The night sky was suddenly illuminated by a bolt of lightning from behind the small jet, and a moment later, a third bolt struck the plane, jolting it so hard that Marty Howard would have left the pilot's seat if he handed been securely buckled in. The sudden surge of blood to his brain blackened his vision for a moment, and when he'd totally regained his senses, he heard the alarms and lights and knew that the jet's electronic systems were shutting down, one by one.
Two hours later, after flying without communications, navigation, fuel monitoring, and much more, Marty made yet another course change, knowing that they'd missed yet another airport-equipped island. He was doing his best to fly without all of the electronics that were so vital to flight over the open ocean. But without a clear sky to allow him to see distant islands, his only chance to find land was to fly practically over it.
Suddenly, the passenger Marty had ordered forward to the cockpit pointed an excited finger out a starboard window. "There! There it is! There's the island."
Marty strained tall against the seat belt for a look. After a moment, he muttered, "No ... no, it isn't. Not the island we wanted."
He had no idea what rock was off to his right, but even from this distance and altitude -- they were only at three thousand feet, but the dark sky made it seem like thirty -- he could tell that the tall volcanic peaks were not going to allow for a flat place long and wide enough to land a twin engine jet.
He turned the jet toward it anyway. Any land is good land at this point, he thought. They circled the island twice; as he expected, there was no city, no airport, no wide, long beach. "Get back to your seat. Tell the others to buckle in. I'll make an announcement in a moment."
Marty circled the island three times, looking for a place to land. There was nothing; the only beach that would have sufficed had cliffs at each end making approach difficult and a stop at the other end -- before slamming into the rocks -- unlikely.
There was no choice; they had to make a water landing.
After another circle, he began to debate whether his chosen course of action was the best thing to do. Then, the port engine began winding down, out of fuel. He had no choice; they were out of time.
He turned on the radio and was about to make his announcement when the place was buffeted by a cross wind. Marty struggled to maintain control, leveled the plane, attempted to adjust course back to parallel with the beach ... and realized they really were out of time -- the starboard engine was quitting and the plane was dropping from the sky. He did his best to aim the plane for the water but failed: twenty-five seconds later, they entered the tropical forest.
When Marty regained consciousness, a woman was hovering over him, silhouetted by the bright sun behind her. He was in pain -- his back, his head, even his ears hurt -- and grimaced when he attempted to raise his hand to shield his eyes.
"Sit still, Captain," the woman scolded him. "Whatcha need...? Water...? Another cool rag?"
He tried to answer, but the pounding in his head was overwhelming. Things went dark for a moment; his eyes adjusted, and he realized someone was arranging a sun cover over the top him, maybe a beach blanket or one of the heavy curtain doors from the--
The plane! Suddenly, the crash came back to him. He struggled to speak, and finally managed, "What happened...? Every-- All live...?"
"Yes, sir," a man's voice said from nearby. "Everyone's alive. Cuts and bruises ... a couple of cracked skulls, just like yours ... but nothing more serious than a broken arm ... mine!"
Marty closed his eyes, asking for a drink of water. They're all alive, he told himself, relieved. They're all alive ... you did good ... you got'em down.
