Hatchet (9781442403321) Read online

  Slightly to the left and below the altimeter he saw a small rectangular panel with a lighted dial and two knobs. His eyes had passed it over two or three times before he saw what was written in tiny letters on top of the panel. TRANSMITTER 221, was stamped in the metal and it hit him, finally, that this was the radio.

  The radio. Of course. He had to use the radio. When the pilot had—had been hit that way (he couldn’t bring himself to say that the pilot was dead, couldn’t think it), he had been trying to use the radio.

  Brian looked at the pilot. The headset was still on his head, turned sideways a bit from his jamming back into the seat, and the microphone switch was clipped into his belt.

  Brian had to get the headset from the pilot. Had to reach over and get the headset from the pilot or he would not be able to use the radio to call for help. He had to reach over . . .

  His hands began trembling again. He did not want to touch the pilot, did not want to reach for him. But he had to. Had to get the radio. He lifted his hands from the wheel, just slightly, and held them waiting to see what would happen. The plane flew on normally, smoothly.

  All right, he thought. Now. Now to do this thing. He turned and reached for the headset, slid it from the pilot’s head, one eye on the plane, waiting for it to dive. The headset came easily, but the microphone switch at the pilot’s belt was jammed in and he had to pull to get it loose. When he pulled, his elbow bumped the wheel and pushed it in and the plane started down in a shallow dive. Brian grabbed the wheel and pulled it back, too hard again, and the plane went through another series of stomach-wrenching swoops up and down before he could get it under control.

  When things had settled again he pulled at the mike cord once more and at last jerked the cord free. It took him another second or two to place the headset on his own head and position the small microphone tube in front of his mouth. He had seen the pilot use it, had seen him depress the switch at his belt, so Brian pushed the switch in and blew into the mike.

  He heard the sound of his breath in the headset. “Hello? Is there anybody listening on this? Hello . . .”

  He repeated it two or three times and then waited but heard nothing except his own breathing.

  Panic came then. He had been afraid, had been stopped with the terror of what was happening, but now panic came and he began to scream into the microphone, scream over and over.

  “Help! Somebody help me! I’m in this plane and don’t know . . . don’t know . . . don’t know . . .”

  And he started crying with the screams, crying and slamming his hands against the wheel of the plane, causing it to jerk down, then back up. But again, he heard nothing but the sound of his own sobs in the microphone, his own screams mocking him, coming back into his ears.

  The microphone. Awareness cut into him. He had used a CB radio in his uncle’s pickup once. You had to turn the mike switch off to hear anybody else. He reached to his belt and released the switch.

  For a second all he heard was the whusssh of the empty air waves. Then, through the noise and static he heard a voice.

  “Whoever is calling on this radio net, I repeat, release your mike switch—you are covering me. You are covering me. Over.”

  It stopped and Brian hit his mike switch. “I hear you! I hear you. This is me . . . !” He released the switch.

  “Roger. I have you now.” The voice was very faint and breaking up. “Please state your difficulty and location. And say over to signal end of transmission. Over.”

  Please state my difficulty, Brian thought. God. My difficulty. “I am in a plane with a pilot who is—he can’t fly. And I don’t know how to fly. Help me. Help . . .” He turned his mike off without ending transmission properly.

  There was a moment’s hesitation before the answer. “Your signal is breaking up and I lost most of it. Understand . . . pilot . . . you can’t fly. Correct? Over.”

  Brian could barely hear him now, heard mostly noise and static. “That’s right. I can’t fly. The plane is flying now but I don’t know how much longer. Over.”

  “. . . lost signal. Your location please. Flight number . . . location . . . ver.”

  “I don’t know my flight number or location. I don’t know anything. I told you that, over.”

  He waited now, waited but there was nothing. Once, for a second, he thought he heard a break in the noise, some part of a word, but it could have been static. Two, three minutes, ten minutes, the plane roared and Brian listened but heard no one. Then he hit the switch again.

  “I do not know the flight number. My name is Brian Robeson and we left Hampton, New York headed for the Canadian oil fields to visit my father and I do not know how to fly an airplane and the pilot . . .”

  He let go of the mike. His voice was starting to rattle and he felt as if he might start screaming at any second. He took a deep breath. “If there is anybody listening who can help me fly a plane, please answer.”

  Again he released the mike but heard nothing but the hissing of noise in the headset. After half an hour of listening and repeating the cry for help he tore the headset off in frustration and threw it to the floor. It all seemed so hopeless. Even if he did get somebody, what could anybody do? Tell him to be careful?

  All so hopeless.

  He tried to figure out the dials again. He thought he might know which was speed—it was a lighted number that read 160—but he didn’t know if that was actual miles an hour, or kilometers, or if it just meant how fast the plane was moving through the air and not over the ground. He knew airspeed was different from groundspeed but not by how much.

  Parts of books he’d read about flying came to him. How wings worked, how the propeller pulled the plane through the sky. Simple things that wouldn’t help him now.

  Nothing could help him now.

