The Quest

Vivian said, “I like your first idea better.”

Purcell reminded them, “We’re reporters. We have no idea what we’re doing.” He looked at his watch: 6:52. “Ready?”

Vivian said, “If you are, I am.”

He turned on the master switch, then pulled the wheel, and Vivian was startled when the wheel in front of her moved in concert with his. He pushed on the rudder pedals, and hers moved under her feet. He said to her, “This is dual control, but that does not mean that two of us are going to fly this. Keep your hands off the wheel and your feet off the pedals.”

“Yes, sir.”

He pumped the throttle a few times, then hit the starter. The engine coughed, and a black puff of smoke billowed out from under the cowl. The propeller went by once, twice, and the engine caught.

Vivian noticed a Saint Christopher medal that Signore Bocaccio had pinned to the headliner above the windshield. She touched it, and said, “Patron saint of travelers. He will watch over us.”

“Good.”

Purcell looked at the disarrayed and mostly inoperative gauges. Under the control panel was a new switch, marked in English, “Safety,” and “Fire.” A separate red button was the actual trigger for the smoke rockets. A round, clear plastic sighting device was mounted in front of him on a swivel near the windshield. He had noticed that there were still four smoke rockets left in the pod. According to Signore Bocaccio, this was not unusual; the Ethiopian ground crews minimized their workload. Signore Bocaccio had advised Purcell not to demand that the rockets be taken out. He also advised him not to fire them for sport.

Purcell glanced at the distant windsock, then released the handbrake and rolled toward the runways. He saw that a C-47 was sitting on the edge of the long runway that he had used with Signore Bocaccio the previous day. He had no time to wait for the C-47 to move, so he taxied to the shorter runway, which Signore Bocaccio had said was all right to use, depending on winds, fuel load, and cargo load. The fuel gauge said full, but Vivian was light and Mercado had skipped breakfast.

Purcell taxied to the end of the shorter runway. The noise level in the cockpit was tolerable and speech was possible if they raised their voices. He asked, “Everyone okay?”

Vivian nodded. Mercado did not reply.

Purcell checked the flight controls and the elevator trim position. He did a quick engine run-up and noticed that the magneto drop was neither good nor bad. He’d go with it.

He cycled the propeller through its range, then wheeled onto the runway, where the ground fog had mostly blown off. He lined up the nose on what was once a white line. The expanse of broken concrete was a little disturbing. He hesitated, then pushed the throttle in and the Navion began its run.

The aircraft bounced badly over the broken concrete. The control panel vibrated, the Plexiglas canopy rattled, and the controls shook in his hands. The thumping sound of the nose gear strut filled the cabin as it bottomed out. He glanced at Vivian and saw that she was playing with her camera.

The Navion ate up the runway at the rate of fifty miles per hour, then sixty. The end of the runway was shrouded in fog, but he knew it was also the end of the flat-topped hill that he’d noticed when he’d flown over it with Bocaccio. Purcell saw that the land dropped away to his sides into fog banks. He was on a ridge and there was no aborting this takeoff anymore.

“Frank!”

It was Mercado, but there was nothing to discuss.

Vivian looked up from her camera, but said nothing.

Purcell glanced at his airspeed indicator and noticed that the balky instrument read zero. The throttle was fully open, but Mia showed no signs of lifting.

The runway suddenly ended and Vivian let out a startled sound, then reached out and put her fingers on Saint Christopher.

The control wheel felt light in Purcell’s hands and the Navion hung for a moment, as though trying to decide whether to fly or drop into the valley.

The nose dipped down, and Purcell pulled back slowly on the wheel and pulled the hydraulic landing gear lever. Mia lifted slightly. The adjoining hill went by off his left wing, and he noticed that it had more elevation than the Navion. The sound of the landing gear banging into its wells gave Vivian a start, and Mercado said, “Oh!”

The aircraft began to climb. Purcell glanced at the altimeter. He was at seventy-eight hundred feet, which was not good considering he had started at seventy-nine hundred. Around him, the mountains rose ten and twelve thousand feet and seemed to hem him in. A peak rose up to his front.

The aircraft continued to climb, and at twelve thousand feet he relaxed a bit. He turned to a northwesterly heading and asked, “Mind if I smoke?”

No one seemed to mind, so he lit up. He asked, “Anyone need that carafe?”

Vivian replied, “Too late for that.”

Purcell asked, “How you doing, Henry?”

No response.

Vivian turned her head. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Would you like some water?”

“I’m fine.”

Vivian asked Purcell, “Did you do that yesterday?”