Adrift
Copyright© 2025 by Gina Marie Wylie
Chapter 6
Rog looked at Tom. “We go low and slow, then there, just past the river mouth, we touch down. Drag the tail, keeping the nose up. The flaps go from full down to full up, to help. That’s you, Tom.”
“You got it, skipper!” Tom said with alacrity.
“At the last second, I’ll hit the rudder, trying to turn us towards land. I’ll try to put the nose on shore, or, if nothing else, make sure that neither side is out of sight of land.” Rog looked at the Flight Engineer. “How are we doing on fuel?”
“Eight thousand pounds. Not very damn much,” Dominguez replied. Rog jerked his head in understanding.
“One shot, basically,” Rog told them, then picked up the intercom and spoke. “Crew, final preparation for emergency landing, in the water.”
The aircraft settled slowly, going lower and lower.
Tom wasn’t sure of the exact moment they touched the water; it was only the lightest of feather touches. That lasted, though, just a few seconds. Then he could feel the aircraft frame shudder, as it slowed. He rammed the flaps to the full up position, even before Rog asked for them. In fact, his captain never did, intent entirely on the landing.
A second before the aircraft bellied down into the water, Rog heaved back on the yoke, Tom added his own weight, and the aircraft swerved towards the shore, less than a quarter of a mile away.
At first, Tom thought the aircraft was infinitely too far away to reach land. Then he realized that they were approaching entirely too fast. He felt the aircraft ground momentarily, but their several hundred tons smashed the obstacle down and they barely slowed.
Then the plane stopped.
Tom stared in incredulity; the nose was above the beach, well past the water’s edge, but had stopped before the trees. “Deploy the forward emergency slides only. Let’s try to get everyone off, forward,” Tom spoke into the intercom.
He glanced at Roger, intending to say something very strong, very positive, about the landing.
Roger was gray, almost blue. He was leaning back in his seat, his eyes wide and unblinking.
“Oh, hell!” Tom cursed with despair. He unbuckled, reached out, and touched his friend’s hand. Limp, it fell from the yoke, unresisting.
Tom turned to Dominguez. “Ask if we have a doctor aboard. I think Roger had a heart attack.” Dominguez took one look, asked on the intercom while Tom looked to Roger.
What Tom got was a woman, late middle age. She nodded when Tom waved at the captain and went to him. A second to take his pulse, another to look at his eyelids. “He’s dead,” the doctor pronounced succinctly. “Has he been having chest pains, anything like that, before?”
Tom shrugged his shoulders. “He said he had heartburn; he took some Pepcid before we left LA. They did a strip search on him before he could board the aircraft.”
The doctor looked down on Roger, shook her head sadly. “This is entirely too biblical for words. He’s had a heart attack, I think.”
Tom stared in surprise. “He landed the aircraft!”
“Oh, given the right motivation, you can do extraordinary things, even when you’re dying,” the doctor told him. She gestured at Roger. “Moses never got to see the Promised Land, either.” She leaned close, stroked Roger’s hair. “Big man! Bigger than most!” Then she leaned down and gently kissed him on the forehead.
Harry sat in her seat, watching the water beneath them grow nearer and nearer. She saw the water splash when the airplane touched it; she felt the aircraft swerve, felt the thud when they grounded briefly, then the final grind until they stopped. I am not, Harry thought grimly, going to make a scene. I am fine. Just wonderful! I’ve never been better! When Becky Thatcher screams, then I’m going to worry, not until!
A man called from the front of the plane. “Please, don’t grab your bags. Just come. Don’t block the aisle, don’t do anything but stand up and move forward in an orderly fashion.”
He was older, crew-cut, and had an air of command about him. On the other hand, as far as Harry was concerned, he wasn’t Becky Thatcher.
Sandy though, stood up with alacrity, joining the sudden throng in the aisle, leaving Harry sitting, looking out the window. Harry spent a moment looking at the trees. She decided then and there that Sandy needed someone with karate skills close rather than far. Harry stood up, and she too joined the flow.
