herself in an attempt to fend off her anxiety. Not far now. Steve would put her up for the night if the weather didn’t improve.
Suddenly, without warning, the engine died. For a brief second, she couldn’t comprehend what was happening. Everything she had been taught raced through her mind without clarity, a jumbled assortment with no direction.
Grabbing the microphone, she gave the distress call, “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday; transmitting blind.” Adding her call sign, she then stated her position details from what she could tell by the dials and that she was making a forced landing. She was greeted by crackling and then deadly silence.
Throwing the microphone down, she scanned the instruments. The fuel gage read a quarter of a tank. Chantelle’s gaze then locked onto the airspeed. She knew what had to be done. Whatever happened, she had to fly the plane. If she allowed the airspeed to decrease, she would drop from the sky like a stone. So, she had to turn the plane into a glider.
Switching everything off, she searched frantically the path ahead, filled with houses and roads full of cars; it was an impossible terrain to land in. She would end up killing not only herself, but innocent people as well. Perspiration had broken out on her forehead, fear of panic taking hold as she tried to think. There was no time to think about dying, it would be true enough if she didn’t hold it together.
Ripping the goggles away, she saw a miracle stretched out in front of her. Arable land, fields of it and not a house or car in sight. There was one huge problem that became apparent as she began to descend, using the flaps to control the glide. The boundary of trees, their thick branches swaying menacingly with the wind, were too close. Any time now, they would be ripping into her face and arms, tearing her to shreds. But it was too late to change her mind.
The force of the landing jolted her forward. The seat belt whipped across her middle, her body like a rag doll as the plane careered over the coarse, churned up field left in preparation for plowing next year’s crop. Her eyes widened in terror as the trees rushed for her, the scream frozen in her throat as the plane at last began losing its speed.
Violently, her head flung forward as the nose of the plane dipped down into a gully and struck the mound of earth. Then everything went dark.
****
David was standing by Julie’s desk chatting with Tony when the call came through from Manston.
“Yes, that’s right,” Julie said. “Chantelle Duvall. She left at least three hours ago. No, I haven’t heard anything.”
David snatched the receiver from her. “Who’s this speaking and what’s the problem?” He felt his face pale, the muscles in his cheeks tense. He ignored the concerned look Tony and Julie exchanged at the erupting fury in his voice.
“You mean to say she’s over an hour late and no one has been sent up to look for her? What on earth was she doing flying that death trap in the first place, especially with a faulty radio?” Anger and fear gripped him simultaneously. “I don’t care if there’s a bloody storm where you are.” Placing his hand over the receiver, he barked at Julie to use the other phone and ring any other private airfields in the area, as well as police and hospitals to find out whether a plane had gone down.
Julie looked at Tony, her eyes wide with apprehension.
“It’s all right, love, I’ll help you compile a list of who to contact and you can start ringing them in the order I give you,” Tony said calmly.
“Don’t you think she would have contacted you by now if she had been forced to make a landing elsewhere? She’s no novice. She knows the importance given when a pilot fails to arrive at the destination, especially since you told her the time you needed the plane by.” David felt his frustration growing with every word. “Give me that pilot’s position when he last saw the biplane; there can’t be any others matching
Suddenly, without warning, the engine died. For a brief second, she couldn’t comprehend what was happening. Everything she had been taught raced through her mind without clarity, a jumbled assortment with no direction.
Grabbing the microphone, she gave the distress call, “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday; transmitting blind.” Adding her call sign, she then stated her position details from what she could tell by the dials and that she was making a forced landing. She was greeted by crackling and then deadly silence.
Throwing the microphone down, she scanned the instruments. The fuel gage read a quarter of a tank. Chantelle’s gaze then locked onto the airspeed. She knew what had to be done. Whatever happened, she had to fly the plane. If she allowed the airspeed to decrease, she would drop from the sky like a stone. So, she had to turn the plane into a glider.
Switching everything off, she searched frantically the path ahead, filled with houses and roads full of cars; it was an impossible terrain to land in. She would end up killing not only herself, but innocent people as well. Perspiration had broken out on her forehead, fear of panic taking hold as she tried to think. There was no time to think about dying, it would be true enough if she didn’t hold it together.
Ripping the goggles away, she saw a miracle stretched out in front of her. Arable land, fields of it and not a house or car in sight. There was one huge problem that became apparent as she began to descend, using the flaps to control the glide. The boundary of trees, their thick branches swaying menacingly with the wind, were too close. Any time now, they would be ripping into her face and arms, tearing her to shreds. But it was too late to change her mind.
The force of the landing jolted her forward. The seat belt whipped across her middle, her body like a rag doll as the plane careered over the coarse, churned up field left in preparation for plowing next year’s crop. Her eyes widened in terror as the trees rushed for her, the scream frozen in her throat as the plane at last began losing its speed.
Violently, her head flung forward as the nose of the plane dipped down into a gully and struck the mound of earth. Then everything went dark.
****
David was standing by Julie’s desk chatting with Tony when the call came through from Manston.
“Yes, that’s right,” Julie said. “Chantelle Duvall. She left at least three hours ago. No, I haven’t heard anything.”
David snatched the receiver from her. “Who’s this speaking and what’s the problem?” He felt his face pale, the muscles in his cheeks tense. He ignored the concerned look Tony and Julie exchanged at the erupting fury in his voice.
“You mean to say she’s over an hour late and no one has been sent up to look for her? What on earth was she doing flying that death trap in the first place, especially with a faulty radio?” Anger and fear gripped him simultaneously. “I don’t care if there’s a bloody storm where you are.” Placing his hand over the receiver, he barked at Julie to use the other phone and ring any other private airfields in the area, as well as police and hospitals to find out whether a plane had gone down.
Julie looked at Tony, her eyes wide with apprehension.
“It’s all right, love, I’ll help you compile a list of who to contact and you can start ringing them in the order I give you,” Tony said calmly.
“Don’t you think she would have contacted you by now if she had been forced to make a landing elsewhere? She’s no novice. She knows the importance given when a pilot fails to arrive at the destination, especially since you told her the time you needed the plane by.” David felt his frustration growing with every word. “Give me that pilot’s position when he last saw the biplane; there can’t be any others matching
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