Crash Landing

Sean hadn’t heard his father’s voice in six years. He’d been a junior in high school the morning that Mel Loomis got up from the breakfast table and left their house, never to be seen again. What would it be like to have your father vanish without a single clue? It had all happened so long ago Deanna had forgotten about it until it had occurred to her as a means to get Sean to let her land the plane. Of course his son would never forget. For Sean, there would never be a break from the wondering.

“It’s not like I expected to find him here,” Sean said. “We’ve already had a funeral. At this point in my life, I just want to know what happened.”

Her need for self-preservation wrestled with her empathy.

“Okay,” she conceded. “We have to hurry.”

He didn’t say anything, but the gratitude was written all over his face. He turned, and she followed him to the shed, but there were no windows to see inside, and a dead bolt kept them from opening the door. Deanna tugged at it. “It’s locked.”

“Step back,” Sean said. He kicked the door hard. There was a sound of splintering wood, but the door held fast. He continued to side-kick it with his boot until the wood frame busted and the door swung wide open.

He grinned. “There—it’s not locked anymore.”

“I like your style, Loomis.”

Once they were inside, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. When she could see, she saw stacks of leather athletic bags and wooden crates.

“Are those sports bags?”

“Hockey, I think,” Sean said.

“Do you know anyone around here who plays hockey?”

Sean’s forehead creased. “No, I don’t.”

“Me neither. Especially not in July. What do you think is in them?”

“I’m not sure I want to know.” Sean grabbed the nearest one and unzipped it. He sucked in his breath, recoiling from the bag as if it were a rattlesnake that might strike. His hands went to the top of his head. “No, no, no, no.”

Deanna crouched to look. The bag was stuffed to capacity with gallon-sized baggies containing a sugar-like substance secured in bundles with duct tape.

“Oh, wow,” she whispered.

Sean grabbed another bag from a different pile. He unzipped it slowly. Deanna held on to his free arm and peered around him. She was afraid to look. It, too, was full of baggies, but these contained white pills. A third bag held green plants.

Deanna grabbed a crowbar off the floor. The crate lid whined as she pried it open. Tossing the large piece of wood aside, she looked inside the box and gasped.

“Sean, this is bad.”

There were enough automatic weapons and magazines inside the crate for a small army. Sean and Deanna stood side by side, completely still for several heartbeats, just staring. Deanna had never seen anything like this. She dropped the crowbar to the ground without bothering to put the lid back on the crate.

“Can we go now?” she whispered. Her question was drowned out by the rumble of approaching diesel engines and the crunch of gravel under tires outside the shed.

Even in the dim interior, Deanna could see Sean’s pupils expand. “Deanna?”

“Yes?” she choked out.

“Run.”

FOUR

Bullets zinged around Sean as he sprinted for Deanna’s plane. He was only yards ahead of the pursuing men behind him, and they were catching up quickly. Midstride, Sean turned and used the pilot’s shotgun to send a warning shot at the closest man. As he pulled the trigger, recognition dawned. His pursuer was Rex Turner.

Rex owned the Wagon Wheel restaurant on Main Street in Kinakane. He was a tall man with a shiny bald head, a big belly and an even bigger smile. Sean’s bullet missed, and clods of earth exploded at Rex’s feet. Rex wasn’t smiling today.

How many more of the men behind him would Sean recognize? Were there others he considered friends or acquaintances, men he’d done business with, who were now determined to kill him because he knew too much?

Deep guttural shouts and revving truck engines clashed with the high-pitched pinging of the bullets spitting up dirt and grass around Sean’s feet, urging him forward. Some of the men had turned back for their vehicles and would reach them soon.

His lungs burned from the smoky air he inhaled and from the sheer exertion required to stay ahead of the men, their bullets and their quickly approaching trucks. He worried Deanna wouldn’t be able to keep up, but she was light and fast, and she didn’t miss a step.

“Don’t stop running until we’re in the plane,” he called to her. “Keep moving no matter what. It’s harder to hit a moving target.”

“You’re going to have to cover for me while I get the engine going,” Deanna huffed. She scrambled up the plane and into the cockpit. Bullets hit the wing above her, narrowly missing her. Sean ran to his side of the plane and climbed in, using the open door as a shield.