  An hour passed. He picked up the headset and tried again—it was, he knew, in the end all he had—but there was no answer. He felt like a prisoner, kept in a small cell that was hurtling through the sky at what he thought to be 160 miles an hour, headed—he didn’t know where—just headed somewhere until . . .

  There it was. Until what? Until he ran out of fuel. When the plane ran out of fuel it would go down.

  Period.

  Or he could pull the throttle out and make it go down now. He had seen the pilot push the throttle in to increase speed. If he pulled the throttle back out, the engine would slow down and the plane would go down.

  Those were his choices. He could wait for the plane to run out of gas and fall or he could push the throttle in and make it happen sooner. If he waited for the plane to run out of fuel he would go father—but he did not know which way he was moving. When the pilot had jerked he had moved the plane, but Brian could not remember how much or if it had come back to its original course. Since he did not know the original course anyway and could only guess at which display might be the compass—the one reading 342—he did not know where he had been or where he was going, so it didn’t make much difference if he went down now or waited.

  Everything in him rebelled against stopping the engine and falling now. He had a vague feeling that he was wrong to keep heading as the plane was heading, a feeling that he might be going off in the wrong direction, but he could not bring himself to stop the engine and fall. Now he was safe, or safer than if he went down—the plane was flying, he was still breathing. When the engine stopped he would go down.

  So he left the plane running, holding altitude, and kept trying the radio. He worked out a system. Every ten minutes by the small clock built into the dashboard he tried to radio with a simple message: “I need help. Is there anybody listening to me?”

  In the times between transmissions he tried to prepare himself for what he knew was coming. When he ran out of fuel the plane would start down. He guessed that without the propeller pulling he would have to push the nose down to keep the plane flying—he thought he may have read that somewhere or it just came to him. Either way it made sense. He would have to push the nose down to
keep flying speed and then, just before he hit, he would have to pull the nose back up to slow the plane as much as possible.

  It all made sense. Glide down, then slow the plane and hit.

  Hit.

  He would have to find a clearing as he went down. The problem with that was that he hadn’t seen one clearing since they’d started flying over the forest. Some swamps, but they had trees scattered through them. No roads, no trails, no clearings.

  Just the lakes, and it came to him that he would have to use a lake for landing. If he went down in the trees he was certain to die. The trees would tear the plane to pieces as it went into them.

  He would have to come down in a lake. No. On the edge of a lake. He would have to come down near the edge of a lake and try to slow the plane as much as possible just before he hit the water.

  Easy to say, he thought, hard to do.

  Easy say, hard do. Easy say, hard do. It became a chant that beat with the engine. Easy say, hard do.

  Impossible to do.

  He repeated the radio call seventeen times at ten-minute intervals, working on what he would do between transmissions. Once more he reached over to the pilot and touched him on the face, but the skin was cold, hard cold, death cold, and Brian turned back to the dashboard. He did what he could, tightened his seatbelt, positioned himself, rehearsed mentally again and again what his procedure should be.

  When the plane ran out of gas he should hold the nose down and head for the nearest lake and try to fly the plane kind of onto the water. That’s how he thought of it. Kind of fly the plane onto the water. And just before it hit he should pull back on the wheel and slow the plane to reduce the impact.

  Over and over his mind ran the picture of how it would go. The plane running out of gas, flying the plane onto the water, the crash—from pictures he’d seen on television. He tried to visualize it. He tried to be ready.

  But between the seventeenth and eighteenth radio transmissions, without a warning, the engine coughed, roared violently for a second and died. There was a sudden silence, cut only by the sound of the wind-milling propeller and the wind past the cockpit.

  Brian pushed the nose of the plane down and threw up.

  3

  Going to die, Brian thought. Going to die, gonna die, gonna die—his whole brain screamed it in the sudden silence.

  Gonna die.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm and held the nose down. The plane went into a glide, a very fast glide that ate altitude, and suddenly there weren’t any lakes. All he’d seen since they started flying over the forest was lakes and now they were gone. Gone. Out in front, far away at the horizon, he could see lots of them, glittering blue in the late afternoon sun.

  But he needed one right in front. He desperately needed a lake right in front of the plane and all he saw through the windshield were trees, green death trees. If he had to turn—if he had to turn he didn’t think he could keep the plane flying. His stomach tightened into a series of rolling knots and his breath came in short bursts . . .

  There!

  Not quite in front but slightly to the right he saw a lake. L-shaped, with rounded corners, and the plane was nearly aimed at the long part of the L, coming from the bottom and heading to the top. Just a tiny bit to the right. He pushed the right rudder pedal gently and the nose moved over.

  But the turn cost him speed and now the lake was above the nose. He pulled back on the wheel slightly and the nose came up. This caused the plane to slow dramatically and almost seem to stop and wallow in the air. The controls became very loose-feeling and frightened Brian, making him push the wheel back in. This increased the speed a bit but filled the windshield once more with nothing but trees, and put the lake well above the nose and out of reach.

