Letters From the Grave
soon as it settled upright, the nose was buried under a huge wave.
Jake was momentarily stunned from the crash, unable to move. Within seconds, he recovered and instinctively pressed the inflatable float button on the cyclic. There was a loud “pop” as the CO2 canisters shot compressed gas into the inflatable tubes mounted along the landing rails. This would give the helo three pontoons along both sides of the fuselage. But something went wrong. The pontoons all burst like balloons stuck with a pin. They ruptured. Somehow, the membranes all failed. All were damaged!
He didn’t panic but didn’t have much time to get out of the chopper before it sank. There was a small inflatable life raft and survival kit behind the rear seat, so he released his harness and climbed to the back for it. It wasn’t there! He hurried back forward as water filled the foot well of the cabin, accelerating the sinking process. Under the pilot’s seat, there was a small container that holds an inflatable life vest. This time it was there, and he quickly thrust he head through the opening but couldn’t move freely enough to fasten the straps behind. This would wait until he was out of the cockpit, if he didn’t lose it in the turbulence outside. The water was halfway up the door, and he couldn’t push against the pressure outside. Thinking quickly, he smashed the side window with his elbow several times until it cracked. Water rushed in. Then he tried again to hook the straps on the preserver but wasn’t successful.
The cockpit filled quickly, and the water came up to his chest almost equal to the outside surface. The helicopter windows gave an eerie dark scene below the surface. It was over a thousand feet deep this far from shore. He waited several more seconds, as the copter sank. When it was completely full of water, everything was dark, and he felt increasing pressure on his ears. He was completely submerged with no air left inside. From muscle memory, he located the door release and pushed as hard as he could. Nothing seemed to be going right, but then the door opened enough, and he was able to squeeze out probably twenty feet down as the helicopter plummeted into the darkness.
One of the rotor blades struck him in the blackness, causing him to lose orientation. He covered his head and waited several seconds before moving. The wet flight suit, sneakers and helmet were a problem, so he dropped the helmet. It was too dark to see the surface. From military survival training, he remembered to exhale a small amount of air and follow the bubbles to the surface. Of course it had only been practiced in a swimming pool with bright clear water. As the bubbles rose, he could see the dim surface light and started pulling hard. As he got nearer, he could feel the swell surge and hear waves crashing above.
His lungs screamed for air, but his muscles remained strong, working in unison when he broke the surface. He gasped, trying to get a full breath, when a wave smashed down on him. He resurfaced moments later gulping air and kicking hard to stay on top. The life vest was still around his neck but floating in front. In order to secure the straps, he had to use his hands, and his feet couldn’t tread well enough to keep him on the surface. Another survival measure required that he keep his sneakers on his feet in case there was debris or to kick at predators in the water.
He tried to relax, conserving oxygen as he sank again, working on the straps. One snapped in place, then the other. He was about ten feet down when he found the lanyard and jerked hard. The vest inflated and pulled him upward fast. Something finally went right. Breathing was easier with the preserver, keeping his head above frothing water in the wind and spray. At the crest of each wave, he rotated, but the scene was constant. There were no boats out in the storm, and the sky created a dark canopy, touching the ocean all around. There was no land or any platforms in sight. There were no sea birds or other signs of life. The sea around had small pieces of debris and smelled like jet fuel, but it was otherwise a barren scene.
He was alive, but that was about the only good news. The company would only know his approximate position. There were millions of square miles of ocean in the Gulf and chances of finding him from the air were nil, and even less likely by boat. If he was going to survive, he would need to save himself.
The water temperature was in the high sixties and he could feel the chill draining his energy. He began kicking against the current to produce heat and stay limber. Hypothermia would kill him long before lack of food and water. He didn’t want to think about sharks. At least, there was no blood in the water.
Thieves
It was after dark when the phone rang and she answered, “Hello.”
“Hey babe. Well, we’ gonna be rich!”
“Are you sure?” Will had a problem with reality sometimes.