“I’ll cover you,” he panted. “You worry about getting us in the air.”

* * *

Deanna checked to make sure the fuel switch on the floor was on and then gave the prime a few shots. She eased the throttle partway in and then reached for the key. Her hands were shaking so violently it was hard to turn the ignition.

“Come on, come on, come on,” she pleaded.

Sean kept the door open as a barrier between him and the advancing men. He bobbed up and down, answering each of their shots with shots of his own. The closest man reached the plane and was grasping for Deanna’s door handle when the engine sputtered to life.

“Sean,” she yelled. “Get this guy off me.”

Deanna leaned forward, while Sean reached across her back, sticking the butt of the shotgun through the open window. He slammed it hard into the man’s nose. The man rolled away from the moving plane, bleeding but still alive.

“That was Greg Martin,” Sean said. She heard the shock in his voice, but there was no time to stop and process who was out there shooting at them.

“Time to go!” she shouted.

Deanna pushed the throttle all the way in, watching the airspeed indicator come to life. Sean fell back into his own seat, slamming his door closed.

“Come on, baby, faster,” she implored the plane as it rolled down the meadow. The seconds it took to gain speed felt like months. Sean didn’t say a word; his eyes were closed, his lips moving. Praying?

She used to pray all the time before her dad put the kibosh on it and convinced her it was useless. Gram was tight with God. Deanna suspected Gram spent countless hours on her knees praying for her backslidden granddaughter, but Deanna had made a decision a long time ago that she’d rely on no one but herself. Hopefully, Sean’s prayers would be enough for both of them.

They gained speed, and the nose of the plane tipped up, until finally, gravity pressed against her chest. A hot breeze from the open window on her left tickled her cheek. She held her breath as they continued climbing.

Sean’s eyes opened. “You did it,” he said and hit the ceiling in joy. “Deanna Jackson,” he chuckled, “you are amazing. I thought that was the end down there.”

“Not just me. You were amazing, too. I thought we were finished,” she admitted. Her voice sounded small in her headset.

Sean had fixed the mess that she had made. She might have gotten the plane off the ground, but she was still deep in his debt. She could now add him to the long list of people she owed something.

She couldn’t join in his celebrating yet. Too many unknowns still needled her. So many things to sort through, like “What do we do next?” She’d celebrate when they were on the ground at the airport and far away from this madness. Even then they wouldn’t be safe. Yes, they’d gotten in the air, but those men could find them easily in a town as small as Kinakane. Where could they hide?

Deanna frowned at the instrument panel. Both the right and left fuel gauges were dropping, fast enough to make her nervous. Kinakane’s airport was too rural for a traffic control tower. And if she put a Mayday out on the radio, that pilot in the meadow would be able to hear it and tell the men chasing them of their exact location.

They were on their own.

“I’ve got to head back for the airport,” Deanna said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He rested his head back. “We’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

“Yeah, me and my brilliant ideas.” Why wasn’t he yelling and accusing her of almost getting him killed? “I hope you don’t think I expect you to still pay me for this disaster.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m grateful,” he said, looking out the window. “If it weren’t for you, that could still be going on behind my back. I needed to know.”

She sighed. Instead of blaming her, he was thanking her. Sean had always been such a good guy, even when he was a little kid. If you thought Sean, you thought nice. No one would ever say that about her, that was for sure.

“Maybe it would be better not to know. You know, ignorance is bliss and all that.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You gave me a new lead to look into with Dad. I haven’t had one in years. I can’t wrap my head around him being involved in anything illegal. But what do I know? I thought he wasn’t the type to ever leave us, either.”

“Hopefully, this has nothing to do with him,” she said.

“Hopefully,” he agreed wistfully. “But I’d rather have the truth hurt than not know anything at all.”

* * *

Sean exhaled, his mind racing. He sorted everything that had happened into categories and tried to prioritize what to think about first. One thought kept rising to the surface, demanding that he think about it even if it hurt. Was his family involved in this in any way? Was it just coincidence that they were using Loomis-Callaghan land, or was Sean a fool who’d been intentionally kept in the dark?

