Stuart Woods_Stone Barrington 12

to do the rest of the flight at this altitude,” Stone said. “It’ll keep us out of clouds and get us down faster.” He leveled off at five hundred feet and eased the throttle back to keep the airspeed in the green. They were using a lot of fuel at this altitude and speed, but the distance was short.
    Stone reached down between the seats and handed Young the airport directory. “Look up Rockland and give me the unicom frequency,” he said. “There’s no tower on the field.”
    Young took a painfully long time to do so, but finally he said, “One hundred twenty-three point zero five.”
    Stone dialed in the frequency. “Rockland unicom, November one, two, three, tango, foxtrot. Anybody in the pattern?” No reply.
    â€œSays here their hours are eight A . M . to eight P . M .” Young said. Stone looked at his watch: It was a little after five.
    â€œRockland traffic,” Stone said, “anyone in the pattern?” No reply. The sun was up but low in the sky, casting a beautiful glow over the sea. Stone entered the airport identifier, RKD, into the GPS, and pressed the direct button. The arrow on the horizontal situation indicator swung to his left, pointing the way, and he adjusted his heading.
    The sun rose into the overcast, and the light became dull and dusklike. “Twelve miles,” Stone said aloud, reading the distance off the GPS.
    â€œI think I see the airport,” Young said, “dead ahead.”
    The airplane’s speed was right at redline, and now Stone could see the runway. He switched on his strobe and landing lights, the better to be seen by other aircraft. He grabbed the airport directory from Young and checked the runways: 13-31 was 5,007 feet, the longest. Stone squinted into the distance. He thought he had it in sight.
    Then he saw strobe lights on the ground; an airplane was taxiing to runway 31. Stone adjusted his course to put him on a base leg for the opposite runway, 13. He dialed the automatic weather frequency into his second radio. The wind was 310 at ten knots, straight down runway 31. He was about to change direction for that runway when the radio came alive.
    â€œRockland traffic, Cessna taxiing onto runway 31 for takeoff,” a voice said.
    â€œThat’s got to be the twins,” Young said. He began speaking into his handheld radio and putting it to his ear to listen. “Two patrol cars are ten minutes out,” he said.
    Stone could see the Cessna, its strobes flashing, only a few yards from the runway. At that moment, his engine began to cough. Jesus, he thought, he had forgotten to switch fuel tanks. He flipped the lever to the other tank, switched on the auxiliary fuel pump and prayed. The engine roared back to life. He reduced power and turned from the base leg to the final approach for runway 13.
    â€œYou can’t land this way,” Young said. “They’re taking off in the opposite direction!”
    The Cessna was starting its roll on 13. Stone put the landing gear down and put in two notches of flaps. “Mayday, mayday, mayday!” he yelled into the radio. “Malibu is declaring a fuel emergency, landing on runway thirteen!”
    â€œNegative, Malibu!” a voice came back. “We’re rolling on 13!”
    â€œI don’t have a choice!” Stone replied. He pulled the throttle back to idle. “No power, no fuel! Stop your roll now!” Stone was hot and high, and he put in the last notch of flaps and flipped up the speedbrakes. Still, he was doing ninety knots when he touched down and stood on the brakes.
    The Cessna had stopped rolling halfway down the runway. Stone had thought the other airplane would turn off onto the grass, but the pilot seemed frozen. Now the Malibu was rushing toward the Cessna, and Stone could smell his brakes. He braced against the seat back, straightened his legs and pushed on the brake pedals as hard as he could. “Help me with the brakes,” he yelled at Young. “Use your toes!” Young started to help. Stone had already decided not to turn off the runway; if he did that, they’d get away, and it was awfully hard to spot a low-flying aircraft from another airplane. Anyway, he didn’t have enough fuel to follow them. They’d be gone.
    The Malibu came to a final halt less than three feet from the Cessna, with both propellers still turning. If Stone had run head-on into the other airplane, there