Chapter 13
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Lucas wrenched open the rusty door on the tin-can aircraft Keagan swore would take them the rest of the way to the Cartina National Airbase. Seabrook dived inside and began assessing the controls. He scooped Lucia from Sara's arms and shoved her into the craft then lifted his wife by her waist.
He couldn't miss the barely banked fear in her eyes—only a fool wouldn't be afraid. But he also saw her trust. He gave a quick squeeze of reassurance, all he could take time for with sporadic gunfire sputtering in the distance. Could be nothing.
Could be Chavez.
Lucas climbed into the miniscule cockpit with none of his usual anticipation. He enjoyed the hell out of flying, becoming airborne like the birds he'd fed and watched since childhood.
Although this ancient bird might not make it off the ground—a 1950 Cessna 195, high wing, taildragger.
Behind him, Sara and Lucia settled into the small bench seat, Captain Seabrook buckled into the copilot's seat beside him.
"Papa?"
Lucas jolted. Talk about a cold splash reminder of the stakes here.
"Yeah, beetle?" he answered while orienting himself with the archaic control panel of a craft he'd never seen before.
"I thought you said your plane was as big as a little house. This looks like a doggie house."
God, he loved the kid's spunk. Not many children would still be holding strong after all they'd been through. Of course Lucia would have a warped sense of normal after her bizarre upbringing. The drive to protect doubled, surging through him. What unseen scars would she and Sara carry?
Something he wouldn't be able to fix if he didn't get them out of here alive now. "This isn't my plane. It's one we're borrowing to get us to my plane." He gripped the throttle. "You need to buckle in, first, though, so I can fly."
"Gotcha," his daughter chimed.
His daughter.
His grip on the yoke tightened, his fingers damn near as numb as his brain. Shake it off.
"Hey, Seabrook, do you remember how to start one of these?"
She shook her head, sweat tracking down her grimy face and darkening her normally blond hair to muddy brown. "Sorry. The last time I ran emergency procedures on a Cessna 195 was like...never." She skimmed her hands over the panel and controls. "My father was only a kid when this plane was made. But hey, I'm sure you'll have the whole squadron studying these, too, at our next safety summit."
Ah, a dig at what the squadron called his micromanaging at safety briefs. Normally she wouldn't have made such a comment, but these weren't normal circumstances. "A capital idea, Captain. Are you volunteering to lead the discussion?"
"Sorry, sir." A smile dented her exhausted, grubby face, in spite of the increasing gunfire, not closer, but more frequent.
Even the old man was packing up his tequila and heading inside his wooden office. Time to get this rust bucket off the ground.
"No problem." He couldn't help but think the comment was actually damned funny—more of Sara's influence that he be human. "Let me study it for a second."
Seabrook pointed. "I remember that's the throttle."
"Yeah, I got that." More gunfire stuttered. Closer? He couldn't be sure. "If there was a key, you'd think the old man would have given it to us."
"Uh, is that a start button?" She pointed again.
"Well, look at that. It certainly is. All right, let's see if we can remember how to do this. We need to open the gas tank. That must be this here." Training and instincts took control of his hands as he sank into routine. "Then we make the mixture rich by pulling out this knob. So we've got gas and air, and now we need spark."
Lucas pressed the start button. The engine coughed twice and finally roared to life. He pushed the mixture knob in...waited...prayed....
The engine smoothed.
He increased the throttle. The engine revved, yes, louder, yes, until with a tiny jolt the aircraft rolled out of its parking spot, rattling. Yesss. Only fifty feet to get a feel for the craft before he reached the dirt stretch.