And who were the others he was referring to, anyway? “Did you recognize anyone?” he asked Deanna.

“A few. I saw Rex Turner,” she said, frowning. “Our businesses are steps away from each other. I see him every day, and I eat my lunch at the Wagon Wheel a couple times a week at least. He’s always been so nice to me.”

Sean nodded. “And I think I broke Greg’s nose.”

“I can’t imagine Greg being involved in this. At least, I don’t want to imagine it.”

“Me neither.”

Greg Martin was one of their former classmates. He wasn’t someone either of them would have called a close friend, but definitely more than an acquaintance. Another twelve-year vet who’d started kindergarten with them. In school, Greg was the clown, the guy everyone liked because he made people laugh.

“I bought a fishing license from him at the hardware store last week,” Sean said. “I’ve been laughing all week at a joke he told me. I never would have guessed this.”

“I’m afraid we’re going to be finding out a lot more people we’d never expect are in on this,” Deanna said. “I wish I could unknow all this. If I could go back, I’d never land in that meadow.”

* * *

There had been something else Deanna saw down there that Sean should know, but he wasn’t going to like it. She cleared her throat, choosing her words carefully.

“You’re pretty tight with Sheriff Johnson, right?” she asked.

“Jim’s one of my best friends,” Sean said. “Why?”

“I saw the sheriff’s department decal on one of the trucks down there.”

She added quickly, “I didn’t see the sheriff. It just seemed strange that one of their vehicles would be anywhere near there.”

“Maybe they’re making an arrest,” Sean said.

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” she mumbled unconvinced, but her attention was back on the fuel situation. It was dropping rapidly.

“Uh, this isn’t looking good...”

Before she could say more, the noisy buzz of the engine went dead quiet. A small cry of alarm escaped her lips.

“What just happened?” Sean asked, his voice too loud against the silence.

Deanna shook her head. Her vocal cords rebelled, as if speaking it aloud would make the situation more real than it already was. She swallowed. She was the pilot. It was imperative that she keep her cool.

“Tighten your seat belt, Sean.”

His frightened gaze met hers.

“The fuel tanks in the wings must have been hit by the bullets,” she explained.

“Are you telling me we have no fuel?”

Deanna closed her eyes briefly, then forced herself to admit it. “We have no fuel and no working engine, either.”

She wished she and God were on better terms. Help me. It was all she knew to say. “You’re a religious man, right?”

“Religious isn’t exactly how I’d define it, but I guess you could say that.”

“Then I recommend you start praying.”

“Are we crashing?” He asked, his ever-steady voice finally wavering.

“No. We are not crashing,” Deanna insisted. “But get ready, because we are going down for an off-airport landing.”

“A what?”

She pointed out the window. “See that alfalfa field?”

“Yes. I own it.”

“Well, now it’s our new airport.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I wish I was.” She met his gaze again. “Brace yourself.”

FIVE

A tangible silence sat between Deanna and Sean like another passenger as the plane glided noiselessly toward the ground. Sean prayed but kept his eyes wide open. If death was near, he wanted to see it coming. Would Dad be waiting for him on the other side?

Deanna aimed for the field below. For the second time in a day, she would be landing on Loomis land. And for the second time that day, Sean wondered if he would survive it when she did.

He’d plowed and planted this field himself. This alfalfa would become the hay they needed to feed livestock during the long winter months ahead when grazing wouldn’t be an option. The plants were nearly ready for second cutting. How much damage to his crops were they about to do? Would he be alive to even care, or had all that work last spring been simply the preparation of his own grave?

The twenty-acre field sat atop a plateau and wrapped around a brush-filled ravine that was too steep to farm. Somehow Deanna would need to land in the impossibly narrow strip between the sprinkler lines on the left and the timberline on the right without hitting the ravine.

At the far end of the field, Uncle Paul’s farmhouse sat tall and white, the only spectator to the event. Sean’s breathing shallowed as helplessness enveloped him. He watched the ground and the possibility of death come closer and closer.

