Tomkins Airstrip was just down the pine-lined road. He’d spied it from the school bus for years. Now the building seemed to greet him like an old friend, its window winking, an American flag waving hello from atop the hangar roof.
The flight to Seattle was only twenty minutes. Robert had stayed airborne that long on his first attempt. He could be landing on the coast by four thirty, before sunup. He wished he could simulate the trip on his computer—impossible now, of course—but he had a little experience under his belt. He’d be fine. The only question was where to land. Ditching in the evergreen forests was certainly dangerous, and loud. The beach would probably be safest, but so out in the open.
Might have to decide on the fly. Wherever looked good.
Robert waited in the woods until long after nightfall, for as long as he could stand it, hoping it was at least one or two a.m. Then he emerged from the trees, pushing back branches, and sprinted for the hangar.
Security was tighter at Tomkins than North County Airport. No unlocked doors welcoming him here. Robert hopped the fence without any trouble, but pacing the squat building’s perimeter didn’t reveal any openings. He pulled on door handles and ran his hands along window ledges without any luck. Even the dilapidated shed at the back of the property was padlocked. Robert tugged at the tarnished lock, frustrated. The splintering door looked flimsy; he wondered if he could kick it in.
Three tries and the door swung open, the hinges breaking and falling to the dirt floor. Rusty flakes sprinkled the grass. Inside was a mower and an assortment of dusty tools: hammers, pliers, saws, screwdrivers. Tin cans filled with nails. He grabbed a hammer and swung it like a baseball bat, like he was Thor. Robert wouldn’t have known what to do with half the tools, but a crowbar was easy enough to operate. He traded the hammer for it, tossing it from hand to hand, enjoying its heft.
Prying open the back door wasn’t so painless. Sweat dampened his shirt and his arms ached by the time it swung open. The crowbar clattered to the floor, and Robert waited, his heart thumping in his ears, for an alarm to sound. But soon his blood slowed and the silence calmed him, and he went inside, hefting the crowbar, like he was ready to brain someone. He wasn’t.
Tomkins was laid out much like North County Airport: the warehouse look, the planes in the hangar, the roll-up doors. A lounge with plush couches, a bathroom with a shower, a foosball table and three computer stations, though, seemed to cater to a different breed of pilot. Robert could upload a flight simulator, try his planned run, scope out a landing site, and practice the whole flight a few times before he took off.
He searched for keys, opening desk drawers and checking shelves. He found manuals, binders filled with various logs and time sheets, atlases. Boxes of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Snickers bars, gum, and lollipops were stacked on another shelf, along with a can labeled Honor System. That he could snag a meal here along with a ride hadn’t occurred to him, but now his stomach gurgled. He didn’t want any distractions in the air. He found a back office with another bathroom, a small TV, and a mini-fridge. He slid his sleeve over his hand and opened it. Bread, lunch meat, cheese, a few apples, some cans of Pepsi. Robert slapped together two sandwiches, passing on the mustard, not wanting to dirty a knife. He awarded himself an imaginary Green for attention to detail. He devoured the meal right there and brushed the crumbs into the trash. He took a Pepsi for the road.
Then he remembered the crowbar and the prints he’d left there. He was on his way to wipe it down as well when the candy beckoned. He shoved a Snickers bar, two peanut butter cups, and a fistful of Dum Dums into his pocket. Dessert.
That’s when he saw the camera’s roving eye in the corner above the desk. A beady red light blinked steadily. Robert cursed under his breath. He should have thought of this, should have checked the whole hangar.
Just one more reason to get out of town. Since he was already caught on film, Robert winked. Then he retrieved the crowbar from the floor, stalked back to the camera, and took a swing. Glass and metal sprinkled the floor. A busted piñata of wires and parts remained.
But he still didn’t have keys, and now he knew he might have been seen. What if they kept the keys in a safe? He spotted a toolbox and took a screwdriver instead. He thought about Dalton’s stories of stealing cars.
