Gathering String Page 5

  “Well, I’m not blind,” One side of Sam’s mouth went up. “But …”

  “But nothing. She’s a comer, Sam, and works really hard. Don’t go all horny and fuck it up for her.”

  “Come on, Rick, I’m a married man, just like you.” Higs gave a droll twist of his mouth at that. Sam’s intermittent fidelity had been newsroom property for years. Sam rolled his eyes and lowered his voice. “Well, I steer clear of newsroom women. You know that. With the bean-counters sharpening their axes, do you think I’d risk my job on a shiny bit of tail? Besides, she’s not even glancing in my direction. All the young bucks are getting in line.”

  That was true. She dated a lot of different guys. Sometimes, writing late for the metro edition, he’d catch sight of her going out. Meeting some date who was waiting impatiently in the lobby, she’d dash past, having changed in the restroom into some tempting little dress, all long legs and curves. Eyes following her, Sam told himself to be grateful to any guy who could get her to wear something like that. As for taking her out of it ... Sam shook his head and looked back to the words on the monitor.

  Flooding in the Midwest that spring was devastating. Following an exceptionally snowy winter, the ice jams of spring swelled under drenching, unrelenting rain. From the upper reaches of North Dakota and Minnesota down through Iowa and Nebraska, the whole Missouri River watershed was carrying off livestock and precious topsoil while threatening to overwhelm states to the south. A huge swath of the nation struggled to hang on as the water rose.

  Sam was tapped as senior reporter to go into the hardest-hit areas. He knew she wanted the trip, and he made sure she got it. “Benedict!” he’d snapped at Baxter, the photo chief, jabbing his finger to emphasize the name. “She’s good, she’s got a fresh eye.” If it seemed extraordinary that someone as new and young as Tess got the trip, Sam ignored the speculative glances.

  They landed in Omaha at a heavily sandbagged Eppley Airfield on the overwhelmed banks of the Missouri. He planned to focus on the devastation in western Iowa, where swollen rivers had cut off interstate highways in all directions, tying up the nation’s trucking. But then Steve Johnson, the National Editor, called about an explosion in Remington, South Dakota, north of Rapid City. Cheyenne River flooding had isolated the town, and they’d evacuated people in boats. But the pressure on the gas mains was too much. One home had blown off the map, and now the empty town was burning, inaccessible to fire equipment. Johnson had a single-engine plane lined up to take them in as close as they could get. Sam left the rest of the team to deal with the trucking crisis, deciding he would cover South Dakota. He took Benedict with him.

  Sam disliked the pilot on sight. He was a cocky, long-haired kid, who didn’t seem old enough to drive, let alone fly. Sam met him at the charter gate, and after looking Sam over, his first words were, “I don’t know, mister. I just checked with Flight Service. Right now the ceiling is low, and there’s light rain to the west. It’s not bad enough that I couldn’t fly visual, but there’s another storm front coming in from the southwest, probably roll through some time late this afternoon or early evening. ”

  “So?” Sam was annoyed at the waffling. “Can’t we make it in before then?”

  “You’re not from around here,” the kid said, noting Sam’s Boston accent. Sam didn’t bother to reply, so the kid answered instead. “Yeah, we could get there, but I probably wouldn’t make it back. I meant to fly you into Stanton, about 30 miles south of Remington. I might be stuck in the little burg all night.”

  “Like it’d be a crying shame to miss Omaha’s night life?” Sam snorted. “Come on, Junior, you’re getting top dollar. The photographer stopped in the loo, but other than that, we’re ready.”

  “I don’t know,” the kid said again. “This air’s mighty unstable and it’ll be choppy up there. So unless you guys have steady stomachs …” He stopped as he saw Tess walking toward them in her tight jeans, camera bag over her shoulder, a giant, steaming cup of Starbucks in her hand. “Holy crap, mister, your work’s not bad, is it? That’s the photographer?” He seemed unable to stop the greasy smile that came to his face.

  “A damn fine one,” Sam snapped. He turned as Tess joined them. “Opie here is having trouble deciding if he wants to go.” The kid gave him a scowl.

