“Under or around,” he yelled, but he couldn’t tell if she heard him.
Fortunately, the cloud ended minutes later, and he took the plane up to three thousand feet again. They soared past land that jutted out to their right. Must be one of the peninsulas near Traverse City. Given their time in the air and direction, that should be it, but just to be certain, he tapped Darcy on the shoulder and indicated she should take another sighting.
He had to admit she’d been a quick study on the sextant. Navigating in an open cockpit was a constant challenge, with the cold and the blasting wind. If the fingers weren’t too stiff to work the sextant and take notes, the map and tables threatened to blow away. To get an accurate reading, she had to take multiple rapid sightings and then average them.
He hoped she was as accurate in the air as on the land.
She held up the slate. He pointed down, indicating he wanted to see the map. She carefully held it up, their flight line penned onto the light blue of the lake. He’d been correct.
Soon they’d cross the last of Lake Michigan and go over the Upper Peninsula, which could still be snow-covered. He hoped that would prepare them for the north Atlantic ice fields.
The land turned out to be speckled with snow and evergreens. He’d forgotten about the trees. That changed the heat of the land and gave them clear flying until Lake Superior.
Three miles over that vast body of water, fog rose. His gut clenched. Fog was every aviator’s nightmare. In a light fog with a strong sun, sightings could still be made, but if it thickened navigation got tough. It also brought weight gain from the condensation. Flying east might take them out of it, but that wouldn’t test their skills. Chances were, he’d encounter fog over the Atlantic. If he could conquer it here, he could make it there.
Darcy had given him a position less than ten minutes before entering the fogbank. On the present course, they’d come out of the fog in no more than two hours when they reached Ontario.
Once again, he had to constantly wipe his goggles. Between the thick air and the condensation, he struggled to see his gauges. He had to hold his watch close to read it. Finally he gave up and ripped the goggles off. The rushing air made his eyes water, but by squinting he could see better than with the steamed-up goggles.
Daylight waned without a sign the fog would thin. Jack gnawed his lip. It shouldn’t be getting this dark at four o’clock. Either the fog was thickening or a storm was building. Neither boded well for their flight. He considered turning back, but they had almost covered the full distance. Just a little farther, and they’d be over land and the fog would clear. It couldn’t happen soon enough. He would head east on the return, staying over land. He’d had enough fog for this trip.
Fifteen minutes passed. A half hour. According to the compass, they were on course, but the fog hadn’t cleared yet. They should be over land. In the absence of wind, there could be little drift, and with the prevailing westerlies, they’d have drifted toward land, not away from it. Either Darcy’s sightings had been wrong, putting them out over Superior’s open waters, or the fog extended far inland.
He was about to take the plane east when the left engine coughed. Like with the scout plane, it cranked back up to speed a moment later. Jack glanced over, worried. He’d dumped another can of fuel into the tank before the fogbank. They shouldn’t be running low.
Then a droplet hit his cheek. And another.
Rain?
He checked the wings. The slowly winding rope that had been knotting in his stomach balled tight.
Condensation covered the wings, and it wasn’t running off. It was freezing.
With the dimming daylight, the air temperatures must be dropping. The Kensington Express would soon be coated in ice. Too much, and they’d drop like a stone. He figured he had less than fifteen minutes. He headed the plane to a lower altitude, hoping the temperatures were warmer.
Darcy’s head whipped around and then back. She scribbled on the slate and showed him. “Altitude?”
He pointed to the wings and then down. He didn’t know if she understood. He’d never explained the problem with freezing temperatures.
Then the left engine choked. It raced to life again for a moment and then died. That knot in his stomach jumped to his throat. Keeping the plane under control with one engine took all his skill. He tried to restart the engine. Nothing. Again. It cranked but wouldn’t start.
He slammed a fist against the fuselage. Fog. Dead engine. No visibility. Ice. He needed to land, but how? He struggled to control the yawing.
Then the right motor died.