Sean had always been a doer. He preferred keeping his ducks neatly in a row so life couldn’t surprise him. He hated surprises. But life had a mind of its own and seemed to enjoy humbling him. Live or die here, it wasn’t his call. Sean could do nothing but trust God and the skill He’d given Deanna.

In the final moments of descent, Deanna barked orders. “Get your seat up and make sure your belt is tight. This is going to sound crazy, but when I get close to the ground, I want you to open your door.”

“What?”

“You won’t fall out. Trust your seat belt. If the cockpit gets crunched on impact, the doors could get jammed shut. Plus, we might need to jump out fast.” She pointed behind her seat. “See that backpack? I’ve got an old jacket in there. I need you to use it to cover up the latch so the door can’t swing back and close itself again.”

If he didn’t worry that arguing with her would distract her, he would say more. It was counterintuitive to open his door when they were about to crash. But she was the pilot, and she knew best, so he kept his mouth shut and followed her instructions. Lord, please help us live through this.

The field came at them fast. What would the moment of touchdown feel like? The alfalfa looked like green grass and stood a foot to a foot and a half tall. It appeared lush and soft, level even, but it only hid how uneven and rock hard the ground would be underneath it. Would there be an explosion when they hit the ground or would pieces of the plane—and pieces of them—scatter? They needed a smooth, paved airport runway. He’d even choose the steep mountainside landing strip they’d just used over this bumpy, narrow slot of hay.

“Do it now,” Deanna instructed. “Open your door.”

Fighting every instinct, Sean pressed open the passenger door, revealing the speeding ground below, and flung the jacket over the door latch.

“Watch out for the irrigation circles,” he hollered.

“I see them,” Deanna said between clenched teeth.

Sean wanted to yell “Pause” or “Wait” or “I’m not ready.” All would be useless. The ground kept coming closer and closer, and then impact. Hitting hard, the plane bounced across the rutted ground, flattening surrounding plants. The plane’s wing clipped the closest irrigation line, sending the aluminum structure flying. The complaining sound of breaking metal hit Sean’s ears. Was that the sprinkler line or pieces of the plane busting up? His body rocked and rolled with the bucking airplane. It was like riding a bull. Hold on for the eight seconds and then he’d be able to get out and kiss the ground.

The field wasn’t an airport and no one could have ever imagined that it would be used as one, but at least the space ahead was all clear. Deanna had touched down on the open strip and now nothing hindered their progress—no trees, no houses closer than Uncle Paul’s in the distance, not even a tractor got in their way.

They would survive.

As the plane decelerated, then slowed and then stopped, they sat still, gulping deep breaths.

“You alive?” Deanna asked, her eyes closed.

Sean patted down his arms and legs, opened and closed his hands. Did everything still work?

“Yeah. Are you?”

“Well, I’m talking, so I must be.” Deanna leaned her forehead against the instrument panel, continuing to suck in ragged inhales. Her hands were shaking.

Sean put one of her shaking hands between his larger ones. “You did it again, Deanna.” He squeezed, trying to express his gratitude and his admiration of her. “It’s going to be a long time before I fly in anything smaller than a 747. But if I do, I want you to be my pilot.”

She lifted her head and offered him a wavering smile. “This baby won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.” Then she moaned. “I don’t want to go out there and see the damage to my plane.”

“Well, I don’t want to see the damage you did to my hay crop, either,” Sean said, fake-punching her on the arm. “I’ll send you the bill.”

The joke fell flat. “Hey.” He stretched his arm around her for a quick side hug. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I know that. Just give me a minute to believe it.”

“I wish I had a minute to give you, but we’ve got to get moving. We were recognized back there and with that many men, they’ve spread out. They might’ve even seen us land here.”

“Well, we can’t fly away. We have no fuel, and I’m sure the plane is too beat up.”

Sean doubted she could get him back in the air anyway, but he didn’t admit it aloud.

Deanna added, “She’ll have to sit in your field awhile until I can come back for her. I’m sorry.”

He pointed toward the distant farmhouse. “That’s my uncle’s place. He’s probably not home, but we can borrow a vehicle and try his landline.”

