EMERGENCE (31 page)

Suddenly mere passenger: Combat computer spotted impossibly closely-spaced cluster of gargantuan trunks immediately ahead; engaged. Sat helpless; watched as plane

. . . stood vertically on left wingtip, tore through left-hander between first two trees, thence instantly—without reversing bank—into subsequent right-hander, pulling negative gees; reversed control inputs coordinating what amounted to inverted turn. Then

. . . airframe bucked, buffeted, shuddered on verge of accelerated stall, as sliced left again between two columns so close together that actually felt bump as main gear grazed bark beneath fanny. And

. . . emerged on final in clearing, wings level, lined up with log, heading straight for massive roots bulging from lower end—
now too low to clear.
But

. . . throttle already jammed forward, stick back; engine howling deafeningly at full power. Plane ballooned upward several yards, clearing roots by fraction; staggered for timeless instant on brink of stall as engine sputtered again; then stick forward . . .

And suddenly back in control, easing stick back, yanking flaperons down to full drag/lift position, closing useless throttle, flaring out, feeling pounding as wheels bounced on rough, corrugated bark paving log's upper surface. Braked to stop in matter of feet. Killed engine.

Silence echoed through forest.

Sat unmoving for indeterminate span, blinking fast, breathing hard, disbelieving.

Reviewed past 30 seconds' events; speculated odds on anyone surviving. Concluded never find room to write all those zeros.

And suddenly in grip of giggles: Terry would have loved wild ride. Could almost feel manic twin clutching shoulder as careened amongst sequoia trunks, inches from disaster. Would be crouched, wings half-spread, bobbing head, yelling, "Wheeee-e-e . . . !"

Giggles intensified; shortly indistinguishable from hysteria. Shakes set in soon after. Quite some time before able to unlock quick-release buckle, shrug off harness. First attempt at standing garnered predictable results: Jell-O knees not useful when planning serious legwork.

Decided better deal with physical, emotional condition first:

Removed helmet. Extracted canteen from emergency knapsack mounted behind seat. Poured water on head, shook excess from hair, mopped face with sleeve. Leaned back against seat, closed eyes, took deep breath, held, released slowly. Triggered relaxation sequence; felt body gradually unwind as emotions subsided.

Sat for long moments with eyes shut, breathing regularly. Then opened, looked around.

And fought off momentary resurgence of hysteria. Time-Life photos failed to communicate how
big
sequoias are. Scale of surroundings distorted reality: They looked normal; I felt small. No one could stand in clearing without reevaluating own importance in Scheme of Things. Example: Can walk better than ten feet laterally from centerline on top of log before encountering important grade—
log
, for Heaven's sake. . . !

And looking up . . . Opening through foliage almost vanishes in distance, against background.
Nobody,
viewing this scene, would believe airplane gotten in here via own wings! Even miniature airplane. (Almost don't believe it myself—combat computer
one hot pilot
. . . !)

Okay, enough awe, philosophy; places to go, things to do, people to meet. Stranded by sick engine nearly 100 miles from anywhere, with lightweight minimum of supplies, tools—and no mechanical background. (How's that for promising scenario . . . ?)

Looked around, evaluating surroundings with eye toward eventual departure. Quickly apparent that, while probably no more fun than arrival, flying out possible, assuming can get engine running: Ultralight designed for passenger weighing 250 pounds maximum; own weight a third that. Resultant angle-, rate-of-climb far better than manufacturer's specifications. No problem anticipated climbing back to, through opening in greenery overhead, ascending chimney beyond to open sky.

Takeoff, however, potentially every bit as hairy as landing; reasons identical: Have to launch into forest, return; then circle wide end of glade, spiral up to, through opening.

Only "into forest" part gives pause. Done that already, thank you.

Return trip bound to be less thrilling, though. Ample time to scout route first; won't be improvising second by second.

But no point worrying now. Becomes consideration only after manage to fix engine. . . .

And background or no background, logic (and time spent looking over Adam's shoulder [lectures almost as compulsively as Daddy]) dictates infernal combustion engine operation dependent on three primary requirements: gasoline, oxygen, spark. As side issue, need correct gas-air mixture. Spark timing critical also.

