switched on another navigation radio. “Maybe I can get a radial and a distance from the Barranquilla VOR.” He fiddled with the radio. “Dammit, we’re getting the VOR signal, but not the distance-measuring equipment. Out of range. Maybe . . .” As he spoke a red flag appeared on the instrument. “Correction,” he said, “we’re not getting the VOR, either. What else can go wrong?”
As if in answer to his question, the engine sputtered, then caught again. The fuel-flow meter was showing a minute and fifteen seconds. The engine sputtered again, and the meter read zero. The engine ran for another half a minute, then gave a final sputter and died. The nose of the airplane dropped.
“We’re landing this airplane,” Bluey said, somewhat unnecessarily, Cat thought. “Check your side for a place to put her down. Bravo One, this is Bravo Two. Cat, you make the radio call. I’ve got to turn this crate into a glider.”
Cat began speaking the code words into the radio while looking desperately out the window for someplace to land. “It looks pretty flat down there,” he said to Bluey. There was brown, dry-looking land, dotted with scrub brush, all around them.
“It is flat,” Bluey came back. “The Guajira Peninsula is shaped like Florida and looks like Arizona. It’s a desert down there, and I can put us down in one piece, more orless, but I don’t want to land in the middle of nowhere with no transportation, no refueling, and at the mercy of any bastard who’s inclined to shoot us for our shoes.” He had the airspeed down to eighty knots now, the airplane’s best glide speed. The altimeter was showing a steady decline, and the earth was getting closer.
“Bravo One, this is Bravo Two,” Cat repeated. “Bravo . . . Jesus, Bluey, what’s that?” He was pointing just ahead of the right wing, a couple of miles ahead in the bright morning sunshine.
Bluey rolled the airplane to the right slightly and looked where Cat was pointing. “I’ll tell you what that is,” he crowed, “it’s a goddamned dirt strip! Looks like an old crop duster’s field!” He pointed the airplane at the gash of earth. “We’ve got enough altitude, too. We’re going to make it! Oh, Jesus, I hope they’ve got fuel!”
“Bravo One, this is Bravo Two,” Cat said, mechanically, keeping his eyes glued to the strip. They passed over it at a couple of thousand feet.
“Is that some sort of tank down there?” Bluey asked, pointing.
Cat looked and saw what looked like a large metal cylinder lying on its side. “I hope it’s not a water tank,” he said.
Bluey made a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn to lose some altitude, then lined up with the dirt runway and let the airplane glide toward it. When he was sure they had it made, he lowered the gear and some flaps, and the airspeed came down to seventy knots. “Picture-book approach!” he chortled. They landed smoothly enough, and Cat marveled at how quiet it was with no engine. The runway was rough, but passable. Bluey let the airplane roll until it came to a stop on its own. Ahead of them aboutfifty feet, just off the strip, was what looked like about a five-hundred-gallon tank set on a wooden cradle about ten feet off the ground. “That’s fuel,” Bluey said, pointing. “Look, there’s a hose. Quick, let’s get the airplane over there.”
They scrambled out of the airplane and began pushing on the wing struts. The aircraft moved slowly across the pebble-strewn dirt strip. Cat looked around but saw only a shack with a tin roof about fifty yards on the other side of the tank. Was it really a fuel tank? Was there anything in it?
Finally, they were within reach of the hose. As Bluey ran for it Cat saw some letters roughly painted on the side of the tank: 100LL. It was aviation fuel.
“Quick!” Bluey whispered, glancing at the shed. “There’s a collapsible stepladder in the luggage compartment with the auxiliary fuel tank. Get it, and be quiet about
As if in answer to his question, the engine sputtered, then caught again. The fuel-flow meter was showing a minute and fifteen seconds. The engine sputtered again, and the meter read zero. The engine ran for another half a minute, then gave a final sputter and died. The nose of the airplane dropped.
“We’re landing this airplane,” Bluey said, somewhat unnecessarily, Cat thought. “Check your side for a place to put her down. Bravo One, this is Bravo Two. Cat, you make the radio call. I’ve got to turn this crate into a glider.”
Cat began speaking the code words into the radio while looking desperately out the window for someplace to land. “It looks pretty flat down there,” he said to Bluey. There was brown, dry-looking land, dotted with scrub brush, all around them.
“It is flat,” Bluey came back. “The Guajira Peninsula is shaped like Florida and looks like Arizona. It’s a desert down there, and I can put us down in one piece, more orless, but I don’t want to land in the middle of nowhere with no transportation, no refueling, and at the mercy of any bastard who’s inclined to shoot us for our shoes.” He had the airspeed down to eighty knots now, the airplane’s best glide speed. The altimeter was showing a steady decline, and the earth was getting closer.
“Bravo One, this is Bravo Two,” Cat repeated. “Bravo . . . Jesus, Bluey, what’s that?” He was pointing just ahead of the right wing, a couple of miles ahead in the bright morning sunshine.
Bluey rolled the airplane to the right slightly and looked where Cat was pointing. “I’ll tell you what that is,” he crowed, “it’s a goddamned dirt strip! Looks like an old crop duster’s field!” He pointed the airplane at the gash of earth. “We’ve got enough altitude, too. We’re going to make it! Oh, Jesus, I hope they’ve got fuel!”
“Bravo One, this is Bravo Two,” Cat said, mechanically, keeping his eyes glued to the strip. They passed over it at a couple of thousand feet.
“Is that some sort of tank down there?” Bluey asked, pointing.
Cat looked and saw what looked like a large metal cylinder lying on its side. “I hope it’s not a water tank,” he said.
Bluey made a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn to lose some altitude, then lined up with the dirt runway and let the airplane glide toward it. When he was sure they had it made, he lowered the gear and some flaps, and the airspeed came down to seventy knots. “Picture-book approach!” he chortled. They landed smoothly enough, and Cat marveled at how quiet it was with no engine. The runway was rough, but passable. Bluey let the airplane roll until it came to a stop on its own. Ahead of them aboutfifty feet, just off the strip, was what looked like about a five-hundred-gallon tank set on a wooden cradle about ten feet off the ground. “That’s fuel,” Bluey said, pointing. “Look, there’s a hose. Quick, let’s get the airplane over there.”
They scrambled out of the airplane and began pushing on the wing struts. The aircraft moved slowly across the pebble-strewn dirt strip. Cat looked around but saw only a shack with a tin roof about fifty yards on the other side of the tank. Was it really a fuel tank? Was there anything in it?
Finally, they were within reach of the hose. As Bluey ran for it Cat saw some letters roughly painted on the side of the tank: 100LL. It was aviation fuel.
“Quick!” Bluey whispered, glancing at the shed. “There’s a collapsible stepladder in the luggage compartment with the auxiliary fuel tank. Get it, and be quiet about
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