  “The weather?” she asked. “If he has to fly on instruments, we can’t deviate for pictures anyway.” She glanced out the window. “But it doesn’t look that bad.” She turned back to the kid and gave him an encouraging smile. “Aren’t you up for a little scud running?”

  Opie looked delighted. “You’re a pilot?”

  Tess shook her head. “I just know a few. Come on, we could use a break. If we toss in another $100 and cover the cost if you need a room, would that sweeten the pot?”

  "Dinner too if we can't get back?" Tess nodded and Opie leered. “Sure, I’ll take you up. We’ll stay under the ceiling, and I’ll fly you over the worst spots.” His eyes swept her as they started for the door. “I’ll give you everything you need.” At Sam’s muffled grunt, he looked back at him. “Hop in the back, buddy. It’ll help distribute the weight.”

  The plane was an older Cessna P210, smaller than Sam had imagined. At six feet tall, he had to duck low to get into the back. As Tess settled into the front, he said, “I hope to hell this bucket is going to hold together up there.”

  “What’s the matter, Sam, you getting nervous?” she clicked her seatbelt and looked around the cockpit, then began rummaging in her camera bag. “At least it’s a high-wing. That’ll make it easier to get my shots.”

  She peeled open a roll of candy Smarties and offered some to Sam, but he waved them away, saying, “What do you live on, a diet of candy and coffee?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “But that hard sugar shit sucks.” He craned his neck, “You got any chocolate in there?”

  She shook her head. “When I was little, my big brothers always grabbed the expensive stuff, so I just learned to love what they left.”

  He was watching Opie walk slowly around the side of the plane, looking things over carefully. “Johnson’s going to shit over that extra 100 bucks, you know.”

  She shrugged, crunching the candy and nodding toward Opie. “It got him going.”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Sam snorted. “Didn't you see the smirk on that ferret face? You’re what got him going. He’s got plans for you tonight.”

  “Well, he doesn’t need to know he’s going to be disappointed until after we’re in the air.” She turned and asked, “Does he?” Sam laughed in response.

  But he was still uneasy about the flight. The weather looked ugly. After a few minutes, he sighed impatiently. “I thought Opie said weather was moving in. What the hell is he doing out there, wandering around in the mist?”

  “He’s doing the visual check,” she explained, tossing more candy into her mouth. “You know, looking over the ailerons, the flaps, the rudder …”

  “The ailerons, huh?” There was an edge to his voice, “So which young stud has been teaching you all about flying?”

  “A pretty hot one. But he’s an older guy.” She looked back at Sam again and arched an eyebrow. “Most people address him as Commander, but I get to call him Dad.” A slow smile spread over Sam’s face as she added, “He’s retired Navy.”

  The pilot’s hatch opened, and Opie hopped in, shaking his longish brown hair back like a wet dog. “OK, let’s stow that gear.” He nodded to their bags. He leaned over Tess, lingering, as he made sure her hatch was secured, with a sighed, “You smell great.” Then he slumped into his own seat and picked up the clipboard with the preflight checklist.

  He began a slow taxi, and she listened politely to his explanation of checking the yaw indicator and feathering the prop. When they finally took off, Opie kept right on talking, going on about his extensive training, his flying skills, his friends and a social life that consisted of getting wasted every Saturday night. With an occasional chilly nod, Tess mostly loo
ked out the window, her lack of interest now clear though Opie prattled on. Sam dozed for a while. But, as they headed west, the flight become bumpier, and he roused a little, listening with his eyes closed to the one-sided conversation.

  In response to Opie’s request to Flight Watch, the radio crackled, “Wind 310 degrees at 11 knots, 3 mile visibility, ceiling 2500 feet.”

  Opie nodded, “OK, we can manage, and we’re getting close. But let’s hustle on getting those pictures. We want to be on the ground when that next big front rolls in.” He looked over at Tess and offered a husky reassurance, “Don’t be scared. I’m taking good care of you. My flight instructor told me I was the best he’d ever seen. Told me I had the makings of a Blue Angel or one of those hot shot military pilots.”

  “Um-hum,” Tess made a pretense of studying the ground below. The turbulence increased.

  From the back, Sam murmured, his eyes still closed. “Didn’t you say your Dad is a Navy pilot, Tess?”