No, too basic; engine runs fine—but loses oomph after few seconds' brisk operation. Now what easy-to-find, easy-to-repair-without-tools-or-specialized-knowledge failure could cause that?

(Sure
better
be something like that; only class of problem falling within expertise. Otherwise might as well be total.)

Pushed plane along trunk with some difficulty due to rough bark. Arrived at first tier of branches; turned ship about, nose toward roots. Employed light nylon line included in emergency kit to effect tiedown, using branches as anchor.

Yanked pull-cord. Came out by roots. Said bad word. Then prop-started engine gingerly—first time ever handled propeller with ignition on. Uncomfortable sensation: like violating parents' warning about sticking fingers in electric fan.

Ran up, timed failure. First try produced full-throttle run of almost 20 seconds; then held consistently at five through five more tests.

Good; at least failure mode consistent. Nothing worse than trying to diagnose intermittent problem.

Now all had to do was figure out
why . . . .

Shut down engine again. Then realized had forgotten acoustical earplugs; Adam not kidding when remarked unprotected flight left him half-deaf. Exhaust note even louder, standing next to craft, than when flying; helmet offers degree of protection, plus some noise carried away by slipstream. Curious sensation: Yelled experimentally; felt voice in throat, but almost inaudible via ears.

Not particularly worried. Deafness following loud noises usually temporary; results when ears' defenses cut in: Short-term paralysis of ossicles insulates inner ear from overload. Hearing probably return to normal soon if not further abused. (Of course, repeated exposure results in permanent loss, as rock concert aficionados often learned in past. Resolved to use earplugs faithfully hence.) Besides, even if permanent, deafness not treatable here, now. So ignored it; had other problems. Stared at engine, thought.

Problem with troubleshooting two-strokes is are so
simple.
Too simple: two pistons, two connecting rods, one crankshaft. Five moving parts. What can go wrong . . . ? (Also had solid-state ignition, but if problem lay there—never mind . . . .)

Ran through obvious rituals first: Replaced spark plugs (new this morning; unlikely to blame); checked for loose spark lead, condenser wire; clogged fuel pump, carburetor screens, etc.

Inserted earplugs, restarted engine, ran up, confirmed problem still present. Shut down, glared impotently.

Think
: What demand increases with power setting? Gasoline, of course. Well, how about partially blocked fuel line? Perhaps allowing sufficient flow for lower output but starving engine above certain point? Sounded promising; theoretical failure matched real-life symptoms.

But how to test without wasting fuel? Certainly shouldn't dribble on log. Nearly half gone when problem arose; none to spare.

Thought for moment; weighed priorities. Surroundings' appearance suggested no dearth of water in area. Okay. Uncapped canteen, inverted, propped up; turned attention to fuel line.

Required strong fingers: Secured by stiff spring clips. Once clips removed, engine end came off without too much difficulty. Canteen empty by then so held line over opening, let flow.

Almost abandoned investigation before fairly begun; flow strong, steady, clearly adequate. But already invested water in experiment; might as well follow through. Continued, watching closely.

Bingo . . . !
At ten-second mark flow suddenly dropped to trickle.

Smug thrill of triumph, self-satisfaction coursed through soul: So
there,
Adam—experience not everything; logic works, too . . . !

Okay, now problem isolating cause of blockage. Probably something floating around inside tank. Anything big enough to block outlet surely visible to naked eye.

Momentarily plugged line with fingertip. Unscrewed fuel cap with other hand . . .

Tank hissed as cap loosened, like vacuum-packed jar. Detected immediate fuel-pressure increase against fingertip.

No—couldn't be
that
simple! Or could it . . . ?

Reinstalled fuel line on carburetor inlet. Poured fuel trapped in canteen back into tank (all but last drop, lest any water remain).

Removed cap all the way, peered down inside tank. Inlet four inches across; tank nicely crafted, bright light-alloy cylinder: Entire bottom visible if moved head around. And, as suspected, absolutely clean; nothing but gas/oil two-stroke mixture.

