Missing Lynx (39 page)

Whoever owned this plane was serious about what they did. I checked for an ELT, the emergency tracking device, and found that it had already been disconnected. The owner didn’t like to be tracked any more than I did. The plane had a Garmin system for navigation. I put in the coordinates for the grass strip. Time to go. The engine roared. I taxi-ed to the runway, and the plane raced upward.

Forty-One

W
hen I turned twelve-years-old, I joined the Civil Air Patrol with my dad. C.A.P. was like the aviator version of scouts. We learned how to fly and practiced our skills by doing orienteering runs and search and rescue missions. I won a scholarship to do ground school, which I loved. My dad taught me how to fly, and I’d go up with him on practice missions all the time.

I’d flown a lot of different kinds of planes – jets and props — not just the little two-seaters like the ones I had left behind at the airport, but I’d never flown a C500 before, especially one that had been stripped down. I couldn’t wrap my brain around just how mind-bogglingly dangerous this was. With nothing in the back to balance the plane, I ended up front-end heavy. Now when I made adjustments with my flaps – the only way I had to adjust for my height and orientation in the sky — the plane responded erratically. My plane acted like a drunken sailor listing from side to side, sliding up and down in the sky. 

And if that wasn’t enough, the turbulent air bobbled me around. My stomach lurched - not good. Eating food rich with fat for the first time in months made my stomach volcanic. It roiled - wanting to spew everything back up as red hot lava. I found a pile of air sick bags in a side pocket of my chair, and I used them one after the other until I had nothing left in me but dry heaves and a trickle of bile.

A two hour flight, I cajoled myself. But faced into an enormous head wind, I knew it would take much longer. The squall slowed my progress and sucked my fuel. My palms sweat, my knees trembled — I never once thought that it would’ve been better to have stayed back at the prison with Maria.

I shouted Blaze’s motto out loud every time the plane dipped and dropped through the sky, “If I’m going out, it’s going to be in a blaze of glory!” Somehow this fit Blaze so much better than me. But I needed to borrow some of his bravado. 

The storm expanded on the Garmin screen; most of the Caribbean fell under its enormous reach. Expletives zipped up and burst like fireworks on the surface of my consciousness. I heard men talking over the radio about Tropical Storm Ivan, out in the Atlantic. As it approached the Gulf, Ivan was organizing into a category one hurricane. Holy hell! I needed to get down. NOW.

Please, God. I don’t want to die. Please let me get home.

I inched closer to my goal. My nerves were frayed and misfiring. Desperately, I grappled with my panic – “Head in the game, Lynx.” I heard Striker’s words coming back to me from the bank robbery debacle.

“
I can do this!”
screamed my inner cheerleader over the roar of the wind and the engine. Gusts tossed me like a rag doll. The wind shear could break my wings off at any given moment. Insanity. I forced my eyes to blink, my lungs to expand then contract.

I didn’t hear the voices of any other pilots coming over the radio. I did see some boats below me being pitched on the waves. I wondered if they had looked up, and having seen me, thought, “at least I have a chance.”

I approached my coordinates with thanksgiving. But boy would landing take all of my skills and then some. I could only see by the strobe lightening. Well, I had that to be thankful for, I guessed. I had landed a few times in pastures and on country roads to get a feel for making emergency landings. Everything I knew was from my dad; he was the best. God, I wished he were piloting now.

“Dad, help me. Help me get down,” I prayed. Landing in this albatross was going to take fine-tuned skill. I needed the hands of a surgeon, or I would wreck in the jungle.

I took every inch of the landing strip. I skid toward the tree line then jerked to a stop. The storm winds picked up in velocity. I took a deep breath, opened my door and fell thankfully to the ground.

I stumbled to my feet - my legs rubbery beneath me.

Okay, Lexi, think.
The storm was too big. I’d have to wait it out. Maria shouldn’t find out I’ve gone until morning. Then they’d form a search party. Possibly, she’d make a call to someone to check this place out if and when she figured out I had a plane. I should be safe here until the storm calms — from Maria at least. I looked at the sky and the trees. This was bad.

