Evidence of Mercy (3 page)

“I've got it,” he said.

She watched out the window as he boxed around the airport and began his descent, and her heart grew heavier. Absently, her fingertips stroked the soft gray cloth of the seats that were so comfortable to her, and she wondered if she'd ever find another sanctuary that was quite as fulfilling. Jake was getting a real bargain, and she was the big loser. She almost wished she hadn't cleaned the charcoal carpet last week or polished the instrument panel or vacuumed the cloth ceiling. All those things only contributed to the comfort and luxury of the quiet cabin. If it had been dirty or ragged or badly maintained, maybe he wouldn't have wanted it.

Jake reached for the lever to release the landing gear, and a short whirring sound followed as it started lowering. But the sound was too short, and Lynda shot a look at the instruments.

“Is there something wrong with these lights?” Jake asked.

Lynda checked the gear indicator lights. According to them, the landing gear hadn't gone down. She leaned up and grabbed the lever. Nothing happened.

“I heard them go down before,” Jake said. “Didn't you hear it?”

“It didn't sound right,” Lynda said. “Either they're jammed, or the light's not working. Pull up.”

She waited as Jake aborted the landing and climbed again. “I'll check the circuit breaker,” she said. “Keep trying the lever.”

Jake tried again and failed, as Lynda pressed on the circuit breaker marked “gear.”

“It seems okay,” she said, maintaining her calm. “Let me pump it down manually.”

Gripping the hand pump between the seats, she tried to pump it down by hand, but the light still wouldn't come on.

“Here, let me,” he said, trying to move her hand.

“Something's wrong,” she said, surrendering it. “The pump moves too easily, and nothing happens.”

Jake tried it, his face growing tense. “It has to be a busted hose, or there'd be more resistance.”

“No,” she argued. “It can't be. It just can't.”

But she couldn't think of anything else it could be, and as panic began to rise inside her, she tried it again.

T
here was nothing Mike Morgan hated worse than a hotdogger playing with a plane as though it were a paper kite. Aggravated, he watched out the window as the plane feigned a landing, then pulled up at the last minute.

It couldn't be Lynda flying, he told himself, sitting in his makeshift control tower that looked more like a concession booth. Lynda had too much respect for her plane. It had to be the arrogant guy who belonged to that red Porsche. Grabbing his microphone, he called up to the plane to put a stop to this.

“Cherokee 1–2 Delta—St. Clair Unicom. What's with the touch-and-go's, Lynda?”

He waited for an answer, and when he didn't get one, he pushed the button again. “Lynda? Do you read me?”

Finally, he heard her voice. “We're having a little problem with our landing gear, Mike. We're not sure whether it's down or not.”

“Oh, no,” he said to himself then glanced out at the plane circling overhead.

“Mike, we're going to do a flyby. Could you come out and see if the gear's down?”

Mike grabbed his binoculars with his left hand and pressed the button again with his right. “Affirmative, Lynda.”

Then dashing through the glass doors, he tried to see just how much trouble they were really in.

C
herokee 1–2 Delta—St. Clair Unicom. You reading me, Lynda?”

“1–2 Delta.” Bracing herself, Lynda looked over at Jake, whose temples glistened with perspiration. “How does it look, Mike?”

“Worse than we thought, guys. The landing gear is only partially down, and one looks like it's down further than the other.”

Jake swore, and Lynda closed her eyes and tried to let the news sink in.

“We can't even do a smooth belly landing if it's
partially
down!” Jake said. “And if it's not locked all the way down, it could squirrel all over the place.”

“Even if it's locked where it is, we'll land lopsided,” she said. “We'll lose a wing and cartwheel.”

Jake grabbed the microphone out of her hand. “Mike, could you see any oil?”

“I was just getting to that,” Mike said. “It looks like there could be oil streaming down the belly behind the gear. Did you try to pump it manually?”

Lynda and Jake exchanged worried looks, and Lynda took the mike back. “We tried, Mike. It has to be a loose hose.”