Then turned attention to cap. Was indeed vented, but
cleverly
so: intricate compound-leverage float-and-counterweight valve designed to plug breather during brief negative gees. Observed valve closely as inverted cap, then turned upright.

And there it was, big as life! Valve remained in closed position, sealing vent tightly. Textbook physics demonstration: Fuel not replaced by air as used; resultant vacuum resists further delivery, engine loses power.

Noted, without surprise, country of manufacture: German designers notorious for overengineering, obsession with excess gimmickry. Dieter Heinz, resident madcap mechanic/social critic at small VW dealership back home, possessed in ample measure practical field-worker's contempt for Ivory-Tower theoreticians; opined most warranty recalls result of factory engineers' insistence on devising ingenious solutions to nonexistent problems. Referred to resultant debacles as "chooting zemzelves een ze voot."

Dieter speculated was real explanation of how Nazis lost war. Took particular delight in satirizing defect bulletins, highlighting technical overkill. Remember one in particular:

TO: All Noncommissioned Officers and below.

FROM: Blitzkrieg High Command Quality Control Center.

SUBJECT: Hand-Grenade Repair Bulletin Follow-up.

MESSAGE: In a previous bulletin, ZVP-111000WUB-827–D, it was reported that certain hand grenades manufactured by subcontractor Sturm & Drang between 3 June 1943 and 8 October 1943, bearing Serial Numbers 87A000-112498BZQ148 through 87A000-112498BZS157 in one-millimeter-high characters on the inside of the release lever, have detonated in 4.91465 seconds instead of the specified 4.97771 seconds. This variation exceeded manufacturing tolerances.

Bulletin ZVP-111000WUB-827–D described how to correct this defect. However, it has been learned that this bulletin contains a typographical error. If Step 3 is followed as written, hand grenades so modified will detonate in .07331 seconds and could pose a hazard to the user.

All copies of bulletin ZVP-111000WUB-827–D must be corrected as follows: In Step 3, the word "left" in the third line should be deleted and the word "right" inserted. If the corrected instructions are followed properly, the hand grenades will perform satisfactorily.

However, if any hand grenades are observed to detonate in .07331 seconds, even after being correctly modified, safety pins and release levers of such hand grenades must be returned to Blitzkrieg Warranty Center. Upon receipt of safety pins and release levers, together with Quality Control Follow-up Report Forms filled out correctly, credit will be issued. Credit will not be issued if forms are filled out incorrectly.

Dieter posted above on service-department bulletin board during scheduled zone man inspection. Zone man German-born, -raised; ex-Reichwehr foot soldier. Was reported unamused.

And, as studied mechanism further, found was not all that amused myself. Simple reverse-acting needle/seat float valve would have done job without failure-prone complications.

However, Adam says he never met gadget too complicated for Shadetree Engineering fix. Secret usually is big-enough hammer. Or in this case pliers: Held breather open with fingers; mashed, mangled clever device until couldn't move again even if received Summons From On High.

Screwed cap down on tank. Placed mouth over vent, blew; felt, heard air hiss through opening.

Prop-started engine again. Advanced throttle to full, timed run with wristwatch. Two minutes later still going strong.

Then, to satisfy scientific curiosity, placed finger over cap vent hole—stumbles set in hardly 20 seconds later. Released, engine ran smoothly again.

Men have hung on flimsier evidence.

Okay. Engine fixed; now to get out of here. First step: Reconnoiter takeoff route. Roomy, undramatic takeoff route.

Selected root leading downward from log's base; employed to reach ground. Spent hours surveying loop from log into forest and return, plotting safe course. Took no chances: Manufactured wingspan go/no-go gauge from sapling; physically verified separation between each pair of trees through which must pass, marked route.

(Sounds as if contemplating major trek through woods. Not so; out and back, shortest possible distance. But hard work, hindered every step by environment. No problem solo, but 25-foot sapling not ideal hiking companion amidst underbrush, smaller trees, etc.)

Finally done. But too late to venture aloft; darkness approaching. Ultralight not equipped for night flying; no lights, rudimentary instruments only. Certain to get lost. Plus landing attempt in dark doesn't bear thinking about (infrared perception isn't
that
good). No choice: Must wait for morning.