* * *

The door to the farmhouse wasn’t locked. It never was. As they entered the kitchen, Sean grimaced at the mess but his stomach growled. He had missed breakfast with Uncle Paul and the crew this morning, and it looked like he’d missed a feast.

Remains of the hearty morning meal were scattered everywhere. Pans, now white from the cooled grease of goose sausage and fried eggs, sat unmoved on the stove. Heavy-duty paper plates—Uncle Paul’s idea of fine china—littered the rickety oak table, while crumbs and buttered knives from hastily made toast decorated the countertop. The crew had eaten well this morning.

“Uncle Paul, you here?” Sean called, but he knew his uncle was out working. Hopefully, getting the last of the cattle rounded up. Something Sean should be helping them with.

Despite how desperate he was to get Deanna back to town in one piece, there was something about this place that made him smile. He spent more time in this kitchen than in the one in his own house because Uncle Paul was a better cook.

After his father disappeared and then Uncle Paul’s marriage failed shortly after, Paul had thrown himself all the more into being there for Sean. Uncle Paul, Sean and Sean’s mother had leaned on each other hard during those early years, supporting each other through their grief. Uncle Paul had become the mentor and father figure Sean had needed. They’d had plenty of heart-to-hearts sitting at that oak table drinking coffee.

Deanna stood by the kitchen door waiting, reminding Sean there wasn’t time for reminiscing like this.

“Sorry about the mess,” Sean apologized. “Uncle Paul can cook like no one you’ve ever known, but he’s allergic to cleaning.”

Sean lifted the ancient wall-mounted phone—probably the last left in the county—and listened for a dial tone. Nothing.

“Wish my cell worked,” he said, placing the heavy receiver back into its cradle. “We’ve never had dependable service up here as it is, but now cell, internet, landlines, they’re all gone. We’ve been cut off for two days.”

“Service has been patchy in town, too,” Deanna said. “Depending on where you’re at. Some parts of town have the newer phone lines buried underground. We should be able to find a phone to use once we get back to town.”

Pawing through the junk drawer under the phone, Sean found the key ring he was looking for. “Follow me.”

He led Deanna to the detached building at the end of the short breezeway outside the kitchen and shouldered open the old door, releasing the garage’s signature scent of diesel fuel and WD-40 spray. He reached inside and slapped around for the light switch on the interior wall.

Light flooded the small space. He kicked an empty coffee can out of his way and ushered Deanna inside, waving his hand at the rusted Ford pickup parked in front of them.

“It ain’t pretty, but it should get us back to town,” he said.

“I’m not picky,” Deanna said.

The truck was ancient. It had been old in 1970. They only used it for work around the ranch, but it was transportation, and they had to get back to town somehow. Hopefully, it wouldn’t die on them before they got there. Sean wrenched open the whining metal passenger door.

“Your chariot awaits,” he said to Deanna with a slight bow.

She rolled her eyes. “You mean the Beast awaits.”

“I thought you said you weren’t picky.”

He walked around to his own side and was about to slide into the driver’s seat when a familiar noise stopped him. Diesel engines, slamming doors, angry voices. His stomach sank to the floor.

Sean ran to the filmy window and peered out.

Deanna opened her door. “What’s going...”

“Shh, they found us,” he whispered.

Out the window, he watched the first truck pull up into the driveway. Rex Turner, along with the pilot and one other guy Sean didn’t recognize, exited the truck, their weapons raised. Sean wondered how long they’d left Nathan Reid in that duct tape before they freed him. Or had he figured out how to get out of it himself?

The men in the meadow must have split up into search groups, and this group had been assigned his uncle’s place. Sean was glad he wasn’t facing all those men at once, but fighting Nathan Reid the first time around had been hard enough. Now Reid had two other men to back him up, and they were all armed.

“See ’em anywhere?” Rex’s muffled voice asked. He stepped into Sean’s line of sight. Rex seemed to be in charge of the small group.

“Not yet,” Reid answered him.

“What do we do when we find them?” asked the third man.

“We leave no witnesses,” Turner answered.

His voice lowered in volume, making it more difficult for Sean to hear through the garage walls. But it was the last part he heard that mattered.