Jake snatched the microphone again. “Mike, we're gonna have to take our chances and land with what we've got.”

“No!” Lynda shouted. “We could crash! My plane would be destroyed.”

“Not to mention its passengers!” he shouted back at her. “But there isn't enough fuel for us to stay up here long enough for a miracle, so unless you've got any better ideas. . . .”

Viciously, Lynda tried the hand pump again and then the automatic lever, as if the plane might have healed itself in the last few minutes.

Finally giving up, she took the mike back. “It won't go up
or
down, Mike. He's right. We don't have any choice.”

“I'm so glad you agree,” Jake said caustically.

Lynda ignored him.

“I don't see any alternative either, Lynda,” Mike admitted. “This could be bad. The wind isn't gonna help any. This crosswind could be a nightmare.”

“Yeah,” she said, “and if the gear isn't down all the way, then our brakes aren't working, either. And the fire hazard. . . .”

Jake jerked the mike back. “If we had a choice, Mike, we'd sure find another way. But we don't. Are you ready for us or not?”

“No, not yet,” Mike said. “It'll take some preparation. Just stand by, and I'll get back to you.”

Silence followed, and Jake set the microphone back on its hook and continued circling the airport.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

It was the closest Lynda had ever been to death, yet she didn't feel the peace she had always thought she'd feel. She wasn't ready to die—not mentally, emotionally, or spiritually. Wasn't there supposed to be a warning so good-byes could be said, apologies made, and affairs put in order? She just wasn't supposed to take off into the sky on a morning test flight and then never come back down.

“I hope somebody moves my Porsche,” Jake said, eyeing the small airport below them.

Again, Lynda was amazed. “We're about to crash, and all you care about is your car?”

His expression betrayed his growing anger. “You're the one who cared more about your plane surviving than the people in it.”

“Hey,
I'm
in it. I'm not crazy about the prospect of death either!”

Wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve, he said, “Look, we don't have time for this. We have to get ready, whether we like it or not. I'll land the plane. I have more experience with emergencies.”

“You don't have experience with
this plane,
Lindbergh. The weight's different, and you don't have a feel for it. You might bring it down too hard, and with this crosswind—”

“How many real emergency landings have you ever made?” he cut in.

“None. But I know—”

“I've had two,” he said. “
I'm
landing the plane.”

“This is no time for ego!”

“You're right. It's not.”

Livid, they stared at each other neither wanting to back down. Suddenly, the cabin seemed too small for both of them, and she wished she could put more space between them. If she could just breathe. . . .

On the verge of tears, she said, “All right, maybe you
are
more experienced. You land it, and I'll cut off the engine and the fuel. We'll need to shut everything off before we touch down. This is gonna take both of us.”

Cursing, Jake tried the pump again, his hands trembling. When it was obvious how hopeless it was, he sent another expletive flying and slammed his hand into the instrument panel. “Piece of trash! Don't you ever check your landing gear?”

“Of course I do,” she said. “I've never had any problem with it at all! I just had an annual three months ago, and everything was fine.”

“A pilot should know every inch of his plane!”

“I didn't notice
you
sticking your head up the wheel well on the preflight!”

“It's
your
plane.” He wiped his forehead again. “Are you sure you weren't just trying to unload it on some poor soul before you had to foot some major repair bills?”

Her mouth fell open. “I didn't even want to sell it! If my father hadn't died and left me a mountain of debts, you wouldn't even be here!”

“Lucky me.”

Again, thick silence filled the cabin, and she told herself she wouldn't cry. She couldn't do what had to be done if her eyes were blurry with tears. “Look, we have to try to get this plane down without either of us getting killed. Now, if we could just—”

“Cherokee 1–2 Delta,” the radio cut in. “St. Clair Unicom.”

Lynda took the microphone. “1–2 Delta. Go ahead, Mike.”

