A plane isn’t like a car, where you can hit the gas and kick it into turbo. There are more delicate maneuvers required, such as figuring out the other plane’s height and trajectory and speed, and attempting to narrow that gap as safely as possible.
I wait as patiently as I can while Dalton does his thing. As he hits the radar touch screen, numbers fly past. The other plane’s velocity? Height? Distance? I’m not even sure how much of that is possible to get from radar. Dalton and I had talked about training me to fly. That was before Phil arrived. Phil has his license, which means he’s Rockton’s backup pilot. I still want to learn, in case of an emergency, but it is another on a long list of skills I haven’t had time to acquire.
When Dalton’s screen jabs grow more insistent, I know something’s wrong. I glance over to see him frowning. He squints out the windshield, but I see nothing on the horizon. More jabbing. More frowning.
I bite my tongue against asking what’s wrong.
Dalton’s lips move in a familiar phrase. “What the fuck?”
I bite my tongue harder. He smacks the radar, not a hard bang but a smack of annoyance, as if it’s malfunctioning. Then he returns his attention to flying, his face tight.
We ease downward and pick up speed, and I’m squirming in my seat now, desperately wanting to ask what’s wrong. Then I see a dot flying below low cloud cover. It drops and then veers to one side. Another drop before the nose rises again.
Dalton’s on the radio, identifying himself in a machine-gun patter, his voice strained but calm.
“Are you in distress?” he asks. “Do you require assistance?”
Dalton pauses to listen to the radio channel. The line between his brows deepens, and I know he’s not getting an answer. Ahead, the growing dot continues to move erratically.
Dalton repeats his identification along with coordinates.
“I am close enough to assist,” he says. “Please respond.”
His brow fissure only grows. The plane is listing to one side now and starting to circle.
“Fuck it,” he snaps. “This is Eric Dalton, sheriff of Rockton, the town where you just picked up your passengers. I am here to assist. Please respond. I can see you are in fucking distress, and I am trying to fucking help.”
His jaw works, as if grinding his teeth.
“If you can hear me and cannot respond, you are losing altitude fast. You are—Fuck!”
The plane has completed its circle and is coming straight for us. Dalton acts quickly but calmly as he moves us to one side. When the other plane circles into our path again, Dalton lets out a string of profanity.
“Are they intentionally—?” I begin.
Before I can finish, the other plane veers and drops. It’s not trying to hit us. It’s out of control.
The gap between us has closed enough for me to see the plane clearly. We might not be moving at jet speeds, but that is still far too close. Dalton works fast to get us out of the way.
“Can you hear me?” he says, his voice louder. “Can you see me? Something is wrong with your plane. You need to land.”
He switches to the intercom and turns to me. “Look out your side. Any clearing. Even water.”
I’m already looking, and I see nothing but trees. Dalton’s doing the same while talking steadily, as if the other plane is in mild distress and not about to crash.
“There!” I shout. “Two o’clock. A burn site.”
Dalton sees it and starts machine-gunning instructions to the other plane. He tells it where to go. Then he tells it to follow us, and we’ll lead it in.
Is he getting any response? Any at all? I suspect the answer is no, but there is nothing Dalton can do except talk and lead.
He turns our plane toward the burn site. It’s a long patch of wilderness scar tissue, blackened stumps that will not be perfect for landing but will be better than crashing through fifty-foot pines.
Soon we’re ahead of the other plane, and again, it isn’t like a car, where I could just twist around and see what they’re doing. There are windows, but I’m squinting out them, unable to catch more than a flash or two of what seems to be the plane behind us.
“Are they following?” I ask, when I can’t keep silent any longer.
“I don’t know,” he says grimly. “They’re behind us, but they’re all over the place.”
“I am going to land,” he says, the change in tone telling me he’s speaking to the other pilot. “If you are listening, follow me. And if you aren’t listening, I hope to hell you can see me and figure it out.”
I want to ask if there’s enough room to land, if even we can do it safely. The answer must be yes. He wouldn’t risk it otherwise.
We start to drop, and Dalton’s focus shifts entirely to our plane. I keep straining to see the other one, only catching glimpses of it when it flies into view. Dalton’s right. It’s behind us. That’s all we can tell.
As we fly lower, I can see the burn site better. It’s recent. Not much regrowth. There’s also a bare patch of rock, one that seems to grow blessedly larger as we descend.
We’re in a small plane, almost half the size of the other one. We can land here easily. Taking off will be tougher, maybe even impossible for them. Not a concern right now. We just need to get down, and within a few heartbeats, I feel the tap of the tires on rock. Then we’re rolling along.
“I’m taxiing as far as I can get,” Dalton says. “Giving them all the room they need.”
Our plane rolls toward the forest. It comes to a stop. Then Dalton’s eyes go wide.
“What the—? Out! Out now!”
I yank off my belt, and I’m reaching for my door when he shouts “No!” and grabs me with both hands, hauling me to his side. Something flashes outside the window. It’s the other plane, coming down right beside us. Dalton drags me out his door, and we run for cover.
THIRTY-NINE
Metal screams, an endless shriek. Dalton throws himself on me, and we hit the ground, rolling on the forest floor together.
I am waiting for the crash. There isn’t one. Just that scream of metal. Then it ends, and we lie there, Dalton’s arms around me so tight I can barely breathe.
Finally, he exhales with, “Okay, okay, okay,” quiet reassurance, as much for himself as for me.
“I should have let them crash,” he mutters as he lifts his head. “That was close. Too fucking close.”
I say nothing. My heart slams against my ribs so hard I’m not sure I could speak if I tried. When we rise, we’re both shaking. I take a deep breath, and his echoes it.
“Are they…?” I trail off before I can ask whether they’re okay. He can’t answer that. Neither of us can until we go out and see.
I should run to see what I can do. But my knees are quivering, and a tiny voice whispers that I do not want to go over there. I do not want to see what has happened.