Page 112 of Owen
I’m looking forward to tonight’s dinner with the station commander and his wife. It’s been a while since I put a pretty dress on. It’s a pity Owen isn’t here or he could have driven and met me there. I would have loved to have introduced him as my husband-to-be.
Covered in a blanket of golden sun, I’m enjoying the view of the vibrant green mountain peaks of Wales, daydreaming about Owen being home, when my jet begins to violently shake. It then stutters and then loses altitude rapidly, plummeting a thousand feet. Gripping onto the control stick to steady the plane, I manage to level out as the fuel gauge alarm starts flashing, warning me I have no fuel.
Then the low altitude alert goes off as I drop another thousand feet, putting my stomach in my mouth as it falls faster than a roller coaster.
I hesitate for a millisecond.
Having trained for years and spent hours in the simulators to prepare me for something like this, I know I am losing height from engine flameout, but it’s the first time I have ever had to do this in a real time emergency, “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, Red 1.”
The air traffic controller responds immediately. “Mayday, Red 1 acknowledged, send details when able.”
Mind spinning yet remaining calm, I flip open my flight reference checklist to the engine seizure page and run through the procedure, while at the same time, I reply to air traffic. “Mayday Red 1, Hawk T1, engine flameout, no fuel remaining, losing altitude, three thousand feet, one person on board.”
It all happens so fast; the engine sputters, then dies, and I find myself saying the words I’ve said so many times in training but never wanted to say in a real time emergency. “Scramble a helicopter. Will be ejecting over Mount Snowdon. Eject, eject, eject.”
When I pull the ejection seat firing handle, several things happen at once. It detonates the explosive miniature cord that’s embedded into the cockpit canopy above my head. The explosive cartridge under my seat ignites, then explodes, making me feel like my bones are rattling in my body. It blows off the canopy and turbulently catapults me into the air like a rocket being sent to the moon as I punch out at six hundred miles an hour. I’m momentarily hit by a wall of panic before I smash my head against something, and everything goes black.
32
OWEN – ONE DAY LATER
Since yesterday morning we have checked the serial number on over six thousand bond tickets using the online prize checker.
Losing hope, Jacob hands me the last one to check. I punch the numbers in, hit enter on the keyboard of the laptop, and wait.
“No luck.” I sigh heavily.
“How much do we have?” Lincoln asks Jacob, who is calculating the final tally.
“3.5 million,” he replies.
It’s not enough. “We have two days left,” I say, looking at the thousands of disregarded tickets.
We need more time.
I tried calling Jade again later last night, but she must have been asleep. Hoping she would waive her no-phones ban on display days because we haven’t spoken for what feels like forever, I tried all day again today, but I still haven’t been able to get hold of her.I need to hear her voice.
I drop her a text.
Me
Please call me. I miss you, Hotshot. xoxo
That was hours ago and she’s still not replied.
Something feels… wrong.
“What if he’s already done something to her, and that’s why I can’t contact her?” A violent shiver runs down my spine.
Dread is consuming me, swarming like a nasty hive of hornets in my chest, making it feel like it’s about to explode.
“Don’t think stupid things.” Jacob stacks the winning tickets into a neat pile.
“This is fucking bullshit.” I kick a stacked pile of files and send them flying. Anger soars through my body. Unable to temper it, I flip the coffee table over, smashing it through the glass cabinet full of expensive liquor. “I never asked for any of this,” I angrily spit out.
“Owen.” Lincoln tries calling my name to calm me down. I think the ferocity of my mood is frightening him.
Grabbing a side table, I launch it at the oversize floor mirror, shattering it to smithereens. “He’s destroyed my life.” I grab the hair at the bottom of my neck and pull it in frustration. “I fucking hate you!” I scream at the painting of my father above the fireplace and throw the chair I’ve picked up at it. The chair tears through the canvas.
