Read Online Calico Pennants by David A. Ross - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David A. Ross
Tags: Fiction - General
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reckoning. Need celestial fix. Can you climb on top?’
Amelia powered up the engines with a rich fuel mixture, and the Electra responded immediately. Up they rose above cruising altitude. Trying to break through the dense ceiling, the wings began to ice over, and the pilot was forced to descend without gaining the navigator’s needed reading. Shortly, she found a break in the clouds and tried again. This attempt consumed even more fuel than the first try, however the effort proved worthwhile. The navigator was able to establish position. Now a crucial question demanded an answer: Should they turn north toward Truk Island in the Carolines, or should they abort their ancillary mission because of adverse flying conditions?
‘How’s the fuel consumption curve?’ Freddy wanted to know.
Amelia scribbled a note and reeled it back into Freddy’s compartment amidst the auxiliary fuel tanks. ‘I think we’re O.K. Weather questionable...’
‘We go on your judgment,’ came the reply.
AE was flattered by Freddy’s trust, and a little surprised by his courage. All else in the balance, she could not disappoint the president. ‘Please describe alternate heading,’ she wrote. In a matter of minutes the course adjustment was in her hand.
But immediately after turning north they began to encounter difficult weather. Not wanting to fly directly into rain squalls, the pilot tried to steer the plane around each approaching storm center, flying fifty miles due north of one, thirty miles south of another. Increased wind velocity made the plane drift consistently starboard, rendering the gyroscopic compass and the autopilot quite useless. She calmly searched heavy skies for a ‘soft spot’ in the storm, but unwittingly flew right into the nucleus of the tempest.
The Electra bounced and pitched with a vengeance. Lightning illuminated the churning storm clouds in their flight path, and rain beat against the windshield, nullifying all sense of depth and direction. She fought against the twenty-five degree bank like a cowboy trying to break an obstinate horse.
And like a semaphore flag barely visible in the ultraviolet glow of the instrument panel, a new message appeared from Noonan on the infernal fishing line. She snatched the paper off the clothespin and cursed. Her hands were busy simply trying to keep the plane level; and she was perturbed by the navigator’s question: ‘Any chance of getting on top?’
It was ten minutes before her hands were free enough to jot a frustrated reply: ‘What am I supposed to do?’
His response was unemotional yet to the point. ‘My compass shows us seven degrees off course.’
Freddy was correct; they were off course. The magnetic compass was swinging so wildly that she was forced to determine a heading by averaging its readings, hoping to make corrections once they cleared the squalls.
And her arm ached from priming the ‘wobble’ pump. Her back hurt from the ten-hour-long confinement in the four-foot by four-foot cockpit. She smelled gas again, and the odor made her feel nauseous. Becoming increasingly alarmed by the apparent rate of fuel consumption, she ciphered her own calculations. Despite bucking stiff head winds, it was not reconcilable. More fuel should have been in reserve.
Another note along the ‘line of communication’ read: ‘Desperate for a reading. When?’
She penciled a reply and fastened it to their peculiar conduit: ‘Should I expend fuel for another climb?’
Freddy’s frustrated reply left no doubt: ‘We’re lost!’
Without delay she richened the mixture and throttled up. The Electra climbed to ten thousand feet. She switched on the landing lights to determine just how thick the vapor might be. But it was impossible to see anything. So she pulled back on the stick and took the plane to eleven thousand feet, then another thousand. Still nothing. Thirteen thousand. Fourteen. That was Electra’s absolute ceiling. Where was the top?
She tried to yell
Amelia powered up the engines with a rich fuel mixture, and the Electra responded immediately. Up they rose above cruising altitude. Trying to break through the dense ceiling, the wings began to ice over, and the pilot was forced to descend without gaining the navigator’s needed reading. Shortly, she found a break in the clouds and tried again. This attempt consumed even more fuel than the first try, however the effort proved worthwhile. The navigator was able to establish position. Now a crucial question demanded an answer: Should they turn north toward Truk Island in the Carolines, or should they abort their ancillary mission because of adverse flying conditions?
‘How’s the fuel consumption curve?’ Freddy wanted to know.
Amelia scribbled a note and reeled it back into Freddy’s compartment amidst the auxiliary fuel tanks. ‘I think we’re O.K. Weather questionable...’
‘We go on your judgment,’ came the reply.
AE was flattered by Freddy’s trust, and a little surprised by his courage. All else in the balance, she could not disappoint the president. ‘Please describe alternate heading,’ she wrote. In a matter of minutes the course adjustment was in her hand.
But immediately after turning north they began to encounter difficult weather. Not wanting to fly directly into rain squalls, the pilot tried to steer the plane around each approaching storm center, flying fifty miles due north of one, thirty miles south of another. Increased wind velocity made the plane drift consistently starboard, rendering the gyroscopic compass and the autopilot quite useless. She calmly searched heavy skies for a ‘soft spot’ in the storm, but unwittingly flew right into the nucleus of the tempest.
The Electra bounced and pitched with a vengeance. Lightning illuminated the churning storm clouds in their flight path, and rain beat against the windshield, nullifying all sense of depth and direction. She fought against the twenty-five degree bank like a cowboy trying to break an obstinate horse.
And like a semaphore flag barely visible in the ultraviolet glow of the instrument panel, a new message appeared from Noonan on the infernal fishing line. She snatched the paper off the clothespin and cursed. Her hands were busy simply trying to keep the plane level; and she was perturbed by the navigator’s question: ‘Any chance of getting on top?’
It was ten minutes before her hands were free enough to jot a frustrated reply: ‘What am I supposed to do?’
His response was unemotional yet to the point. ‘My compass shows us seven degrees off course.’
Freddy was correct; they were off course. The magnetic compass was swinging so wildly that she was forced to determine a heading by averaging its readings, hoping to make corrections once they cleared the squalls.
And her arm ached from priming the ‘wobble’ pump. Her back hurt from the ten-hour-long confinement in the four-foot by four-foot cockpit. She smelled gas again, and the odor made her feel nauseous. Becoming increasingly alarmed by the apparent rate of fuel consumption, she ciphered her own calculations. Despite bucking stiff head winds, it was not reconcilable. More fuel should have been in reserve.
Another note along the ‘line of communication’ read: ‘Desperate for a reading. When?’
She penciled a reply and fastened it to their peculiar conduit: ‘Should I expend fuel for another climb?’
Freddy’s frustrated reply left no doubt: ‘We’re lost!’
Without delay she richened the mixture and throttled up. The Electra climbed to ten thousand feet. She switched on the landing lights to determine just how thick the vapor might be. But it was impossible to see anything. So she pulled back on the stick and took the plane to eleven thousand feet, then another thousand. Still nothing. Thirteen thousand. Fourteen. That was Electra’s absolute ceiling. Where was the top?
She tried to yell
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