Barnstorm by Wayne; Page Read Free Book Online

bearings out his left side window, the jump plane right window shattered into a spider-webbed pattern. Buzz snapped his head forward in time to see a second goose give up the ghost in his engine intake. Feathers exploded. The clogged intake became the least of his worries. The compromised propeller vibrated violently. Buzz adjusted some controls and tapped a gauge as though that would change the critical message it communicated. Concerned, he hit the troublesome gauge with a little more authority. He had heard about bird strikes, but never been through any training drills that would help now.
    As the plane bounced, Trip fell over on his side.
    Checking gauges, Buzz made more adjustments. He flipped toggle switches, turned knobs. The plane bounced. The engine coughed. As though his plane were an old friend, Buzz tried to tease a response, “Come on baby, be nice to papa.”
    The engine vomited a puff of smoke. Buzz patted the instrument panel, imploring a little better cooperation, “Okay, sweetheart, be nice to papa.”
    Trip snapped his head around, faced forward. He sniffed. Cracking the main cabin door he saw a wisp of smoke. Out of options now, he pulled the door to the main cabin closed. Trip was not sure which was worse. Wings tipping left, then right or the pitch-yaw that hit his head on the ceiling of his cave of doom.
    Losing his patience, Buzz was beyond love taps on the uncooperative instrument panel before him. He yelled, “Come on, be nice to papa.”
    Trip was ready to admit defeat and crawled on his hands and knees into the main cabin. Buzz, being otherwise occupied, did not see Trip roll toward the opening from which the skydivers had jumped. Trip first banged legs, then hip, and lastly shoulder against the side of the plane. His head hung outside the opening. Rolling farmland, engine smoke, and wind rushed past his head concocting a cocktail of fear. As he was about to fall through the opening, the plane jerked sharply right. Trip was hurtled away from the opening. He scurried back into the temporary safety of the rear storage compartment and yanked the door closed.
    Buzz pulled the radio mic toward him. With focused resolve he announced his predicament to Deb, “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Bird strike! Deb, goin’ down. Mayday!”
    While Buzz, and to a lesser extent Trip, had been gradually adjusting to the potential tragedy, this ‘Mayday’ turd plopped into the cafe punchbowl without warning. Deb stood at Buzz’s business counter with the CB radio mic in her hand. The sound of radio static confused its way through the cafe. The Liar Flyers had gathered and faces communicated immediate concern. Buzz was a highly qualified Air Force pilot. When he shouted Mayday, that’s not a casual How ya doin’, Bubba?
    “Engine fire. Goin’ down!” Buzz coughed.
    “Buzz! Buzz!” shouted Deb.
    The cafe radio receiver now emitted sounds of a sputtering engine and spark crackles. Buzz’s voice broke through with, “Location. Southeast. . . old stone. . .” His steady voice was replaced by static and the radio cut in-and-out. “Fire!”
    Deb clutched the radio mic. The radio went dead. The silence in the cafe was deafening. Only the hum of the Sky Gypsy Café neon sign could be heard. Deb cried through the silence, “Buzz! No! No!” She released the button on the side of the mic and waited nervously for a reply that did not come. Silence. She squeezed the mic button harder. Her military-trained fighter pilot had survived all that Iraq and Afghanistan had thrown at him. Surely, a single-prop jump plane wouldn’t spell doom for her Buzz. “Buzz! Oh my God.”
    Deb released the button one last time for receive mode. There was nothing to receive. Only silence. The radio was dead. Was her Buzz dead? There were only blank stares in the cafe as no one wanted to make eye contact. The three wrinkled pilots had the experience. They could only reach one conclusion. Deb caressed the radio mic to her cheek.
    The Liar