"Christopher Moore - Island of the Sequined Love Nun" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moore Christopher)

feeling that maybe the businessman at the bar had been right.


2

I Thought This Was A Nonsmoking Flight

Most jets (especially those unburdened by the weight of passengers or
fuel) have a glide rate that is quite acceptable for landing without power.
But Tucker has made an error in judgment caused by seven gin and tonics and
the distraction of Meadow straddling him in the pilot seat. He thinks,
perhaps, that he should have said something when the fuel light first went on,
but Meadow had already climbed into the saddle and he didn't want to seem
inattentive. Now the glide path is too steep, the runway a little too far. He
uses a little body English in pulling back on the steering yoke, which Meadow
takes for enthusiasm.
Tucker brings the pink Gulfstream jet into SeaTac a little low, tearing
off the rear landing gear on a radar antenna a second before impact with the
runway, which sends Meadow over the steering yoke to bounce off the windscreen
and land unconscious across the instrument panel. The jet's wings flap once--a
dying flamingo trying to free itself from a tar pit--and rip off in a shriek
of sparks, flame, and black smoke, then spin back into the air before beating
themselves to pieces on the runway.
Tucker, strapped into the pilot's seat, lets loose a prolonged scream
that pushes the sound of tearing metal out of his head.
The wingless Gulfstream slides down the runway like hell's own bobsled,
leaving a wake of greasy smoke and aluminum confetti. Firemen and paramedics
scramble into their vehicles and pull out onto the runway in pursuit of it. In
a moment of analytical detachment, one of the firemen turns to a companion and
says, "There's not enough fire. He must have been flying on fumes."
 Tucker sees the end of the runway coming up, an array of antennae, some
spiffy blue lights, a chain-link fence, and a grassy open field where what's
left of the Gulfstream will fragment into pink shrapnel. He realizes that he's
looking at his own death and screams the words "Oh, fuck!", meeting the FAA's
official requirement for last words to be retrieved from the charred black
box.
Suddenly, as if someone has hit a cosmic pause button, the cockpit goes
quiet. Movement stops. A man's voice says, "Is this how you want to go?"
Tucker turns toward the voice. A dark man in a gray flight suit sits in
the copilot's seat, waiting for an answer. Tuck can't seem to see his face,
even though they are facing each other. "Well?"
"No," Tucker answers.
"It'll cost you," the pilot says. Then he's gone. The copilot's seat is
empty and the roar of tortured metal fills the cabin.
Before Tucker can form the words "What the hell?" in his mind, the
wingless jet crashes through the antenna, the spiffy blue lights, the
chain-link fence, and into the field, soggy from thirty consecutive days of
Seattle rain. The mud caresses the fuselage, dampens the sparks and flames,
clings and cloys and slows the jet to a steaming stop. Tuck hears metal
crackle as it settles, sirens, the friendly chime of the FASTEN SEAT BELTS