Barnstorm by Wayne; Page Read Free Book Online Page A

Flyers bowed their heads.

Chapter Four
    The deathwatch cafe silence was in stark contrast to the frantic scene of cockpit smoke and loud surge of a desperate engine not responding to Buzz’s pleas. Sparks flew from behind the altimeter. Multi-tasking as he shouted into the radio mic that had ceased transmitting, Buzz flipped toggle switches. He looked out the window and checked his location.
    Buzz broadcast, “Old stone quarry, southeast,” into a nothingness that would never be received. The radio crackled and popped into one final gasp. Buzz instinctively replaced the mic to its holder on the instrument panel. Buzz knew that his plane was going down in spite of his efforts. There comes a time when the fighter pilot ejects and watches forty million dollars in taxpayer money go up in flames. Now was one of those times. Absent the rocket-powered ejection seat of his F-15 Strike Eagle, it was time to abandon ship. He confirmed only farmland below. No schools. No hospitals. The plane wouldn’t crash into an orphanage. He unstrapped his safety harness and left the cockpit. He grabbed the parachute standard for a skydiver pilot, fastened the clasps, shook the harness and took one last look at the smoke sifting from behind his instrument panel.
    Buzz did not see Trip crack his door connecting the rear compartment and the main cabin. He maneuvered to the opening and surveyed the swirling farmland below. Buzz jumped from the plane.
    Seeing Buzz bail out of the plane sent chills down Trip’s spine. His knees were wobbling so much that he could only crawl through the main cabin. He rocked-and-rolled to the cockpit and crawled into the pilot’s seat. He eyed the controls and coughed as the engine continued to belch smoke. He rushed back to the opening just in time to see Buzz’s chute deploy.
    Stumbling back toward the cockpit, true to his nickname, Trip tripped over what appeared to be a backpack. Frustrated by his clumsiness, he kicked it aside. Almost instantly he realized what he had done. It was the spare parachute left by one of the skydivers safely on the ground negotiating a business deal. The chute slid and hit the wall to the right of the door opening. He dove after his lifeline. At the moment his fingertips were ready to grasp the parachute shoulder harness, the plane lurched to the side. He accidently hit the chute with his forearm. Out it went. He stood, hands choking the handles above the opening, and watched the spec of a parachute pack disappear into the clouds. He was afraid of heights for a reason. He shuddered in fear as he visualized himself crashing through the clouds toward the ground.
    Back to the cockpit, Trip stared at the instrument panel. He grabbed the radio mic and pulled it toward him. Trip shouted, “Help! Mayday!” The cord broke loose from the instrument panel, taunting Trip as it dangled hopelessly. Trippy’s gonna fall. Trippy’s gonna fall. He could hear the school-yard taunts. He had to shake his head to eradicate the image of the perfect squares of his childhood jungle-gym hell.
    Trip failed in his only attempt to plug the cord back into the dash. Sparks flew. He shook his hand and dropped the mic to the floor, it bounced away. He fumbled randomly at the controls.
    The plane bounced erratically. Trip returned to the main cabin. True to form, he tripped and fell again. His fall was broken by the last parachute. Trip might have been about to fall out of an airplane, but he didn’t just fall off a turnip truck. He immediately knew that he clutched his last lifeline in his hands. His previous daydreams and hands-on practice with parachutes now paid off. He was able to quickly don the chute and tighten the straps. He wobbled to the opening, and yes, bumped his head.
    Trip was out of options. He tried to jump three times–no good. He saw farms, barns, trees spinning below. “On the count of three; one, two,” he commanded.
    The plane shuddered. Smoke. Frozen, summoning up his courage, he