Extreme Justice

Hours later Rick disengaged the autopilot, began a gradual descent to 5,000 feet and turned east to avoid the weather ahead. Ten minutes later, preparing to reset the autopilot, he spotted an abnormal oil pressure reading in the left engine. Unconcerned but alert, he monitored the instruments closely. Over the next several minutes the pressure continued to slowly drop until it hovered just above the red warning line.

He swore as a jolt of adrenaline fueled by rising panic surged through his body. At that moment, the left engine backfired, belching oily, black smoke. Seconds later the engine misfired again, and he watched a thin tail of flame snake through the smoke. Shit! This couldn’t be happening! Not today, not with drugs on board.

Mind racing, he struggled to control his panic. Finally, years of training in aircraft emergency scenarios took over. He quickly feathered the engine, shutting off the fuel and starving the fire. He watched the propeller slowly rotate to a stop. He increased power to the right engine, and adjusted the rudder trim, working desperately to maintain altitude and speed.

Rick considered his options. He was confident he could limp into New Jersey on one engine, but why take the chance? The better alternative was to land, identify the problem and make the necessary repairs. He was confident his illicit cargo, securely hidden under his feet, would remain undiscovered while the engine was repaired. There would be a delay, but no need to ditch the plane and forfeit his $300,000 paycheck.

Decision made, Rick tuned his radio to the international distress frequency, 121.5. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, Baron 435 Juliette Kilo has a left engine fire,” he radioed.

Immediately, he received a response. “Baron 435 Juliette Kilo, Virginia Beach Approach. Squawk 7700 and ident. Say altitude, fuel and souls on board.”

Rick punched 7700, the general emergency code, into his transponder and pressed the ‘Ident’ button. On the Virginia Beach Approach screens Rick’s radar return blossomed, instantly separating him from the other radar traffic. Then he pressed the NRST button on his panel mounted GPS, which responded with a three letter identifier, OCS, the heading, 290 degrees, and the distance to the nearest airport, Oceanside, which was seven miles away.

“Four three five Juliette Kilo squawking 7700 with three hours of fuel and one soul aboard.”

“Baron 435 Juliette Kilo you are radar contact fifteen miles southeast of Virginia Beach at 5,000 feet. Confirm that you are declaring an emergency at this time.”

“Roger, Baron 435 Juliette Kilo is declaring an emergency,” he acknowledged.

“Baron 435 Juliette Kilo, Oceanside is at your ten o’clock and seven miles away. You may descend at your discretion. Winds are three zero at five, altimeter three zero one five. You are cleared to land any runway and stay with me this frequency.”

Rick banked to the left and headed toward the coast, using all the piloting skills he could muster. The plane began to lose altitude as he struggled to maintain level flight with only one engine.

It was a losing battle. The low silhouette of the Virginia coastline appeared through a layer of haze. Slowly, the shoreline loomed larger. He took a deep breath. With luck he would not ditch in the ocean. If only he had a co-pilot to dump the cargo while he was over water. In an instant his life had morphed into a nightmare.

Now less than one hundred feet above the water, he realized that an emergency landing at Oceanside Airport was impossible. Low scrub and pines bordered the beach and extended inland. He would try to pancake in an open area, set fire to the plane if it failed to ignite on impact and make a run for it.

“Baron 435 Juliette Kilo, radar contact lost, do you have Oceanside in sight?”

Formats

Softcover

£12.49

£9.90

Softcover

£9.90