Santi reaches into his coat and pulls out a satellite phone. The device is rugged and functional. He punches in a sequence of numbers. He waits.
“I’m en route,” he says into the receiver. “ETA two hours. Radio silence until I confirm the signature on the ground.”
He hangs up without waiting for a response. The action is dismissive of whoever is on the other end of the line. He slides the phone back into his coat.
"You expect a reception committee at the dirt strip?" I ask.
"I expect nothing. That is how you stay alive."
"A cynic. Fantastic. Just what I wanted for a co-pilot."
"A realist, Ms. Calloway."
He uses my name like a weapon. The syllables roll off his tongue with slow, deliberate precision. His voice rolls right through my ribs. I shift in my seat, the harness rubbing against my shoulder. The proximity is starting to grate on my nerves. His thigh is too close. His scent is too invasive, seeping into my pores.
I pull the aviation map onto my tablet, tracking our GPS coordinates. The green dot blinks steadily over a vast ocean of green and gray topography. The nearest town is three hundred miles away. The nearest hospital is farther.
A small, violent shudder jolts the airframe.
A brief hiccup in the smooth thrum of the engines. I frown, my eyes darting instantly to the instrument panel.
Fuel flow is normal. RPMs are steady.
I wait.
Thirty seconds pass.
Another shudder rocks the frame, harder this time. The cyclic shakes violently under my palms. A sharp, ugly grinding noise echoes from the starboard side.
My stomach drops into my boots.
The oil pressure gauge on the right engine plummets from the green zone directly into the red. The needle hits the peg with a sickening finality.
"Shit," I hiss, my hands flying to the overhead panel. I kill the fuel mixture to the right engine instantly, trying to prevent a catastrophic fire. "Right engine failure. Compensating."
I adjust the collective and fight the torque with the pedals, forcing the nose back into alignment as the helicopter shudders beneath us.
The Master Caution alarm begins to scream, a high-pitched, piercing wail that fills the tiny cockpit. Red lights flash violently across the dashboard.
Santi does not jump. He does not shout. He leans forward, his dark eyes fixed on the flashing red lights, then tracking to my face.
"Status," he demands. His voice is stripped of emotion.
"Lost oil pressure in the starboard engine. I had to shut it down before it tore itself apart. We’re flying on one engine."
"Can we reach the destination?"
"It will be tight. We are going to lose altitude. The single engine can't maintain ten thousand feet. I need to descend and find a favorable wind current."
I grip the cyclic, wrestling the helicopter into a steady glide path. The left engine whines in protest, struggling to carry the weight of the aircraft alone. The jagged peaks of the mountains loom below us, sharp teeth waiting to tear the metal apart.
Sweat prickles at my hairline despite the freezing temperature outside. With the right engine shut down, the cabin heater dies, and the cockpit temperature plummets. My breath puffs in a white cloud of vapor.
Santi watches me work. His gaze burns holes in the side of my face. He isn’t looking at the dying altitude gauge. He’s watching my hands on the controls. He is cataloging my movements, my reaction time, the steadiness of my grip.
"Don't stare at me," I snap, adjusting the trim to compensate for the dead engine. "Look out the window. If you see smoke pouring out of the left engine, tell me."
He turns his head slowly, peering through the glass at the remaining engine housing. "No smoke."
