The Strait by Dom Stasi

Author:Dom Stasi [Stasi, Dom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781948239134
Publisher: WildBlue Press
Published: 2019-06-17T16:00:00+00:00

- Chapter 12 -

The eerie quiet of a tropical sunset descended on the Guianese jungle, casting long shadows across the aerodrome at that jungle’s heart.

Pushing back against the encroaching darkness, a harsh white light streamed onto the field’s cracked tarmac from the wide open doors of the hangar where Jake Silver, already in the cockpit of Major Dwight Chichester’s modified Invader airplane, was hurriedly acclimating to the machine’s worn controls and mechanical instrumentation.

With the major to his right, St. John and Montoya taking up positions in the airplane’s rear compartment, Jake was well aware that every second Tina Bergstrom remained in the brutal hands of Emiliano Cegato, could be her last. That his own fate might be no different was a concern he’d have to address at some point. For now, though, this band of reprobates was all he had... and all Tina Bergstrom had.

Subordinating a ritual preflight procedure to time, he started one, then the second of the plane’s big engines. As the massive radials coughed, sputtered, and roared to life, their smoky blast sent chairs, ladders, and tool chests tumbling backwards against the hangar’s rear wall. Taking little notice, Jake taxied the old machine through the hangar’s wide doors and across the broken and overgrown tarmac to the runway’s threshold.

Switching on the ancient navigation/communication radio, Jake heard no sidetone or static. “What’s wrong with this radio?”

“It’s valves need to warm up,” Chichester answered to Jake’s dismay. “Give it some time. It receives well enough, but its transmitter section is intermittent. Works sometimes, other times not. No matter. The navigation head works, and we won’t need a radio at Kourou.”

With a headshake of incredulity, Jake made a quick verbal check of his ragtag crew, ran through the checklist, and took the runway.

“Even with the empty tip tanks, she’ll be over her landing weight when we get to Kourou,” Chichester advised.

“Let’s ignore one law of physics at a time,” Jake said, his focus on the towering wall of trees looming at the runway’s end, aware that he was breaking every rule of sane airmanship in his haste to get aloft. “Say the numbers.”

“Twenty-five-hundred feet of runway, another 500 to the trees and the lowest of them are about 75-feet AGL,” Chichester shouted back.

Jake set the altimeter to 2,700 feet MSL, the airstrip’s height above mean sea level and made a mental note of the barometer.

Both he and the airplane would have to perform perfectly to avoid flying into those treetops, or exploding against the hills beyond, presuming the old warbird rose at all.

“Flaps to fifteen and arm the ADI,” Chichester advised. “Fifty inches MP,” meaning manifold pressure, “then power to 50, and release the brakes,” Chichester advised. “Takeoff power. The water will kick in at 44 inches. Lighten the nose wheel the moment you feel elevator and rudder authority. Fly her off at 100 indicated. Stow the gear as soon as we’re up. Hold her flat until we clear the trees, then lose the flaps, and climb her at 140 knots indicated.

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