“Yep. I fixed his helicopter last night after ever’one was gone.” I changed the NAS bolts in the tail rotor blades to mild steel and didn’t torque ‘em much. Thing couldn’t fly for very long, and then it ain’t controllable. He ain’t comin’ back.”
“Are you sure? He’s a good pilot.”
“Look, sweetheart, no one could control it, especially in the weather out there today. Ever’ one at the company was buzzin’ about it. Management was pissed...oh, you shoulda seen um. Good old Will churned up a hornet’s nest, that’s for sure! ‘Cept they didn’t know it was me.”
“All right, but we gotta sit on this a while just to make sure.”
“Let’s go out an’ celebrate. I wanna get drunk and screw you.”
“Will, settle down. You could get us caught. Another day won’t kill us.”
“Aw, come on. Can I at least come get you and come back to my place, where we can fuck?”
“Not now! What if he shows up by some miracle? We’d be screwed -- in a different way.”
“He ain’t comin’ back. I tol’ you.”
“So what if the federal investigators figure out it was sabotage?”
“No way! He was goin’ way out in bad weather. They lost contact mos’ a’ the way. They don’ know where to look, an’, even if they did, the weather and currents make it impossible. It’s deep out there. They never found no helos down in the Gulf. Never.”
“All right, but you just go beat off tonight. We gotta stay cool for a couple days then I’ll screw your brains out after we get outa here.”
He let out a breath, “Okay, I’ll do it your way.”
“And, Will, you gotta go to work tomorrow and make it look normal.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Callie’s emotions were conflicted. She’d never loved anyone or anything in her life. She’d never had the luxury. With Jake, she experienced something different; something undefinable. He was the first person in her life that was ever even decent to her, much less nice, and she’d certainly never experienced a loving relationship. She didn’t know how to react. Will was scum, but so was she. Her emotions shifted wildly and she couldn’t sleep.
Callie
Months earlier, in Abilene, Texas, an old Buick pulled to a stop on the narrow gravel pad between the single-wides. Corina Penworth could barely open her driver’s door, parking so close to her trailer, but Callie’s boyfriend or husband, whatever he was, would yell at her and throw trash against her car if she parked too close to the imaginary line, separating their lots.
She managed to squeeze her large frame between the half-opened door and her propane tank, but it wasn’t easy for the seventy-something widow. She was about to open the trunk when she saw motion and heard someone behind her neighbor’s place. She hesitated about leaving the bag of groceries in the hot trunk but wanted to see what was going on and walked to the back of her lot.
Callie Murray wore a faded light summer dress that was probably a white floral print before all the colors blended and faded together. She could look pretty when her long straw-colored hair wasn’t matted around her head. The shovel she was holding had a handle that was longer than her five-foot-two frame.
Corina was known as the nosiest old woman in the trailer park, which was full of nosy old woman. Callie and “what’s his name??
? stood out as trailer-trash in their twenties. When Corina got near enough to see behind her neighbor’s trailer, she saw Callie, standing over a three-foot square mound of dirt.
Corina looked at the small patch of turned soil near Callie’s feet saying, “Lord, girl. Wha’cha doin’ out in this heat!” They were in the midst of a twenty-day-long drought in Abilene with temperatures over one hundred degrees.
Callie stopped patting with the shovel and stood balancing against the handle. “Well, Miss Penworth, I’m giving Licker his last reward.”
“Oh dear! Did your momma’s dog die? She loved that shaggy yellow flea bag. He was always so gentle and protective of her.”
“Yeah, well. He’s been declinin’ over the past few days. I think he’s just old.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s it, dear. Your momma only got him as a pup five years ago.”
“Well, I don’t know, Miss Penworth, he’s just been poorly here lately and didn’t get up this morning.”
Corina wanted to say something about the way they had neglected the dog tied to the back of the trailer day and night in the heat, often without water. Something about her young neighbors scared her, and she didn’t want to have any more trouble. “All right, dear, I’m sorry for your loss. I’ve got to get my groceries inside.”
As she waddled away, Callie said, “You