Free Breakaway by Nancy Warren

“Hang on.”
    For the next few minutes the plane rose and dipped while she fought for some kind of control. Sweat beaded everywhere sweat could bead. She felt the strain in her arms and the tension in her jaw where her teeth were clamped so tightly together from the effort of holding on. Without her elevator she felt like a giant, unseen hand had her plane on a string, jerking it up and then dropping it down again. Their only hope was to manipulate the inevitable stall until they were as close to the ground—or in this case the lake—as possible.
    Max didn’t panic and for that she was grateful. She had a moment of true regret that a pilot she’d come to like, who had worked such a short time for Polar Air, should end his life so young.
    “You can do this,” he said quietly, as though reading the despair in her thoughts.
    She nodded, though he probably couldn’t see her. The lake was their only chance.
    “Lake’s too calm,” she said. “I can’t see properly.” With the lake flat calm it was difficult to differentiate the water from the sky. “I need ripples. Throw something.”
    He nodded. Cranked open the side window. As she turned, he grabbed cushions from the back. Chucked them out, so that when they hit the surface of the lake they’d create the definition she needed.
    As they drew closer to hitting down, she said, “Okay, open your door.”
    Both of them pushed their doors open a little. She didn’t have to explain to Max that having the doors open on impact would prevent them being trapped inside if the doors jammed. The sound of the wind rushed in.
    Trees were close, like jagged green saws all pointing up, reaching for the vulnerable belly of the plane.
    Her arms were trembling now with the strain. “I’m sorry, Max,” she cried, as the last of the trees scraped the bottom of the aircraft and the lake came at them too fast.
    They hit and the impact jerked her back and then forward. There was a sickening thud and then the thing she’d feared most. The roll as the aircraft flipped.
    And began to sink.
    The heavy mining equipment would drag the small plane down like an anchor. She was fuzzily aware that they were still alive and they had to get out.
    “See you on the surface,” she yelled.
    “Roger.”
    She unbuckled, turned and pushed against the door with both feet as cold, frigid cold, lake water poured into the cockpit.
    Fishing. Her grandfather. As she fought her way out of the plane, she reached into the pocket of the door and grabbed the fishing bag she kept there as a reminder of her grandfather, kind of a superstitious good-luck charm.
    Then she oriented herself, looking for the light, and scissored her legs, fighting to reach the top. It was hard to believe that a lake could be this frigid in late summer, she thought, as she dragged her body up to the light.
    She emerged, gasping from the cold. She glanced around, looking for her copilot. Where was he?
    She kicked her legs, turning a full circle. “Max?” she tried to shout but she was so cold the word came out as a gasp.
    He’d responded earlier when she’d called to him, right after the crash. He hadn’t sounded like he was in distress. He said he’d see her at the surface.
    What if he hadn’t got out?
    The plane was sinking fast. Already the wheels were below the surface. She swam to where she thought Max should have surfaced, took a deep breath, prepared to dive down and then, to her intense relief, a head popped up, all dripping black hair.
    “Max! You’re all right.”
    “It’s frickin’ cold. Let’s get out of here.”
    She couldn’t agree more. They headed for shore, fortunately not too far away. Still, the cold, her clothing and probably the fishing bag slung over her shoulder all slowed her down.
    She was tiring fast. It wasn’t far to the shore but her teeth were chattering and it felt as though she were swimming through icy-cold Jell-O. Every stroke was an effort, and kicking her feet was a monumental