but committed to, but something in his expression was telling her otherwise. Something convinced her to trust him.

"Damn it," she spat, pushing the throttle all the way back in. The engine, dangerously low on oil, clanked in protest but provided enough forward thrust for her to maintain their altitude at a hundred feet... at least for a few minutes. She took them low over the point Luke had indicated, skimming the tops of the mangroves as they headed across the ocean toward the next island in their path.

When they crossed the shoreline, she dropped down to fifty feet to use what cover she could. Verbally coddling her damaged plane, Micki hugged the rocky beach and sent them darting toward two more keys that were the last outlying specks of land before the open waters of the Gulf. She headed for the larger of the two, praying the beach there was sand and not rock.

Luke was peering out the back window through his binoculars again. Shooting him a brief glance, she asked, "You see them?"

"No, not yet." Luke turned a grim look on her. "Let's hope we lost them back there."

Micki grunted, not holding much hope for that. After all, with the ribbon of smoke they were drawing across the sky, there wasn't much doubt about which way they were headed. Distance, as Luke said, was possibly their only hope of outliving their new trigger-happy pals—whoever the hell they were.

And she thought it was going to be a perfect day. Could it possibly get any worse?

She had to ask. The seizing engine gave a final sputter and died, shooting a piston rod right through the newly waxed aluminum cowl. Now she had to find a place to land—and quick.

Luck was with her; the beach ahead gleamed of white sand. With the same bit of luck there would be a hard-packed stretch of it where the tide had gone out. That would do nicely, not that she had the option of being picky.

Grunting in acknowledgement of the inevitable, Micki pulled off her headset and methodically began her emergency shutdown checks; mixture lean, throttle closed, magnetos off...

Luke removed his headset and began to secure the cabin and his belongings, tucking the binoculars and camera back in his bag along with his sunglasses. At least, she thought with the portion of her mind that wasn't focused on the spot of beach fast approaching, he wasn't the hysterical type she had to coach. Reaching back in a gesture that would forever endear him to her no matter how the landing turned out, Luke patted Fizz and made sure the dog's special harness was tight.

"Final approach," she said brusquely, feathering the prop to reduce drag and keep them in the air for as long as possible. Cutting the fuel to minimize the risk of fire upon impact, Micki drew a deep breath and said a wordless prayer into the eerie whistle of wind that had replaced the normally dependable sound of the engine. "Hang on, Hardigan. We're going down."

"Look at my plane!"

Micki flung the words like a punch, and gestured vehemently at the Cessna that lay crushed on the sandy foreshore like a broken bird. The deadstick landing had gone smoothly, the beach an ideal substitute runway, until the wheel closest to the water had caught in a patch of soft sand and flipped the light aircraft over like a piece of tin foil.

She knew she should be grateful that they had escaped with their lives, but looking at her most cherished possession, upside down with its wheels in the air and two inches of seawater lapping in over what used to be the intercom system on the roof, was just too much.

'Once a plane's been in seawater, kiddo, it's a write-off,'
her father had said. At the thought of him, and how disappointed he would have been to learn that she had crashed his plane, Micki's eyes filled with tears. That was two pieces of him she had lost today, and the plane was of a magnitude far beyond a cracked CD.

She threw herself into rage to deny the prickling behind her eyes. "You knew they were going to shoot at us and you didn't tell me?"

"Because I didn't think they'd be that stupid," Luke said sourly. He sat on the sand, nursing a swelling bump on his forehead with a wet purple compress that used to be his shirt, while she paced.

Micki glowered, continuing to strive for control of her emotions. "You still should have warned me."

"Yeah well, I wasn't exactly expecting your friends to—" Luke looked away hastily. "Forget it."

"Friends?" Micki's voice rose dangerously. "
Friends?
My friends do not use me for target practice!" All tears now safely pushed aside, she regarded her wrecked plane again. "This is all your fault!"

"So I'll pay for damages." He sounded as if he were running as close to overload as she. "Or buy you a new plane."