  For a space of three or four seconds things seemed to hang, almost to stop. The plane was flying, but so slowly, so slowly . . . it would never reach the lake. Brian looked out to the side and saw a small pond and at the edge of the pond some large animal—he thought a moose—standing out in the water. All so still looking, so stopped, the pond and the moose and the trees, as he slid over them now only three or four hundred feet off the ground—all like a picture.

  Then everything happened at once. Trees suddenly took on detail, filled his whole field of vision with green, and he knew he would hit and die, would die, but his luck held and just as he was to hit he came into an open lane, a channel of fallen trees, a wide place leading to the lake.

  The plane, committed now to landing, to crashing, fell into the wide place like a stone, and Brian eased back on the wheel and braced himself for the crash. But there was a tiny bit of speed left and when he pulled on the wheel the nose came up and he saw in front the blue of the lake and at that instant the plane hit the trees.

  There was a great wrenching as the wings caught the pines at the side of the clearing and broke back, ripping back just outside the main braces. Dust and dirt blew off the floor into his face so hard he thought there must have been some kind of explosion. He was momentarily blinded and slammed forward in the seat, smashing his head on the wheel.

  Then a wild crashing sound, ripping of metal, and the plane rolled to the right and blew through the trees, out over the water and down, down to slam into the lake, skip once on water as hard as concrete, water that tore the windshield out and shattered the side windows, water that drove him back into the seat. Somebody was screaming, screaming as the plane drove down into the water. Someone screamed tight animal screams of fear and pain and he did not know that it was his sound, that he roared against the water that took him and the plane still deeper, down in the water. He saw nothing but sensed blue, cold blue-green, and he raked at the seatbelt batch, tore his nails loose on one hand. He ripped at it until it released and somehow—the water trying to kill him, to end him—somehow he pulled himself out of the shattered front window and clawed up into the blue, felt something hold him back, felt his windbreaker tear and he was free. Tearing free. Ripping free.

  But so far! So far to the surface and his lungs could not do this thing, could not hold and were through, and he sucked water, took a great pull of water that would—finally—win, finally take him, and his head broke into light and he vomited and swam, pulling without knowing what he was, what he was doing. Without knowing anything. Pulling until his hands caught at weeds and muck, pulling and screaming until his hands caught at last in grass and brush and he felt his chest on land, felt his face in the coarse blades of grass and he stopped, everything stopped. A color came that he had never seen before, a color that exploded in his mind with the pain and he was gone, gone from it all, spiraling out into the world, spiraling out into nothing.

  Nothing.

  4

  The memory was like a knife cutting into him. Slicing deep into him with hate.

  The Secret.

  He had been riding his ten-speed with a friend named Terry. They had been taking a run on a bike trail and decided to come back a different way, a way that took them past the Amber Mall. Brian remembered everything in incredible detail. Remembered the time on the bank clock in the mall, flashing 3:31, then the temperature, 82, and the date. All the numbers were part of the memory, all of his life was part of the memory.

  Terry had just turned to smile at him about something and Brian looked over Terry’s head and saw her.

  His mother.

  She was sitting in a station wagon, a strange wagon. He saw her and she did not see him. Brian was going to wave or call out, but something stopped him. There was a man in the car.

  Short blond hair, the man had. Wearing some kind of white pullover tennis shirt.

  Brian saw this and more, saw the Secret and saw more later, but the memory came in pieces, came in scenes like this—Terry smiling, Brian looking over his head to see the station wagon and his mother sitting with the man, the time and temperature clock, the front wheel of his bike, the short blond hair of the man, the white shirt of the man, the hot—hate slices of the memory were e
xact.

  The Secret.

  Brian opened his eyes and screamed.

  For seconds he did not know where he was, only that the crash was still happening and he was going to die, and he screamed until his breath was gone.

  Then silence, filled with sobs as he pulled in air, half crying. How could it be so quiet? Moments ago there was nothing but noise, crashing and tearing, screaming, now quiet.

  Some birds were singing.

  How could birds be singing?

  His legs felt wet and he raised up on his hands and looked back down at them. They were in the lake. Strange. They went down into the water. He tried to move, but pain hammered into him and made his breath shorten into gasps and he stopped, his legs still in the water.

  Pain.

  Memory.

  He turned again and sun came across the water, late sun, cut into his eyes and made him turn away.

  It was over then. The crash.

  He was alive.

  The crash is over and I am alive, he thought. Then his eyes closed and he lowered his head for minutes that seemed longer. When he opened them again it was evening and some of the sharp pain had abated—there were many dull aches—and the crash came back to him fully.

  Into the trees and out onto the lake. The plane had crashed and sunk in the lake and he had somehow pulled free.

  He raised himself and crawled out of the water, grunting with the pain of movement. His legs were on fire, and his forehead felt as if somebody had been pounding on it with a hammer, but he could move. He pulled his legs out of the lake and crawled on his hands and knees until he was away from the wet-soft shore and near a small stand of brush of some kind.