If I were to park the plane by the trees and a tree fell on it, and if I survived, I’d be stuck in Cuba. If I parked on the runway, the plane would take the brunt of the wind. The wind could get under the wings and toss me around some more. I could lose the plane that way. I had no idea what to do here, and I was well aware that my decisions were forming in a panic-stricken brain. I blew out a long-held breath and climbed back up behind the steering column. I taxi-ed around to the bladders to refuel and make my plane as heavy as possible.

I peeked under the reservoir cap. Yes, full. I did a happy dance. As I grabbed up the hand pump and filled my reservoirs, the wind whipped up debris that stung my exposed flesh. I had to lean against the plane for support.

Lying flat on my back in the belly of the plane, I tried to be reasonable. Okay, my situation sucked, but it sucked a lot less than twelve hours ago. Anything was better than rotting with gangrene, waiting for death in prison without my fingers.

Oh, Maria, this isn’t over by a long shot. When I’m strong again, I’m coming for you.

I kept my cell phone turned off. I was afraid to call any attention to myself. If I checked for bars on my phone, I could ping on some cell tower, and that just might be the thing that would put a spotlight on me. Even if people weren’t looking for me because of my prison break, the guy I stole this plane from wouldn’t be happy. I’d guessed that this type of plane costs about a half million - used. And again, I had no information. The plane’s owner could be working solo, or he could be in a show with a big-time puppet master. That wouldn’t be pretty. I may have two drug kingpins looking for me now.

With my plane at the top of the runway full of fuel, I rested. I ate from my backpack and drank from my water bottles. I only exited to potty, and I didn’t walk away from the plane. Even though the location was somewhat protected by the hills on either side of the runway and from the pine trees that grew thick and tall, the plane still rocked and creaked ominously.

It didn’t rain where I was, but the wind was terrifying. I thought it might catch under the wings and roll me like a wave breaking on the shore. The lightening strobed like a disco laser show. It was stunning and nightmare inducing. Thunder was a constant. The storm wasn’t letting up. I listened to the radio, and it seemed that the weather system had stalled in the Gulf causing catastrophic flooding to the islands. I portioned my food and water to last me through the storm.

I had thought I might be stuck here for a day or two, and then once I was in the air again, I was only a short flight to freedom – the US. But I was sadly, very sadly, mistaken.

My body wasn’t doing well. I was in dire straits. I probably weighed less than a hundred pounds once I left the prison. Jogging eighteen miles had taxed my last reserves. The food that Franco gave me was far too rich for my system – after living on only beans and rice for so long. I couldn’t keep any of it down, and now I was out of food and on my last half bottle of water. I made the decision to fly to Guantanamo, on a wing and a prayer, as it were. My life wasn’t the only one at stake. Every day that went by, was a day that Pablo suffered and drew closer to death. I needed to save him.

I found some paper and a pen and wrote my goodbye letters. I wasn’t giving up; I was just being prepared. Stories don’t always have the hoped-for ending, no matter how hard the person fights for their happily-ever-after. No guarantees in this life. Nope. None.

My first letter I wrote to Striker. I told him how I’d tried to save myself; I’d never given up trying to get back to him. I asked him — as a gift to my memory — to help Pablo. I told him the story, vaguely, leaving out the part of how I knew about this little boy, and the part about Franco’s help with my escape, in case my letter landed in the wrong hands.

I told Striker how much I was in love with him. It was my great shame to have been too fragile and self-protective to be able to say that out loud to him. I told him that I knew how painful it was to experience the loss he was going to be experiencing, how ironic I found it that I had begged him not to go away and die and hurt me. And here, I was the one to go away and die and leave him alone to mourn my memory. I would never have chosen to cause him this kind of pain.

As I worked on my letters, I realized I had no will, so I wrote one out. I left my wedding rings to Striker that and the gold brooch he had given me as my Christmas gift with my mistletoe kiss the morning this whole fiasco started, and Spyder came into town. These were my symbols of love and commitment. I knew he’d understand their meaning.

