Читать книгу Baby Vs. The Bar - M.J. Rodgers - Страница 8

David Demerchant didn’t know his plane was diving directly into the sparkling silver waters of the Pacific Ocean.

A shaft of sudden, piercing light penetrated his closed eyelids, cracking them open, coaxing him back into consciousness. David squinted into the setting sun reflecting off the sea into the cockpit. He snapped to shocked attention, bolted upright and pulled back on the control wheel. The plane’s nose shot up, its engines singing from the sudden thrust that sent it soaring skyward.

David’s eyes became riveted on the climbing altimeter, his heart pounding in his ears as he realized he’d been a few hundred feet away from a watery grave.

Hot sweat broke out on his brow and under his arms. Icy sweat poured down his back. He continued to grip the controls until the plane had climbed to nine thousand feet. Only then did he ease the wheel forward to level off.

He swallowed the thick, cloying phlegm that had collected in his throat. He let out a relieved breath as his heartbeat began to slow to normal. That was close. Far too close.

The monotonous fatigue of the long, lonely flight had come on so gradually that he’d never realized he had been falling into a deep, deadly sleep. That was the first time he’d lost consciousness while at the controls. He was lucky it hadn’t been his last.

He glanced at his watch. Eleven hours had passed since he’d taken off from Seattle. Damn. He had overflown Honolulu, his first stop. He really had been asleep at the controls. He checked his magnetic compass and automatic direction finder. It was worse than he had thought. Looked like a strong southeast wind had taken him hundreds of miles north of his heading. Why hadn’t he noticed and compensated for the wind? Where had his mind been?

It would be too easy for him to drift off again into a sleep born of fatigue. He was going to have to put down soon and get some rest.

David verified his location on his aircraft position chart. He had already crossed the international date line. Great. Just great. Not a whole lot out here in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, except for the Midway Islands just to the southeast of him. And the only airstrip there was military.

Still, it had to be Midway. He had no choice. He folded his position chart and laid it on the empty passenger seat. He banked his plane into a slow left turn to take him southeast. The nose of his plane headed into the darkening sky. Only the droning engine and numbing fatigue surrounded him.

He reached into his pocket for his caffeine pills. They’d better help this time. He grasped his lucky gold flask lying on the passenger seat and unscrewed the top.

“A little tardy, but here’s to once again safely crossing the international date line and eluding King Neptune’s wrath,” he said, holding up the flask in formal salute.

David normally didn’t drink while flying, but ever since his first successful flight over the Pacific, the wine toast had become a tradition every time he crossed the international date line. He meant to keep it—and his luck— going.

For David knew that when a pilot was all alone in the air and over an ocean, he needed all the luck he could get, regardless of his competence or the plane’s safety.

He downed the caffeine pill along with a small swig of sparkling wine from the flask. But instead of refreshing his throat, this time the wine left a bitter taste in his mouth.

David recapped the flask and put it aside.

He didn’t want to make this trip to Guam. He’d been left with no choice. He must know. Everything.

He sat up straight and did rigorous isometric exercises, determined to remain vigilant. His face began to feel warm. From the exercise?

The seconds on the control panel clock marked their passing with a loud clicking in his ears. Or were those minutes that were ticking past so quickly?

His limbs were beginning to feel like mush, his thoughts limp and soggy. Damn, when was that caffeine going to kick in?

He shook his head as though to shake back his proper time sense and disperse the growing fuzziness in his brain.

He gripped the wheel, flexing his hand and arm muscles, and tried to focus on his upcoming radio call. Midway was not going to be happy to get a call from a private pilot way off his course, requesting to land because of fatigue.

David’s face felt so hot, his eyelids were so sore and heavy. He had a hard time sitting up straight. He grabbed the golden flask, unscrewed the top and dumped the remaining sparkling wine over his head.

The alcohol stung his eyes. He fought a sudden whirling white vortex encroaching on his peripheral vision.

Must keep my mind active. Must concentrate on the radio call to Midway. Damn, what do I tell them?

“You don’t have to tell them anything,” a brusque voice said from somewhere inside the cockpit.

David shot up in his seat as his eyes fixed on the owner of that voice. It was a six-inch-high, black-bearded, golden-crowned King Neptune, perched on the instrument panel, sprawled across a black anchor, grasping a silver trident in its right fist.

The hair at the back of David’s neck stood straight up. He shook his head, blinking hard. But the apparition didn’t go away. A part of David’s brain told him this tiny King Neptune wasn’t really there. But another part of his brain, the part that was seeing it, wasn’t so sure. His hands began to shake on the control wheel.

An eerie pink smile cracked the dark beard on King Neptune’s face. “Don’t worry. You’re not going to have to tell those military guys anything. You’ve already crashed, Davy boy. You’re in my domain now. Thirty fathoms deep and descending.”

A flash of icy alarm shot through the still-rational part of David’s brain.

Had he already crashed into the sea? Was he already dead? No! He must not listen! He must not believe!

His reflexes responded to the panic, switching into automatic. He set his transponder at 7700 and squawk indent. That would send a special code to let any monitoring controller know his position and that he was in trouble. He fumbled with the radio dial, trying to find the emergency frequency as the digits on the instrument panel swirled into the whirling white vortex swallowing his vision.

The tiny King Neptune rolled against the barnacled anchor in belly-shaking mirth, mocking David’s efforts, its laughter high and screechy, like static. David grabbed the radio mike. His eyes blurred, his throat burned, his words slurred, as he shoved them through his swollen lips.

“Mayday, Mayday—”