The Devil's breath

He could see it. Almost. The words were there, forming in his mind’s eye. Rather Too Many Pilots Forget How It Goes. That was it. His mind raced with anticipation as his fingers did the work.

Radio and Rudder-check.

Trim Elevator for takeoff-OK.

Throttle tension, set for start-done.

Mixture, rich; Magnetos on-got it.

Fuel select, both tanks-already done.

Flaps. Something about flaps.

What else did F stand for? Forgetful.

He couldn’t remember what the other letters meant, but he had done what his memory told him and everything had flickered into life. The engine coughed and spluttered, the propeller suddenly spun, and when he released the parking brake the plane moved forward. Max let out a cry of victory. As he eased the throttle forward on the instrument panel, the propeller roared louder and they broke free from the safety of cover.

It demanded all his attention. The Flight Simulator game on his computer at school was one thing, but this was quite another, and he was going too fast, like driving a lorry with his foot flat down. He had jammed his feet on the pedals and his hands turned the controls, but he had gone the wrong way. He had to face into the wind for takeoff.

Rudder, controls, throttle eased back-the plane turned.

The brakes were awkward, sitting just above the rudder pedals, and they pulled to one side. But he raised his foot slightly, found the right position, and the plane wallowed to a halt. Now it sat, braked, facing the wind. Max could feel it trying to lift the wings-exactly what he wanted-but through the high-speed blur of the propeller he could see the leaden sky. It flattened all the color of the landscape: the malignant clouds in turmoil, the storm fit to burst. Max had to take off, but he couldn’t stay on that heading once he was up there. That turbulence would chew him up and spit him out. In pieces.

He hesitated. The radio had hummed into life once the engine started. He could just call for help, the batteries were charging now, he could simply keep on calling until someone heard him, and then they’d come and rescue them. Maybe.

The decision was made for him.

The same pickup truck that had hunted!Koga was coming straight for him, from exactly where he had abandoned the sand yacht. Men hung on in the back as it jolted across the uneven ground-they’d obviously seen him, but they couldn’t get a clear shot at him yet.

Max scanned the dials and gauges. Had he forgotten anything? Too late to worry about it; he released the footbrakes, pushed in the throttle, and the plane bucked forward. It veered, lurching because of the propeller’s gyroscopic pitch-not that Max knew why it had pulled. Instinctively he tapped the left brake with his foot and it corrected itself. But the plane still swung left and right, the tail wheel bouncing across the uneven ground, causing it to sway. Max didn’t know what to do except ride out the problem. Then, as the airflow moved across the wings, it stabilized.

Faster now, trying to maintain direction with the rudder pedals, heading straight towards that heavy sky on the horizon. More speed; fifty knots, he had to go faster. He shoved the throttle all the way forward; sixty, seventy. Bumping badly now, the controls vibrating in his hands; the men less than two hundred meters off; the end of the grass in sight-it had to be now. Eighty.

Max pulled back the controls and the plane lifted its nose-if he went too steep he would stall-he remembered, light touch, nothing too brutal with a plane-nurse it upwards, let it do the work. Hailstones clattered against the fuselage … three holes appeared in the port wing-they weren’t hailstones. Come on! Come on! Take off! The pickup truck was almost on him. The men’s mouths yelled silent curses. The plane soared upwards.

As the wind helped lift the wings, the altimeter told him he was already at three hundred feet. He adjusted the throttle until the air speed indicator showed he was flying at a hundred and twenty knots. Max eased the plane around in a long, sweeping turn, watching to see that the nose stayed up, the propeller tip nudging above what he could see of the horizon-he knew that was the ideal attitude for a plane. Now he had the storm at his back, it was time to call for help.

Taking off was one thing. Landing was a far more terrifying problem.

24

Down in the airfield’s bar, Ferdie van Reenen was rolling a cigarette, a cold beer on the countertop in front of him, as Tobias poured himself a mug of coffee.

Kallie was sitting next to her dad. “I thought you’d quit smoking.”

“I did, but you’ve put me back on to them. I’m too old for all this stress, y’know. Anyway, I haven’t lit it yet, have I?”

He emptied the tobacco from the cigarette paper into his hand and began the process again.

Mike Kapuo came in, closing the door firmly behind him. “Wind’s picking up.” He nodded at Tobias as the barman offered the coffeepot.

“Storm’ll break in a couple of hours, then no one will be flying. When are those Brits getting here?” van Reenen asked.

Kapuo checked his watch. “About an hour, maybe a bit more.”

Van Reenen had rolled another cigarette. “And what about your blokes?”

“Bogged down in bureaucracy and infighting. Army wants one thing, police commissioner wants another, and the politicians all want to be covered in glory.”

“They’ll be covered in something else if they don’t get this mess sorted.” Van Reenen moaned as he put the cigarette between his lips.

Kallie eased off the stool and moved away. “Don’t expect me to look after you when your lungs pack up.”

“What I expect is your antics will have put me in an early grave long before then.”

“Whatever,” she said, and found herself a stool further along the counter. Their chitchat was a way of relieving the tension because, whatever else was going on, they were being forced to wait and it was driving them all crazy. Kallie stared at the receiver propped behind the bar. Wherever Max was, he might still be able to reach a radio and send a message.

The storm whiplashed the air. Max was struggling to keep the plane flying on an even keel while it was being buffeted by the violent wind.!Koga was still unconscious and Max couldn’t even be sure whether he was still breathing. Flying with one hand, Max checked the radio; it was set to 121.5 megacycles. Was that right? Would that get through to anyone? Why would his dad have had that frequency tuned in? It must mean something. He pressed the handset to his lips. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.” He released the transmit button. Nothing. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is Max Gordon. I need help. Can anyone hear me? I’m flying a plane and I need help. Hello? Mayday. Anybody?”

Ferdie van Reenen had scrambled over the counter, spilled his beer, and grabbed the handset. “Max. We hear you! Over.”

Kallie was right behind him.

There was a garbled response that then was cut off. “Max, listen, son, this is Kallie’s pa. Speak into the handset, release the button, and listen. That’s how it works.”

Max’s voice came over the speaker. “I understand. I need help.”

“I know. Is your father with you? Over.”

There was a pause.

“No,” said Max. “Dad’s at Skeleton Rock. But I’ve got an injured Bushman boy with me. He’s really hurt and