I left my duplex and everything in it to my neighbor Missy. That would give her a safe place to live and the income from the rental side. I left my girls, Beetle and Bella, to Gater the Great, with thanks for his affection. I left my motorcycle to Jack, with the hope that he would never be ambushed again. My car went to Blaze, and to Deep I left my guns and my gym equipment, with thanks for all of our times training together. I asked that my money be put into educational accounts for all of my neighborhood kiddos. It wouldn’t be much, split up between them; it was more a gesture of hope for their future and my joy in having known them.

I wrote what I knew about Maria – hopefully someone would go after her if… well if worse came to worse. My final note was to Spyder. Maria was wrong. I was his daughter. We loved each other. He was just off-grid – incommunicado, or too sick, still. Something. There was a reason, a good one, that Spyder didn’t help me.

I fell asleep in the back of the plane, wrapped in the moth-eaten wool blanket. I woke up to nothing.

Nothing?

I peeked out. The trees still swayed, but gently now. Debris stippled the clearing. I had to go. I had to go! Guantanamo wasn’t far away. They’d feed me and get me medical attention. I cleared off the runway as best I could. I started the engine and looked down at my instrument panel. Fried.

A direct lightning strike? I sat in stunned disbelief. I could still fly, but I had no navigation and no communication systems. A chill ran through me. I leaned over the yoke as a sob broke free. No Guantanamo. I couldn’t announce myself and surely flying — unidentified and unannounced — into a military area on high alert was certain death. I would have to navigate off the sun and aim for the US coastline. Ah, there were my expletives again. The familiar refrain of cuss words sang through my head in three-part-cacophony.

I took off. While the wind seemed calmer on the ground, these were still near-impossible flying conditions. As I climbed higher, things got worse. I didn’t stand a chance heading for Miami under these circumstances. I put the wind at my back, which pointed me north-west. That gave the body of my plane some relief. Where would that land me? Northern Mexico? Texas? Did I have enough fuel to get that far? For a girl who announces, constantly, that she didn’t do daring deeds of do or die, I sure as hell ended up in a lot of situations that required daring deeds of freaking do or die.

I was getting disoriented and faint — mentally and physically desperate. After flying for hours with the bright sunlight glaring into my right eye, I spotted a coast line up ahead, and I came in low. I had been trying to decide which I was more afraid of, getting picked up on radar and not being able to hear or respond by radio or coming in without being spotted? I didn’t know what the FAA did about aircraft which didn’t respond. I’d never not responded before, and it never occurred to me to ask. I guessed it depended a little bit on where I was flying, and what was near me. I thought southeast Texas was probably riddled with oil rigs and military installations. I decided to try to fly in low enough to avert radar, and see if I could get a cell phone connection.

I still had a trickle of battery left on my phone. I kept it turned off until I was pretty darned sure that I would succeed. I turned my cell phone on and off. As soon as the first bars blipped onto my screen, I called.

“911. What is your emergency?”

“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is India Alexis Sobado from Iniquus. I am flying a Cessna C500. I was hit by lightning and have lost electric. I have no navigation equipment or communication equipment. Please advise.” I spoke as clearly as I could, but my voice quivered like the strings on a harp. Nerves. I waited for a response, but none came. I looked down. My call had dropped. I waited again for a bar to show up.

“911. What is your emergency?”

“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is India Sobado. Iniquus. Cessna C500. No fuel. No navigation or communication. I’m going down. HELP ME.”

“Ma’am, we are in contact with the FAA can you…”

Dropped.

Dropped?

No more battery.

My plane sputtered. I glided low over the desert. The wind buffeted me left and right. Not a single thought ran through my head. I flew by instinct alone, doing what I had been taught to do. Step one…two…then three.

I hit down hard. The sand didn’t let my plane lose its forward momentum by taxi-ing properly. Basically, I thunked down, rolled a bit, then went plane’s nose into the sand, my chest to the yoke, head to the dash, blackness. . .

It was nighttime when I came to. I tried to breathe deeply, but my ribs were broken—each shallow gulp was excruciating. Under exploring fingers I found blood caking my face. I lifted my head… Dizzy. Blurred vision. God, I had a monster headache. Concussion? Whiplash? Both? No way to help myself but to lie still. I wrapped my neck in my hoodie to protect my spine. I wished for ace bandages to support my ribs, but I knew from my time caught on the island that there was no first aid kit.