The cold air screaming into the cabin helped Charlie regain control of his muscles. His panic abated, or at least moved aside, allowing him to wonder how his father was doing and hope that, if he was okay, he would know what the hell to do now.
Drummond was crumpled on the copilot’s seat, breathing, but not much more.
Charlie jumped up from his seat in the cabin, but the rush of air swept him off his feet, sucking him like a dust ball toward the aperture where the cabin door used to be.
He grabbed for the bulkhead. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself around it and into the cockpit. As he noticed the Caribbean leaping toward him, his stomach jumped into his throat.
He glanced at the instrument panels. There were a hundred times as many dials, knobs, buttons, gauges, and other glass bubbles as there were controls in the PlayStation aerial dogfight game that constituted his aviation experience. Save the pair of yokes, one in front of each seat. A yoke acted like a steering wheel. It also moved the nose of the plane up and down. At least on PlayStation.
He grasped the yoke in front of the vacated pilot’s seat and pulled it toward him.
The nose of the plane turned up. Too much-the sensation was just like that on a roller coaster when the car transitions from plummet to climb. Gravity thrust Charlie backward. He grabbed the seat in time to avoid being thrown back into the cabin.
PlayStation didn’t do this.
He reached forward and ever so gently nudged the yoke forward.
The plane fell into a nosedive.
Stomach imploding, Charlie gripped the seat so tightly that he tore the leather at a seam. He tried the yoke again.
The nose turned up, and-incredible-the plane settled. But for how long?
Out of tricks, he knelt by Drummond, shaking him. Drummond rolled the other way.
“Dad, please?”
Drummond struggled to open his eyes. “Where are we?”
“Airplane. Sky. Caribbean somewhere. You with me by any chance?”
“Check.” Sitting up, Drummond glanced out the cockpit windows. He exhibited no alarm. Possibly a good sign. “Are you okay?”
“I am if you know how to fly,” Charlie said.
“You mean a plane?”
Charlie battled terror to think of a way to communicate the exigency in a way that might spark his father’s memory. “Bream’s trying to make it look like we died in a plane crash.”
“What kind of plane?” Drummond asked.
“This kind.”
Struggling to sit up, Drummond took inventory of the cockpit. “Use the autopilot,” he said. His speech was sluggish. He tried to reach forward, toward the instrument panel. His arm seemed leaden. He teetered.
Charlie propped him up. “Hang in there, Dad,” he said.
As Drummond tried to recompose himself, Charlie searched for the autopilot. The search could take half an hour. If there even was an autopilot.
He looked back at Drummond, who appeared transfixed by the passing clouds.
“Where is the autopilot?”
“Oh, that, yes, right.” Drummond seemed grateful for the reminder. “Sorry, we need to find someone to help.”
“Say you were the only person on the plane?”
“I’d radio for help.”
Charlie dropped into the pilot’s seat, snatched up the headset, and brought the microphone to his lips. “Mayday! Mayday!”
No response.
Drummond pointed at the talk switch located on the top of the yoke. Charlie hit it. Then tried more distress calls. Still nothing. Not even a crackle.
He wiggled the headset jack at the base of the instrument and tapped the radio. The channel selector read 118.0 MHz.
He looked to his father. “Is there an airplane equivalent of nine-one-one?”
“I believe so.”
Charlie waited.
“Any idea what it is, Dad?”
“Maybe one-two-one-point-five?”
Charlie clicked the knob to 121.5. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!”
Only static back.
“Mayday!”
Drummond said, “It’s often out in places like-” He fell backward, out cold before the back of his skull struck the headrest.
“Dad?”