After three straight hours with Smitty, Ace’s head felt packed tight with noise. The guy knew how to dig into brains, now didn’t he? Ace sucked in a long breath of cool summer air.
He walked down the rocky bank toward the dock where the Cessna 208 sat tied up, white fuselage gleaming against dark water. The afternoon sky hung low but not threatening, a pale wash of gray-blue with thin high clouds. Birds wheeled overhead and complained to each other.
He’d spent the morning doing odd jobs around town that he’d been ignoring, and his belly had been nicely full before he’d gone to see Smitty.
Now he wanted to puke.
The dock creaked under his boots. A breeze came off the river strong enough to slip through his jacket, but he didn’t feel the cold as he just stood at the end of the dock and let himself look at the plane.
She was beautiful.
The spring lines were set properly, snug but not straining. The aluminum struts connecting the floats to the fuselage were clean and free of corrosion. Fuel caps seated. No visible oil streaking showed along the cowling.
“Hey there.”
Ace turned.
Solomon Torrington made his way down the dock with careful, deliberate steps dressed in tan pants and a mint-green golf shirt. Sunglasses were perched on his head instead of over his eyes. The retired lawyer moved with natural grace, even though he had to be in his sixties.
“I got here as soon as I could,” Ace said. “Just came from a meeting.”
Torrington smiled. “You want to take her up?”
Ace’s stomach spasmed hard enough to make him swallow. The memory of spinning horizon and freezing water flashed without warning. “Sure,” he said. “Great.”
“I’ll pilot her first,” Torrington replied easily. “Then you can take over if you want.” He patted the side of the fuselage. “I’ll offer you a real good deal on her. I need to get to Arizona. My grandkids are growing up without me, and I can’t have that.”
“Uh-huh.” Ace kept his voice neutral. He stepped onto the float first, his boots thudding softly against aluminum. The plane shifted gently under his weight, rocking once before settling. The water lapped against the pontoons in a steady rhythm.
He moved automatically into preflight and ran his hand along the leading edge of the wing, feeling for nicks or dents. The metal was cool under his palm. He checked the static ports along the fuselage and made sure they were clear. The pitot tube was uncovered and unobstructed. He crouched and inspected the float compartments, checking for leaks or water intrusion. The tiedown rings were secure.
The propeller blades were smooth, no chips along the edges. He looked into the engine intake and checked for foreign objects. The oil access panel was secure. He leaned down and peered at the fuel drains, reaching beneath to sample. Clear blue. No water separation. No sediment.
He moved toward the step and pulled himself up to the cabin door.
Inside, the Caravan smelled faintly of avgas, leather, and sun-warmed plastic. It wasn’t a new airplane, but it was well cared for. Six passenger seats were in the back, and the beige upholstery showed only slight wear along the armrests. The cockpit seats were darker, reinforced, and built for hours of use.
He slid into the right seat first, passenger side, the way Torrington had suggested.
His butt hit the seat and his gut hit the floor. This was a mistake. No. He could do it. Maybe.
The cabin rocked again as the older man stepped onto the float behind him. The door frame vibrated under the shifting weight. Torrington released the ties, climbed into the left seat, and settled in with practiced familiarity. The door shut with a firm metallic click, sealing them inside. The cabin muffled immediately, outside sounds reduced to the slap of water and distant birds.
“Let’s get her loose,” Torrington said.
Ace slid his window open a few inches to let in air.
They ran through the checklist together, and then Torrington engaged the starter and brought in fuel. The propeller began to turn, slow at first, then faster. The PT6 spooled with a rising whine that deepened into a steady, controlled growl as combustion caught. The entire airframe trembled lightly with power.
Sweat broke out on Ace’s brow. He clamped his hand on his thigh, taking deep breaths. He watched every lever.
“Clear,” Torrington called out his open window before bringing it back up. He advanced the throttle gently.
The floats responded, pushing against the water. The Caravan began to taxi, nose pointing upstream and away from the alcove. Water rippled outward from the pontoons, a widening V trailing behind them.
Bile rose in Ace’s throat. He couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe?
Torrington used short bursts of power and rudder to steer through the narrow part. A slight crosswind pushed at the tail, but nothing dramatic. They eased into the main river, and he advanced the throttle smoothly to takeoff power.
