Blood Brothers Page 9

  Martin looked outside. It was fierce and inhospitable. He wondered if Joe was just overreacting. Then the next jolt of the plane proved his instinct was still good. He knew the heat would come back and they needed the tarpaulin.

  Martin unlatched his door and tried to open it. He was pushing against a force far greater than the energy he had left. He sucked in a deep breath, pushed against the door as hard as he could and it opened; not all the way, but far enough for him to ease himself out into the maelstrom. He was immediately assaulted by every piece of small debris, vegetation, gravel and any shard of wreckage light enough to be carried by the wind. He jumped towards the wing strut and hung on until he’d gathered his breath to move under the wing and grab the propeller.

  He visually checked the three tied-off corners of the tarpaulin; they all seemed to be firm enough. He could see the wind was tugging at the corners, but they held; it was the loose flap hanging down across the windscreen that was making all the noise.

  He remembered the rope he’d decided to drop under the wing in case he needed it.

  Now he needed it. The loose end was within reach. He grabbed it, pulled it towards the flapping corner, and holding it down, he threaded the rope through the eyelet and tied it off. Once sure he had made a secure knot, he wound the rope around one of the propellers and tied that off as well.

  Holding onto the propeller Martin decided to look out towards the east where the first sign of light was outlining the horizon. The colour was wrong. It was tinged with burnt orange, almost mauve. And as he slowly scanned the line off towards the south and back to the west, he could see something else. If he could have relied on his eyesight, he would have said it was a bank of cloud close to the ground. Whatever it was it looked dangerous and he returned to the cockpit.

  “You stopped the banging then,” Joe said. “What was it?”

  “Just one of the corners… When I tied the main three I decided to leave the one over the nose in case we wanted to look out of the windscreen. It’s okay now. I’ve tied it down to the propeller.”

  “That’s good,” he mumbled, “but there’s still a lot of noise.”

  “I know, I checked. I think another storm’s coming in. There’s a long line of cloud rushing across from the horizon.”

  “Is it close to the ground?”

  “Yes…why is that?”

  Joe grunted. “It’s not like the other storm…it sounds like a sandstorm.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “It’s bad enough to stop any planes looking for us.”

  Martin tried the radio again. It was still set on the radio ham’s frequency.

  “I wouldn’t bother with that. You won’t pick up anything in this. Try later when it’s fine again. By then there might be some planes about.”

  Martin switched off the radio and decided to go back to sleep.

  It was nine o’clock and Broome was battening down for their second storm in as many days. Adam had found some tape in the garage and was just finishing off the cracked glass panel in the door when Kate walked into the bedroom with a hot mug of tea. She smiled at him like mothers do. It was good to have him home.

  He stopped what he was doing and held out his hand. “Oh, I could kill for one of those. What time is it?” he said, taking a sip.

  “What about your watch?” Kate said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “I haven’t worn a watch for ages. I use my mobile.”

  “Well, I never,” she said. “Your dad and I have had mobiles for ages and have never thought to use their clocks. It makes sense in this age.”

  “I use my mobile for just about everything.”

  “What do you use?” Jennifer said, walking into the room.”

  “We’re just talking about mobiles,” Adam answered her.

  “Sorry, dear,” Kate said, “did you want something?”

  “You’re not going in to work then?”

  “No, dear. I rang the Head Administrator earlier and told him what had happened and he said I was to stay off until something was settled.”

  Jennifer shook her head, “Isn’t that just like the bureaucracy – until something was settled? What about how are you coping?”

  “It’s all right. He means well; he just doesn’t know how to deal with people in emotional situations. So what about you? You’re not going to university?”

  “Not likely. Can you imagine me concentrating on anything today? And what about the weather… would you go out in this?” she joshed.

  The phone rang. Luckily there was an extension in the bedroom and Jennifer passed it to Kate. “Hello?” she answered.

  “It’s Philip, Kate. How are you?”

  “Hello Philip…I’m still hanging on. Have you got any news for me?”

  “I haven’t, Kate. I thought I’d ring to let you know that the weather has grounded the planes. But we’ll get them up as soon as this storm clears.”

  “As soon as I saw it come through this morning I knew it wasn’t a good sign. Has meteorology given you any idea when this lot is likely to pass?”

  “They think it will be somewhere around three; they’re not sure.”

  “Oh dear…if you need a four-hour window, that means today is out.”

  “I’m afraid so, Kate…unless it moves earlier. However, the other reason I rang you was to say his lord-ship, Larry Kingston, has decided to renege on his quick tour. He has decided to stay until we find the plane.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Oh yes, it’s what I’ve been badgering him for. It means the Lear Jet is available to join the search.”

  “Another plane must be good. Thank him for me.”

  “No, Kate, that’s not it. It means the jet can search twice the distance. It can go up and down our search area covering a much narrower heading.”

  “Oh, I see…that’s marvellous. Please let me know when it leaves.”

  “I will, Kate. Keep your chin up. I’ll ring again later. Bye.”

  “Bye Philip…and thanks.”

  She handed the phone back to Jennifer. “Who’s Philip?” she said.