He decided on a TTx, N1980TT, a sleek plane, lime-green paint sweeping across the top half and down the wings. Robert walked the wingspan before opening the cockpit hatch. Unlocked. Butterscotch leather interior. The plane seated four. Fewer buttons and knobs peppered the control panel. Robert wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing, but the Garmin was close enough to what he’d used on his last flight. The console’s cup holder cradled a paper cup printed with golden arches, full of melted ice and watery Coke. Robert threw it in the trash on his way to the hangar doors.
He buckled up. Safety first.
This time Robert’s stomach lurched, knowing what he was about to do. His hands shook as he jammed the screwdriver into the ignition. The resulting metallic crunch made him sure he’d broken something. He rattled the screwdriver and tried to turn it, but it wouldn’t budge.
He looked wildly around the hangar. What else could he use to start this plane?
He desperately jimmied the screwdriver a final time, and suddenly the handle turned. The engine revved. He was half-thrilled and half-terrified. Now he had to go through with it. Robert unwrapped a Dum Dum and shoved it in his mouth, biting down on the hard candy. The cherry lollipop cracked into candy splinters, sharp as glass shards, which he worked furiously with his teeth as he taxied out of the hangar.
Stars twinkled over the airstrip and sharp pine branches pierced the horizon. On one side was the ocean; on the other were the trees. He’d swoop over them, skip across the bay, and land back on Washington’s shore. The cover of night would last long enough for him to distance himself from the plane.
He told himself he had a plan. He told himself he was ready.
The plane’s speed increased and Robert wrenched the throttle. N1980TT jerked into the air, punching up through gravity. He waited for the adrenaline rush to boil down. For that feeling of control to steady his hands. His first flight had been pure impulse, but now all he could do was think. Am I doing it right? Am I following the directions? Am I doing everything in the right order? Am I paying attention to the gauges, the meters, the signs?
The altitude meter lurched and dove, as though the air itself had become bumpy. Wind tossed the plane left and right. Robert tugged at the throttle again. He yanked on the elevator control, and the nose came up too sharply. The runway danced across the windshield as he pushed the rudders and overcorrected. Too late he thought to lower the flaps, a worthless move now. He did it anyway. I thought I was good at this, and now I’m screwing the whole thing up.
At around 100 feet, the altitude meter stopped climbing, and the needle hung suspended. If he couldn’t gain any more altitude, the plane could tangle in the trees’ ancient tops like a stuck kite. He could end up impaled on a branch.
Something wasn’t right. Something was engaged that should be disengaged, something was down that should be up, on that should be off. Maybe he’d broken something during the rough takeoff. Maybe he’d broken something with the screwdriver. Robert’s eyes skimmed the windshield and the control panel. He tried to pull up on the throttle but it might as well have been sunk in concrete. All his computerized flights that had ended in flames flared before his eyes. One more time he jerked the elevator.
The beach narrowed.
Seattle might as well be the moon for as close as he was going to get to it. He had to land, and the place least likely to kill him was the sand. He threw down the wheels, extended the flaps, and trimmed the elevator quickly, quickly. He closed the throttle, kept the nose up, and shut his eyes, bracing himself for impact.
A blooming cloud of grit coated the windshield as the plane gouged the shoreline, cratering the sand. Waves broke against the wheels, and salt water sprayed the windows. The carriage thudded, bounding along the beach. The plane finally skidded to a stop, leaning on the right wing. The left was bent, a broken bone in the plane’s metal skeleton. The engine sputtered and died. The nose wheel was crushed beneath the plane; the landing gear had snapped off and lay a few feet down the beach, among the shell shards and smooth stones. The propeller spun frantically, whirling up a small sandstorm, until it, too, lost momentum and was still.
He’d crashed only a few miles from Tomkins. A few lousy miles.
Robert pushed against the pilot-side door, smashing his shoulder against the frame until he realized the bottom was blocked by a six-inch-deep trench gashed in the sand. He climbed over the controls and beat on the passenger-side door until it finally lurched open. Robert scrambled from the plane, lost his balance, and fell into the sand. Grit filled his mouth and coated his nose and chin. He rolled over and blinked at the stars and the full, round moon before blacking out.