  Sam heard her sigh and answer, “He was. And my two brothers are now.” And he laughed softly, when she said to Opie, “So you really don’t have to explain anything more to me. I’ve kind of had a lifetime of it.”

  “You’ve been up with them, huh?” Opie asked.

  “Sure, in planes like this and even the fighter jets. They’ve flown me around in them all.”

  He nodded. “I thought you were different.” The plane jostled and thumped. “You’re not as skittish as a lot of babes I get.” She glanced back at Sam. His eyes were still closed, but he grinned at the word “babes.”

  “Let’s just say I’ll know when it’s time to be scared. Give me the camera bag, Sam,” she said. He pulled it free, passing it over the seat, then settled back again. Digging out the Leica, she asked, “Could you circle back, and tip us up? I can zoom in, but I need a good angle.”

  “Sure,” Opie smirked over at her, and slowly inched the throttle back. Another bumpy jolt made the plane creak and he laughed, “Like riding a bronco, ain’t it?” She didn’t answer. “So, you know all about flying, huh?” She shrugged, concentrating on the window, watching a low-hanging wisp drift past. “Then you know that in a plane like this you’ve got to,” he leaned closer, letting his hand rest on the denim over her thigh, “pump the flaps and all.” He drew out the word “pump” in an awkward attempt to make it thick with innuendo.

  With a snorting laugh, she brushed him back saying, “Let’s keep your hands on the yoke.”

  But Sam was no longer amused. His eyes sprang open, and he leaned over the seat with a scowl. “OK, Opie, that’s it. Let me give you the bad news. She’s not interested. She’s not ever going to be interested; no matter what you say, no matter how much you talk. So keep your paws to yourself, shut the fuck up, and let the lady work.”

  “Hey!” The pilot looked back at him. “No one talks to me like that. Not while I’m flying the plane.” The plane lurched with a chop of turbulence and he turned abruptly back to the controls, nearly shouting, “And stop calling me Opie!”

  That’s when they heard the engine sputter and felt the plane shudder. In a split second, they were all quiet, waiting. Then the sputter became a cough, and the shudder became a deep vibration.

  Immediately Opie brought the plane level and reached for the fuel selector. But the vibration morphed to a hideous shimmy. “Get that bag stowed.” Opie reached up, flipping the latches of the hatch next to him, and then leaned over Tess to unlock the ones on the passenger side, without even a glance at her. Tess shoved her camera bag at Sam and he quickly, carelessly, dropped it into the storage area behind him. When he turned back, he stared at the windshield in wonder. The raindrops hitting it were leaving odd black smears. Tess moaned, “Oh God,” and then he understood. It was oil, blowing back from the engine.

  “We’re going to have to put down. Thank God the highway down there is closed because of the flooding.” Opie grabbed the radio, and his first word was, “Mayday.”

  Panic buzzing in his ears, Sam couldn’t follow the exchange between Opie and the Rapid City tower, until a crackling question came startling clear. “1919 Papa, how many souls aboard?”

  “Three.” The pilot’s voice cracked in response, and then he repeated firmly, “Three souls aboard.” Even as he spoke, the tortured knocking from the engine suddenly ceased. In the yawning silence, all three gasped as the nose dipped steeply down.

  Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Sam stared straight ahead, aghast at the windmilling prop, Opie’s voice echoing in his brain, “Tower, we have lost all power. Coming down on Highway 96. Request you notify fire and rescue.”

  “Roger. Emergency vehicles are rolling. Godspeed, 19 Papa.”

  Sam’s eyes shot to Tess. When she turned and looked back at him, her own were wide with terror. He couldn’t take it in, that someone so young, so full of energy and laughter, was going to die. It was his doing, his fault. The editors weren’t going to send her at all, but he’d insisted. Knuckles white with his desperate grip on the arm rests, Sam understood that the gliding, sinking sensation was actually the plane falling through the air. But all he could see was Tess, as she reached into the open collar of her shirt and pulled out a fine chain, clutching something tightly in her hand.

  In spite of his strained voice and the shuddering yoke, Opie kept control, and lined the plane up with a flat stretch of rain-drenched highway. “As soon as we’re stopped, get out if you can. Don’t grab your things, just move. Get your heads down.”