  “That was the Operations Manager. Unfortunately, the planes are grounded.”

  “I gathered that,” Adam said. What’s this four-hour window?”

  “Oh, that. Apparently it takes the planes two hours to reach the crash area and two hours to get back…so that’s the minimum time they have.”

  Suddenly a gust of wind buffeted the glass door again and a torrential downpour swept across the balcony. Adam rushed over to the glass panel and checked his handiwork. “The tape seems to be holding,” he said, running his hand up and down the crack. “I hope this stands up to the storm until we get it repaired.”

  Kate was far away, thinking of Martin and Joe huddled in the cockpit of the tiny Cessna. “I wonder if this storm is as far reaching as the one that brought their plane down,” she mused. “Imagine what they must be going through.”

  The sandstorm was upon them. Every loose item on the plane was rattling violently. The Cessna seemed almost to the point where Martin expected it to break apart any minute. There was nothing to see other than a swirling mass of sand mixed with anything that the whirlwind could pick up in its relentless journey.

  It peppered the windscreen with the force of a sandblaster. And the noise; a whining roar that filled the cockpit despite the headsets they returned to their ears.

  Joe had been resting quietly up until the first strike. It was he who suggested they cover their ears, but it only reduced the whine a fraction.

  Then the motion started as the epicentre of the storm arrived. It was the same feeling Martin had experienced just before they’d taken off, when a sudden gust lifted the plane off its wheels and dropped it back again with a thump. This had a different effect; probably due to the broken wing. The floating sensation was not there. Martin’s side of the plane, which was intact, lifted almost to the point of the wheel leaving the ground, while Joe’s damaged side held the frame ba
ck, scraping and wrenching, until the plane crashed back again.

  At one stage he thought the storm was about to take hold of the good wing and flip them over and maybe over and over again; like an empty cardboard box. He reached for Joe’s harness and snapped the buckle into its slot. He did the same with his own and braced himself for the possibility.

  The sandstorm raged for what seemed hours. Martin was becoming exhausted, just bracing himself with every cycle of assaults, waiting for the final one that would end it all. On and on it went: ferocious one moment, drained of power the next. But it persisted, lolling them into a state of torpor.

  Eventually the whine ceased. It was so sudden Martin hardly noticed the difference; it was still ringing in his ears. The power had moved on leaving the remains of a spasmodic breeze that kept sand in the air, pattering against the windscreen like an irritating shower.

  Martin decided to take this lull to prepare what was left of the Mars Bars. They’d missed breakfast, so this would be a late lunch. They had to make the most of it. The next meal would be Hard Tack biscuits and according to his calculations they only had six bottles of water left. It was almost the end of the second day and Martin speculated on how long that would last.

  Joe had managed to sleep through the worst of the storm, bumps and all, and when Martin finally managed to stir him he was surprised he was in his harness again.

  “What’s this?” he said, tugging at the broad straps across his chest.

  Martin undid the harness and folded it back. “Just a precaution, Joe.”

  He looked about the cockpit. “Why…was the storm that bad?”

  “It was terrible, Joe. It almost lifted the plane off the ground. But she hung on. I think it was the damaged wing that saved us.”

  He looked towards the windscreen as Martin handed him his quarter of Mars Bar and unscrewed the top off a new bottle of water.

  “How are the rations going?” Joe asked.

  Martin wondered if he should tell him the truth, then he thought, ‘What the heck. When they’re gone, they’re gone.’ “This is the last Mars Bar and we only have six bottles of water left.”

  “We can survive on the biscuits, but we’ll have to ration the water.”

  It was getting late. The shower of sand that was peppering the windscreen had stopped and the sandstorm had moved on. They could see by the reflection on the engine cowling that there was an orange glow to the west, which meant another sunset was almost upon them. Joe stirred again, trying to find another easy position.

  “Do you think you could get me another painkiller?”

  Martin reached for the box, took out a tablet and passed it to him.

  “I can do without the water,” he said, swallowing the tablet. “I hate to say this, Martin, but I think you should check the plane before it gets dark.”

  Martin needed no explanation to understand the sandstorm may have done some structural damage that could threaten them later. He opened the door and stepped out into the late evening light. He stood for a moment under the wing listening to how silent the desert was now. It was a deathly silence. No distant sounds, no cries from animals about to search for food; just the sense of another hot night ahead.

  The first thing he noticed was how soft it was under foot. The sandstorm must have dumped at least a hundred millimetres of sand as it passed; but not evenly. It was like the snowstorms he’d experienced in England: in the open spaces it might be six inches deep, but up against structures, where the snow drifted and collected, it could be as much as several feet. And when it had become too heavy for the angle of the roof to maintain, Martin had been faced with a mountain of six feet or more to clear.

  He moved around to the front of the plane. As he guessed the sand had covered everything he’d removed the previous day, and more. There was a heap that reached up to the propellers. It stretched all the way round to the other side, burying the lower portion of the damaged wing up to Joe’s door, and all the way along the body to beneath the tail. Surprisingly the tarpaulin was still intact.

