Page 16 of Protecting the Flame

Chapter 8

There aremany sounds one hopes never to hear. The Doppler wail of an oncoming train at the moment your car stalls on the track. That curious snap and kerSHAW that is a bullet breaking the sound barrier as it hurtles past your ear. The drip-drip-drip of blood on bathroom tile.

Another is the hoosh of wind against a plane’s fuselage because the engines keeping you in the air only seconds before having stopped working.

For what seemed like a very long moment, no one said anything. Then Rachel asked, “What—”

“Hunter!” Burke barked. Without taking his eyes from the windscreen, the pilot angled the plane right in a ninety-degree turn sharp and abrupt enough Emma felt her shoulder strap catch and strain against the ball of her joint. “What the hell did you—”

“What happened to the engines?” Scott sat up straight, his hair in kinks and screws as if he’d only now rolled out of bed. “Why did they stop?”

“No fuel,” Will said softly. “Must’ve switched to an empty tank instead of a full one. Take it easy, Scott.”

“Don’t tell me to take it easy! I got that there’s no fuel!” Scott’s skin had drawn down tight over his skull. “What I want to know is why?”

“Might be…” Burke cursed as he made another ninety-degree turn. His feet worked a set of pedals. “Could be the new wing tanks.”

“Or the selector.” Hunter shot a glance at his father. “Everything got yanked out and reinstalled. Could’ve been mounted backward.”

“What does that mean?” Rachel asked.

“It means we got to get the engines restarted is what.” Reaching forward, Burke flipped a switch and kept working pedals. “Keep this baby in the air while I do it. Everyone, stay calm,” he added as if they’d all been a hairsbreadth away from screaming. “We still got plenty of air between us and the mountains.”

“Where did we start?” Will glanced at his watch. “How high are the mountains we’re supposed to be over?”

“Twenty-seven thousand, and about twelve. Now, shut the fuck up. Hunter,” Burke said as he made another right-angle turn, “keep an eye on that altimeter.”

“Altimeter? You’re saying we’re losing altitude?” Rachel’s voice was shaking. “We’re falling?”

“Yes, but we’re not in a nosedive. We’re gliding,” Will said, though his gaze was fixed on his watch. “Small planes can glide a long time. The wind might even help us.”

“Wanna bet?” muttered Mattie.

As much as Emma wanted to believe Will, the girl might be right. She could feel the wind pummel and shove them farther to the east. They were still in dense clouds, though. How fast would a plane fall? That must be what Will was trying to gauge. But how could he tell? Wait a second. Something burbled up from memory. Gravity made something fall faster; gravity made you accelerate. So they were falling, all right—and, every second, they fell even faster.

“Why are we flying in a square?” asked Mattie.

“Keeping us clear of the peaks.” All the irritation had bled from Hunter’s voice along with the blood in his face. He glanced at the altimeter and, while Emma was too far away to see the display, she imagined it was like the movies, the numbers scrolling past, counting down fast. “Twenty-one, Dad,” he reported.

“Seven a minute,” muttered Will.

“That’s pretty fast,” Mattie said.

“Yeah, well,” said Burke, “it’s better’n ten.”

“Better than ten what?” Rachel asked.

“Feet,” Mattie said.

“What, seven measly feet a minute?” Scott choked out a little laugh. “That’s not so bad.”

“That’s thousand.” Mattie didn’t need to add, Youmoron. “It’s gravity, Scott.”

Rachel put a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God.”

“A minute?” All the feeling, all her blood pooled in Emma’s toes. Seven thousand feet a minute? If the mountains around here were twelve thousand feet high and they’d started out at roughly twenty-seven…

“Jesus.” Scott’s mouth hung open. “You’re saying we got less than two minutes?”

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