  The narrow ribbon of wet concrete seemed to be running toward them, and the words “crash and burn” shrieked into Sam’s mind and flashed to his first job out of college. Covering a fire one night, a sadist Boston cop had won an office pool after setting Sam up with a good long look at a charred corpse. He’d puked his guts out. His eyes went back to Tess’s cheek, smooth and clear as a lily. Then she bent, her face disappearing into her arms, and his throat closed with the most profound regret of his life.

  Bouncing with the wind, they came in hard. The pavement was covered in standing water. Hydroplaning, the nose dipped, and the prop slammed into the ground. Opie pulled back frantically, and as Tess’s head came up, she caught a glimpse of a sheared-off blade. For several seconds, they mercifully skidded straight ahead, but then the left strut slipped off the pavement, hitting a thick gumbo of mud, and snapped off. The plane went spinning, and Sam’s upper body slammed hard into the seat in front, forcing Opie forward, his head crashing into the instrument panel. Tess cried out as the camera bag winged forward, catching her on the left side of her face. Eyes closed, Sam felt his chest burn as he gasped. It seemed to last forever, the violent spinning, crashing and grinding from every side.

  And suddenly everything stopped.

  The silence was overwhelming. Tess couldn’t hear anything except her own jagged gasping. She looked over at Opie, his face a bloody mess lying against the yoke. Dead? She felt a scream working up into her throat, but it caught with a chilling realization. The cabin was filling with smoke.

  “Sam! My god, Sam, we’re on fire!” She unhooked her seat belt and slid sharply toward Opie’s inert body. Confused, she struggled upright, only then recognizing that the plane rested on its side, the left wing shattered and buried in mud. From the window in her door, her view angled up into the slanting rain. Bracing against her seat, she reached up and pushed hard. The door flew wide with surprising ease, and she turned back. “Come on …” she looked down at Opie. He was breathing, a gurgle from his throat, blood bubbling at his lips. Even if he could be roused, no way could he climb out. But he could be pushed out his door. It was only a few feet off the ground.

  “Sam!” she cried again, clutching her seat and hoisting herself until she could finally see him slumped in the back, blood dripping from his lower lip. Stunned, he stared back, then coughed and grabbed at his chest, muttering, “Sweet Jesus, what ... ?”

  “Get out! We’ve got to get out! Something’s burning, Sam!” She leaned way over the seat to c
lutch the front of his windbreaker, trying to shake him. “Reach over Opie, unhook his belt. Get that door open. Hurry! We’re burning!” She pulled herself over even more, trying to get at Sam’s seat belt, but suddenly he understood and grabbed it himself.

  Hunched over the front seat, Sam reached for the handle, pulling, and swearing at the knife-sharp pain in his chest as he pushed at the door. “I can’t get it. Fuck! I can’t get it.” The smoke was getting thicker and he coughed and groaned again.

  “The frame,” Tess coughed too, “it must be bent.”

  “Get out, Tess!” Sam shouted. “Go out your door. Go on.” Sam knew there was no way he could hoist himself up through her door, let alone lift the pilot.

  “No!” she shouted back. “We’ll get it!”

  Opie moaned softly, coming around, and Sam reached down, unbuckled the pilot’s seat belt, and pulled him back, trying to maneuver around him to put more of his own weight against the door. Throwing his shoulder against it, he heard it give a little, but he sucked in his breath, the pain excruciating. Darkness crowded in at the sides of his vision.

  “I can’t,” he slumped over the seat. “Go on, Tess. Get the fuck out. Please!” He heard his own voice catch on a sob.

  “No! We’re all going! Damn it, help me!” He heard her yell, but the smoke made his eyes water, blurring his vision. “Help me!” she shouted again, and he realized she had slipped back down into the passenger’s seat and swung her two legs around, over Opie, to the door. Blindly he pulled back on the handle, his weight to the door, as she kicked out violently, both heels hitting the hatch hard. It opened a bit, fresh air rushing in, and increasing the crackling sound somewhere under the deck. “Oh God,” he heard her moan, then she kicked out again, and this time the door creaked wide enough to squeeze through. “Get him out!” she shouted, pushing at Opie wildly.