Page 16 of Mistletoe and Mayday
His head snaps toward me, those blue eyes going Arctic cold. “I don’t discuss personal matters with...service providers.”
The cookie bag crinkles in my grip. “Wow. And here I wasgoing to share my cookies with you. Service provider? Really? That’s how we’re playing this?”
It’s good to remember why I prefer planes to people.
“For thirty thousand dollars, I expected a certain level of?—”
A grinding noise cuts through the cockpit, metal on metal, definitely not part of the engine’s usual symphony.
I freeze.
The grinding noise comes again, sharper this time. Like someone’s taking a cheese grater to my baby’s insides. My stomach drops faster than our altitude.
“What was that?” Sebastian’s perfect pronunciation slips, his voice going up an octave.
I ignore him, focusing on the gauges. Oil pressure’s dropping. Not good. The snow globe dancers shake harder than usual, their glitter swirling in angry patterns.
Another metal screech. The stick shudders in my hands.
“I asked you a question!” His composure shatters. “What is happening?”
“Shhh!” My fingers dance across the controls, checking, testing, confirming what I already know. “I need to concentrate.”
The engine coughs. Once. Twice. The rhythm’s all wrong, like a drummer losing the beat.
“Are we going to crash?” The word “crash” catches in his throat like he can’t fully form it.
“I need you to shut up and let me focus.”
The words come out harsher than intended, but I can’t waste brain space on being nice right now. Something’s very wrong with my plane, and if Mr. Perfect wants to live to complain about my unprofessionalism another day, he needs to let me work.
The radio mic feels slick in my sweaty palm. My other hand stays locked on the controls, compensating for each shudder. The emergency frequency crackles with static that sets my teeth on edge.
“Mayday, mayday. This is flight B-177. We’re experiencing engine trouble.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. Years of training kicking in, pushing past the panic trying to claw up my throat.
Static hisses back at me. One second. Two seconds. Each moment of silence makes my skin crawl.
“B-177, this is Anchorage Center. State your position and nature of emergency.”
“Anchorage, B-177. Position sixty-three degrees north, one-four-seven west. Port engine failure, starboard showing critical oil pressure drop. Requesting immediate vectors for emergency landing.”
“B-177, copy engine failures. The nearest suitable airfield is Fairbanks International, one-nine-five nautical miles from your position.”
“Negative, Anchorage. We won’t make Fairbanks. Oil pressure dropping, altitude seven thousand, and unable to maintain. Need something closer.” My knuckles turn white on the controls as the plane shudders again.
The radio crackles with murmured conversation before the controller returns. “B-177. There’s an abandoned strip about forty miles from your position. Bearing one-three-five. Not in service, no tower, no facilities. Likely covered in snow. No guarantees on runway condition. It’s your only option within range.”
“Copy that, Anchorage. We’ll take it.” I bank the plane toward the coordinates, fighting the stick that keeps trying to pull right. “Any chance of emergency services?”
“Negative, B-177. Nearest rescue is Fairbanks, and the storm’s grounding all flights. You’ll be on your own until morning, at least.”
Perfect. Stranded in the wilderness with Mr. Money. This Christmas keeps getting better.
“Copy that, Tower.” The stick vibrates under my hands as I bank us into a slow turn. “B-177 turning to heading one-three-five. Current altitude seven thousand, descending to maintain airspeed with single engine.”
Sebastian makes a strangled noise beside me. I ignore him. Numbers now. Protocols. Everything else can wait.
“Tower, requesting weather conditions at landing site.”