"Too right you will, Yank. One with Sidewinder missiles if you ever plan on flying with me again!"

"Whatever!" The word was a bellow of pure frustration.

Fizz whined and gently nuzzled Luke's bare shoulder, as if to tell his owner that the man was injured and needed attention. Micki folded her arms, stubbornly ignoring the dog and the half-naked man sitting on the sand. It was nothing serious. He had just goose-egged himself when he'd released his seat harness; an awkward task when upside down with the tops of their heads swishing in saltwater. At this point, she just couldn't find it in herself to offer him compassion.

"But right now," Luke continued, climbing to his feet with a painful grimace, "right here, is not a good place to argue about it. We might have company dropping by at any minute, or have you forgotten that fact, beautiful?"

"Don't call me that!" Micki shot back, as much from adrenaline as anything else. She turned before he had a chance to reply. Without a backward glance, she stomped through the loose sand toward her plane, growling, "Wait here."

"But—"

"I can manage by myself. You've caused enough damage already."

"Get my camera bag," Luke called. He dropped to the sand again as if his legs wouldn't quite support him.

"Why? So you can 'capture the moment?' Give me a break."

"Just get it."

Ankle deep in water on what used to be the underside of the wing, Micki squatted and poked her head inside the Cessna's cabin. Fuming, she reached up for the camera bag her passenger had stowed under the seat that was now acting as a shelf. Tugging it out, she felt like tossing it behind her without a care if his precious camera got broken in the process. Just look at her precious plane!

Hanging onto the wing strut as she climbed out, she caught sight of Luke patting Fizz... and her eyes again blurred with tears that this time were more determined to flow free.

Despite what she'd said, Micki felt responsible. She should take heart that due to her piloting skills they had walked away in one piece. It was only because she knew the old plane's quirks that she had managed to keep them airborne for so long. But she didn't. She had been flying since she was three, first on her father's lap and later as a private pilot. Never, in all that time, had she come this close to... to losing her life.

It scared her. It suddenly scared her a whole lot.

"'Suck it up, kiddo,'" she told herself aloud, quoting her late father. Geez, she could just hear him now; 'I thought I taught you better than this. You're a survivor, remember?'

I remember, Dad.

She composed herself with a deep breath, and resolutely wiped a couple of wet tracks from her cheeks. Right then, Micki accepted full responsibility for the crash, and for getting herself and her 'paying customer' back to civilization.

Pushing away from the wing strut that had become her support, she moved up the beach and gently put Luke's camera bag down beside him.

"Thanks." Still nursing his bump, he did not look up.

"Don't mention it."

Crossing back to the fuselage, she leaned into the cabin again and jerked the pilot's seat forward along its bent runner to gain access to the backseat. She stretched to recover her dark blue ball cap, a gift from Tex, embroidered with the Coast Guard logo and their motto,
'Semper Paratus.'

'Always Prepared.'

Unable to reach into the baggage stow, she exited again and went to the small external door at the rear. It was jammed shut, twisted on impact like every other formerly moveable part on the Cessna.

Stepping back, Micki raised her boot to give it a kick, not really expecting the move to help anything but her temper. The compartment popped open, spilling her leather jacket and an orange life vest out into the water at her feet.

"Wonderful," she said with quiet sarcasm, retrieving the sodden leather mess and flinging it and the life preserver up onto the sand behind her.

A waterproof camel-colored backpack held her permanently stowed survival gear in a handy ready-to-go kit. If they were about to have company of the armed and dangerous sort, then their best chance of survival lay in hightailing it to the interior of the small island and taking advantage of whatever cover it provided.

Swamp and mosquitoes
, she thought distastefully. Her plan would have been to stay with the wreckage. Traipsing into the underbrush was not the smartest way to ensure a swift rescue, but it was, under the circumstances, more preferable than remaining on the beach as a stationary target.

Snagging the pack, she wriggled herself free of the twisted aluminum and immediately checked her gear. Good. The Emergency Locator Transmitter was in the backpack and undamaged. She pulled it out to check it, just to be sure.