After noon. Carol is downstairs and you are
up sitting in the black comfortable chair looking out the bedroom window while
seeing Jadah the Cat curled in a ball napping away on a green blanket setting
off the floor by the window.
Mid-evening.
You watched the news, ate left over turkey soup, watched DVRed "Las Vegas"
and "Person of Interest". This was after a late afternoon trip to
Reading to deposit money in the Teachers' Credit Union. - Amorella
2106 hours. Tomorrow we are heading
north once again. This time to Dublin to Chuck E Cheese, then to Sang Paik's
home to pick up Ellie the Cat to bring back to Mason, while Kim and Paul have their
house up for inspection and sale.
You want to work on Pouch-9. As you have the
time we can put in the setting and countdown to the forced landing. - Amorella
***
Pouch-9
Blake
sat in the pilot's seat with his sister Pyl as co-pilot. Justin was in his
usual position, the third seat back. He liked it because he could better see
out both sides equally. The Cessna 210 was flying east above Lake Erie shores at
about 150 miles per hour at 16,500 feet, thus they were enjoying the visual
pleasantries of a crispy clear blue sky above a layer of thickening rain clouds
below.
Such
is the beauty of flying a plane such as the Silver Eagle in full sunlight on an
otherwise cheerless, dreary day in early
March; this is Blake's thought suddenly interrupted within the time of 'dreary and March', the Rolls-Royce M250
turboprop failed.
First
things first. Blake and Pyl both automatically checked the fuel, ignition and
air to the engine. Improper combustion. All three tighten their seat belts and
doors. Pyl attempted to work the radio but it remained just as immediately,
dead. 'Slow descent', thought Blake well conditioned for a variety of outcomes,
the first being a precautionary landing. He checked his headings but Pyl was
already ahead of him.
Pyl
said the following as a definite statement. "Ashtabula County should be
below us shortly."
"We
are in a good controlled glide," replied Blake and with humor, "How
you doing back there, Justin?"
"I'm
fine. You know what you are doing. I'm all right."
"Good."
He paused, "If we can't get it started we will land on a airstrip, road or
a farmer's field. We have time to think this out."
"Fuel
pump?" questioned Pyl.
"No,
it shouldn't be. I think it is vapor lock but I am not sure why. She was going
along pretty as you please."
"As
a kid we had vapor lock once in a car in Death Valley. We survived."
"You
visited in July, right?" asked Blake as he continued checking the gauges,
rate of descent . . .
"I
don't know what is wrong with the radio, Blake. We have electric except for the
radio."
"Cloud
ceiling is about three thousand feet. We have plenty of room, plenty of
time." Here we go through the top layer.
"Ashtabula
County Airport, HZY in Jefferson; 924 feet above sea level," said Pyl.
"But we cannot contact them."
"They
can spot us visually." He set the coordinates.
382 words
***
2248
hours. This is a start.
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