“We're trying to clear the runway, but we need a little time to clear the tarmac, too, so no other planes are damaged. Just hang on for a few minutes. You have plenty of fuel, don't you?”

“Enough to blow us to kingdom come,” Jake muttered.

She sighed and checked the gauge. “About forty minutes' worth.”

“Well,” Mike said, “it won't hurt to burn some of that off to cut down on the fire hazard. While we're waiting, is there anyone either of you would like for us to contact? Jake?”

Jake hesitated for a moment, racking his brain for someone who would care. The little blonde on the steps came to mind, but he only remembered her room number, not her name. He thought of his boss, but in case things came out all right, he was afraid of the conclusions the airline might draw about the crash landing.

Dismally, he realized that there really wasn't anyone.

“Jake?” Mike prompted. “Do you read me?”

Jake took the mike. “Nobody, okay? I don't want you to contact anybody.”

He couldn't escape the long look Lynda gave him.

“Lynda?”

Jake handed the mike to her and saw the emotion pulling at her face. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Contact Sally Crawford at 555–2312. Tell her to cancel all my appointments for this afternoon. But you don't have to do it now, Mike. Wait until . . . afterward, so she won't have to sweat this out.”

Jake gaped at her. “Cancel your
appointments?”

Her face turned rock hard, and she didn't answer him.

“Don't you have a mother or a lover or somebody?” he asked.

“No.”

“So the closest person to you is your secretary? That's pretty pathetic.”

Her face reddened. “Who do you think
you
are? At least I had somebody to call. What about
your
mother or a close friend or even an enemy or two? Surely you must have a couple of women somewhere who'd be interested in knowing you're about to buy the farm!”

His jaw popped. “Both of my parents are dead. And I'd rather admit there was no one than to hide behind some secretary and all those important appointments.”

“If I wanted someone, I could have someone. There are plenty—” Her voice cracked, and she cut herself off, unable to go on. Tears came to her eyes, making her angrier, and she struggled to hold them back.

“But right now there's no one who cares that you're probably about to die. You're just as alone as I am.”

“There are worse things than dying alone!” Lynda threw back at him.

“Are there?” His voice softened by degrees, and as he looked out the window at the activity on the tarmac below them, he said, “Right now it seems to me that the worst thing in the world is. . . .”

“What?” she asked. “What is the worst thing in the world?”

“Dying with a total stranger.”

The reality of that concept knocked the breath from her, and she fought the conflicting feelings assaulting her. As her first tears fell, they were both quiet, embroiled in battle with their own raging thoughts.

Her tears softened him, and finally, he let out a long, weary breath. “You're right, you know. There're at least three women who would like to see me burn.”

“They probably have good reason,” she whispered.

“Yeah, probably. I guess if you condemn a man for not wanting to tie himself to one woman for life, I deserve what I get.”

“Life isn't really that long, though, is it?”

“Not lately,” he said.

He looked out the window, searching the area around the airport. “If we could just find a pasture or something to land in. If we landed in the dirt, it would cut down on the fire hazard.”

“The joys of flying in this part of Florida. Nothing but pavement and swamp. And the swamp has too many trees for a water landing.”

“It might not be so bad if the gas tank weren't so low. I think I could get us down on the belly, maybe without cartwheeling, but the sparks could start a fire.”

“Maybe they won't,” she whispered with her last vestige of hope.

“Maybe not,” Jake whispered. “I've still got a lot of living to do.”

CHAPTER THREE

O
n the ground, Mike looked at the plane through his binoculars again, wishing for a miracle. But the landing gear was still unevenly dropped and only partially down. Dropping the binoculars around his neck, he waved an arm, directing the planes that were moving, one by one, from their parked positions on the tarmac. The red Porsche sat right in the way, and for a moment, he thought of driving it out to the middle of Runway 4 so that Jake would have to run over it himself. It would be poetic justice.

Then he quelled the thought and checked to see whether the keys were in the ignition. Waving to one of the men nearby, he said, “Get this car out of the way, will you?”