She was next to a woman in her early twenties as they made their way forward. The woman smiled at her, then glanced up at a man a few feet away. That had to be her husband, Harry thought.
The woman’s husband nodded to the man standing a few feet past the door. The man who’d commanded the exit nodded, “There’s work down below, Marine.”
“Aye, aye, Gunny,” the young man replied.
Harry wasn’t sure why, but she felt enormously comforted by that exchange. There were people aboard, good people! Brave men ... and women too! Becky Thatcher! Harry lifted her chin, determined. I will not bring shame on myself or Becky Thatcher. Never!
That was one second, and then she stood at the door, looking down. It was a long way, a very long way down to the ground. People were sliding down a yellow slide, being helped up at the bottom by others. Harry shrugged. If they could do it, she could. A second later, she stepped off, confident.
The thing to have done, Harry learned a second later, was jump forward and sit down on your bottom. Instead, Harry’s feet caught on the material of the slide, and she pitched forward hard, bloodying her nose. She slid downwards headfirst, more concerned about the sudden pain than about what was in front of her.
At last, she was startled one more time -- the ground rushed up much faster than she’d anticipated or could prepare for. Harry wasn’t ready; she tumbled onto some rocks. Each of the rocks she passed over seemed to dig into her body in places that she’d rather had been left unplumbed.
Someone lifted her by her arms, glanced at her, then pushed her forward. “Get well away from the aircraft!” the man told her.
Harry nodded and managed to keep moving forward. Even so, she was nearly hit by the man from the airplane who’d been with the woman next to Harry in the aisle.
The man bounced to his feet, trotted towards a small group of men standing not far away. He said something, and the man in charge nodded and then pointed. The man moved to where he’d been pointed.
She had done this as badly as she’d ever done anything before in her life, Harry thought to herself. She had a bloody nose and bruises. When that man got down, he jumped up and helped. Harry? She limped after the others, helpless. Bloody and helpless. She wasn’t even with Sandy.
Two minutes before, Harry had been determined to do brave and wonderful things, to bring credit on herself and Becky Thatcher. Instead, she had a bloody nose, and she didn’t have a clue about what she could do to help. She wasn’t an asset; she was a liability. Her father had gone on and on one rainy evening, talking about liabilities and assets. He’d started talking about money, ended up talking about the people he worked with.
That’s me: Harriet Fredericks, liability. Harry blinked back sudden tears. She lifted her chin again, more defiant than ever. Somehow, some way, she would find a way to be useful! She couldn’t think about everything she did; there wasn’t enough time. She had to develop better instincts!
Becky Thatcher stood to one side, watching the people exit the aircraft. She turned to Tim Riley. “You and Mei Lei, go down to the water. Is it salt or fresh?”
Tim glanced around, grinned. “Watch yourself,” he told Becky.
Becky watched the two of them go down to the water; she couldn’t tell one to back up the other; they’d both take umbrage. Instead, she told them what she wanted and let them work it out. Becky put it out of her mind and turned to Commander Shumway, who was one of the last people off the aircraft.
“Commander? Anything?”
“The aircraft commander had a heart attack during the landing. He’s dead.”
Becky blinked. “Barring a miracle, he’ll have been the first, but not the last. How many Marines do you have?”
“Fourteen, plus we’ve picked up two more who were in the Corps. One of them says, and I repeat, he says, he was one of the men who went down into the caves in Afghanistan to flush out terrorists. I can’t confirm it; the gunny will, pretty quickly.”
“And tell me, Commander, just where in the great scheme of things do you see yourself at the moment?” Becky’s voice was firm and confident.
The woman waved towards the water where Tim and Mei Lei were walking along the water’s edge. “I’m not a puppy or an attack dog; you have your loyal followers -- one of each. I’m more of a cat person. I am, if nothing else, an admirer of results and you do get them.”
Tim and Mei Lei returned, interrupting. “It’s fresh,” Tim said without fanfare, “and it’s cold. There’s what sure looks like algae growing along the water’s edge. We saw minnows. What looked like minnows. There are all kinds of plants, in and out of the water.”