  “Everything all right,” Joe said, as Martin returned to his seat.

  “As far as I can see, except for a few piles of sand under the plane, the storm had no effect on us. Even the tarpaulin is still in one piece.”

  “Good. Check the radio again.”

  Martin switched it on. The light was still bright and the familiar hum led him to believe they were still capable of transmitting a signal. He put his headset on and spoke into the mike. “Mayday…Mayday…ALPHA, TANGO, ZULU calling.”

  If he got through to the radio ham’s set he did not respond.

  Broome came to life again when the storm passed over, despite the sun edging closer to the surface of the Indian Ocean. On reading the latest meteorological report, Philip Hastings had gathered his pilots together, including the captain of the Lear Jet, to brief them on an early start in the morning.

  “First of all I would like to let you know Larry Kingston has given permission for us to use the Lear in this operation.” There was a noticeable acknowledgement.

  “I don’t need to tell you how much of a difference that will make.”

  He turned to the captain. “What sort of ceiling do you want? I presume you intend flying a full complement of passengers with binoculars.”

  “I do…I’ve already arranged that for a five-thirty take off. I intend flying at 2000 feet unless we see something, in which case I shall descend to 1000. If your planes fly at 3000 feet until they reach the search area, I shall have plenty of leeway.”

  “That sounds great. Any questions so far?” Everyone shook their heads and Philip passed on to the new detail marked on the chart. “Now I’ve already explained what the headings are for the blue line and the red line. The new green lines are the different headings the Lear will fly. He’s not only going to cover the gaps, he’s going to do it in half the time. So keep your eyes open. I don’t want you straying into each other’s area. Finally, I can’t emphasise how important it is for you to keep contact with Josh. A call every fifteen minutes with your position will let him know where each plane is at any moment. If anyone spots something, make your call straightaway; then Josh can coordinate the nearest planes to join the search.”

  “And try to stay on your headings, no matter how tempting it might be to explore another area. You can catch that spot on your way back,” Bryce said.

  Philip looked around for any comments before he continued.

  Josh interrupted. “Sorry, Philip. I just want to repeat the fact that you must use your new call signs. Forget about the usual procedure; I must know to whom I’m talking. Each call sign is designated to an individual plane.”

  “Thanks, Josh,” Philip said, “I forgot that. Now make all the checks you need to and let’s hope the weather gives us a go for first thing tomorrow.”

  One of the pilots raised his hand. “As a point of interest, Philip, what happens when we find the plane?”

  “After you radio it in and fix its position, Josh will radio the rescue helicopter and direct it to the site. Our first priority is the welfare of Joe and his passenger. The plane is of no interest at this stage.”

  “I’d like to say something,” a voice rang out from the back of the room. It was Larry Kingston. He made his way towards the chart table and stood next to Philip. “I don’t have anything to add to Philip’s briefing other than to wish you all a successful day tomorrow. I’ll be watching your progress with the guys here and waiting eagerly to congratulate the plane that finds them. We’re a family at AMINCO. We look after each other, so go to it, guys; go and find our men.”

  There was a loud roar of applause and Philip smiled and wondered at the man. As usual, he stood back until the last minute and then stepped in with a few words to grab the moment; and in turn the engendered applause. That was what he was good at. That was his motivation.

  CHAPTER 10

  On the third day Martin woke to a strange silence. His head was swimming and he found
it difficult to concentrate. He was facing a mass of blue, two distinct blues in fact; a dark triangular shape pointing towards the instrument panel and a lighter blue surrounding it. He thought it strange and studied the phenomenon for several seconds until he remembered how silent it was.

  He was used to the rasping rhythm of Joe’s breathing, the occasional cough and his mumbling of past issues. Martin shook his head and began to rouse himself. His first task was to check Joe; to find out if he was any worse.

  “Come on, Joe…rise and shine. Let’s see how you’re doing.”

  Martin was awake by now and he stared at the motionless figure next to him. The silence in the cockpit was because Joe was silent. No rattling in his breathing, no irritating jerky movements and no signs of pain to disturb his sleep.

  The implication stunned Martin. He could do no more than sit and stare at the man he had spent two days with. Then panic took over. He jabbed his fingers into Joe’s neck and felt for a pulse. There was none; no matter how many times he searched the side of his neck. He undid his shirt front and placed his hand on his chest, but felt nothing until he suddenly realised Joe’s skin was deathly cold.

  “Come on, Joe. Don’t die on me,” Martin cried out.

  Martin rubbed his forehead. His usual grasp of challenging situations had stalled; the cognitive processes were out of synch, floating irrationally through his mind without cause or reason. He shook his head to kick-start the process, but still there was a blank space in the middle of his forehead.

  He paused for a moment; took his mind away from the problem by switching on the radio. The little red light fluttered and he remembered what Joe had said about draining the battery. He also remembered what he was doing: he was checking Joe’s condition. He went through the process again and suddenly it all came back to him.

  “Oh Joe…please don’t be dead. I’ll be all alone out here in this godforsaken place. What will I do when the planes come?”