Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

twin engines. Trish and Kurt, whoever he was, might have been talking. I couldn’t have heard a word over the noise. That was partly good because I didn’t think they couldn’t hear me scooting around either.
    The Otter’s cabin was almost twenty feet long with the jumpers’ door located near the back. Trish’s men had stowed their crates in the usable cabin volume between the cockpit area and the door, but several feet of empty space remained in the tail. Trish and her co-pilot could never see me back there, even if there were light, because the wooden boxes took up most of the cabin’s height and width. I’d have to move slowly though, so they’d attribute any resulting trim adjustments to ordinary gusts or turbulence. Thankfully, the Otter was a large enough aircraft that its center of gravity would be unaffected by my maneuvering, as long as I moved smoothly.
    I inched through the gap between the side of the fuselage and a row of crates, and headed toward the tail. When I got to the back of the plane I stayed low and stretched. I rolled up my pant leg and twisted to have a look at the back of my calf, but it was impossible to see in the dark. I ran a finger along the wound and was surprised it was only about an inch long. Its depth worried me more, but I wasn’t going to poke around to get an estimate on that. The opening was wet and sticky. At least the bleeding seemed to have slowed. I reapplied the belt and took a moment to think.
    If my abbreviated 9-1-1 call was successful in getting police to the airport, authorities could be there now. They’d discover Clement and Scud, and eventually, I assumed, my car. Tags would be traced to Richard, who could have no idea about any of this.
    The engines were loud enough I could probably make a call from my spot in the tail without being overheard in the cockpit, but I was reluctant to chance it. I sent a text message to Richard instead and briefly summarized my mess, making sure to include the GPS coordinates from my watch.
    Next was 9-1-1, but since texting wouldn’t work there I actually placed the call. I repeated my coordinates several times, only to hear some variant of, “I can’t hear you, ma’am” or “Are you still there?” I couldn’t risk speaking any louder, and eventually gave up. I slipped the phone into my pocket.
    My thoughts returned to what I’d overheard about the drop conditions. Whatever we were hauling wasn’t going to land with the plane. That presented another problem because somebody had to make the drops. Eventually, Kurt would probably venture to the back of the plane and unload whatever cargo was onboard. When he discovered me, he’d probably try to force me out the door with whatever was in the crates.
    I took a deep breath, feeling the total weight of the situation for the first time. My interest in the flight didn’t stop at mysterious cargo or its potential link to missing kids. What drove me onto the plane were questions about Jack and Annette. Clement’s reference to “what really happened on Lake Erie” confirmed it was more than an accident as I’d believed for the last four years.
    Hidden from Trish and Kurt, I scooted into a corner and leaned back to rest while I figured what to do. An object loomed where I’d expected emptiness. I ran a palm over a solid fabric surface and it didn’t take long to identify the straps and ribbing of a parachute system. I felt along the floor for goggles or a helmet, but found only the gritty surface of well worn carpet. The parachute was probably insurance for Kurt. If I were standing in an open aircraft door shoving large amounts of contraband overboard, I’d want a rig too.
    It solved one problem. I’d use the parachute to get off the plane before I was found. The question was when to do it.
    The Otter wasn’t pressurized, so we wouldn’t exceed twelve or thirteen thousand feet. It wasn’t how high we might fly that worried me, it was how low. Lower jumps meant less room for error. Without an altimeter, my GPS offered the only way to know how high we were. Right now, Trish was flying at eleven thousand feet. A momentary sensation of heaviness against the floor told me she was still climbing.
    The drop conditions had been said to include four to six foot seas. That meant open water—a perilous skydive in daylight, a deadly one at night.
    There was no way to know if the drop would occur in minutes or hours. Either way, I’d have to bail before we got too low or