“Mei Lei?” Becky asked.
“I saw no animal tracks, but there were some tracks that looked like birds, in the mud, close to the water. We haven’t seen any birds or other animals since we landed, but we were very noisy, probably every animal around is hiding or running still.”
Becky nodded. “We are on an island, about six or so miles wide at this point. On the lakeside, not facing the mainland. The island is about fifteen or sixteen miles long.”
The Marine gunnery sergeant joined them. “We’ve got everyone off the aircraft, Commander. I’d like to start unloading the aircraft, starting with the baggage compartments. Some of that is in the water. Our stuff should be okay, but you know about low bidders.”
Commander Shumway nodded. “Begin that, Gunny. We’ll tell the passengers as soon as possible that we’ll get their bags off the aircraft.”
“The copilot and flight engineer are still in the cockpit,” the gunny told Commander Shumway. “The pilot died.”
“I heard. We’ll leave him there for now.”
Becky Thatcher spoke, “That aircraft, parked on the beach, will be his monument.”
Tim laughed. “Not past the first big storm, Becky. We’re going to want to get everything off that we can, as quickly as we can. We simply have no idea what to expect if there is a storm.”
“Gunny,” Becky said, a pained expression on her face, “You have a number of marines? Fourteen, I heard?”
“Yes, ma’am. Two other sergeants, ten other enlisted, mostly technical, plus a lieutenant and a couple of ex-marines as well.”
“Detail half of them to start unloading the baggage compartment. Pick four men, under a sergeant, to recce the woods here. A quick survey, out to about a thousand yards. A map would be nice. A sergeant, along with the last of your Marines and the volunteer Marines, to supervise digging some latrine pits. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m in major need of a sit-down.”
The gunny stared at Becky, and then at the Navy commander who said firmly, “If you would, Gunny, unless you have any better ideas?”
“No, that’s a good start,” the Marine agreed. He nodded at Becky, “I expect more than one or two others will need a sit-down, real quick.”
“Gunny, you and Lieutenant Pugh, once you get the work in progress, will help with the people,” Commander Shumway said, waving at the crowd of people standing hollow-eyed on the beach, staring at the aircraft. “Right now these people are in shock. Soon, they will start coming out of it. It will be important to be firm, but polite. Kind, but above all firm.”
Becky Thatcher spoke softly. “Gunny, you’re concerned because Commander Shumway keeps looking at me, to see if I approve of what she’s doing. I assure you, Commander Shumway is a competent officer. Right now, like all of us, she’s in shock. Let’s roll, Gunny.”
The gunny nodded, turned, and in moments a half dozen Marines were going through the crowd, tapping men on the shoulder, asking for their help.
Harry stood next to Sandy, the two of them staring at the airplane, a half mile down the beach. Harry tried to think of something clever to say, but words failed her. A soft murmur ran through the crowd. Harry didn’t know if the rumor was true or not: the pilot had had a heart attack in the seconds before the landing and was dead. He’d fought off the Great Darkness long enough to see his passengers safe.
Harry tried to blink back tears, but then she got angry with herself instead. She could see Becky Thatcher, standing with a group of people a couple of hundred feet away. People kept coming and going around Becky Thatcher. People, Harry thought, with a mission. People who weren’t crying or standing around numb and afraid.
Harry lifted her chin. How many times had she despised Sandy because she listened to Sailor Moon, those cry babies? How many times had she taunted her sister about it? Yet, here she stood, her feet not even wet, her only bumps and bruises self-inflicted ... and she felt like crying! She was, Harry thought, not going to just stand here!
Harry turned to Sandy, and pointed at Becky Thatcher. “I’m going over there and see what I can do to help. If you move from this spot, for any reason, so help me, I’ll never speak to you again!” Harry stalked forwards, not waiting to hear what her sister would have to say.
Harry stopped a few feet away, heard the orders to the Gunny. He left and Harry stepped into a brief void. “Miss Thatcher, I’d like to do something to help.”
Harry felt those cool gray eyes on her.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.