The truck comes to a halt by the tail of the plane and starts to slowly drive around the wing towards the front.
I spot four men with rifles. Okay, not exactly a rescue team.
Since I lost the front landing gear, the forward hatch is just a few feet above ground. All they have to do is back their Humvee up to the plane and they’ll be able to open the door and get to me.
I pull my head in and slam the window shut. I’ve only got seconds before they figure out how to work the door from the outside.
The mere fact that they’re not waiting for backup is all the evidence I need that their intentions don’t have my own best interests in mind.
I’ve heard that some of these regions are controlled by the military who often have some shady dealings with the cartels. I guess it’s possible the Russians may have made them an offer. Also just as likely, these four bozos want to be the first to arrest the fugitive American astronaut.
Only seconds to go, David. Think of something…
There are several other doors I can escape from, but that won’t matter if they shoot me. I need to slow them down so I can get away.
With what? Throw honey-roasted almonds in their faces?
I can hear their voices from outside. They’re backing their truck up to the door.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK It’s not a patient sound.
I think about how I planned to leave the plane if I’d been able to land in some place a little more sane. What are all the things they tell you to never ever do?
Well, I could…
Oh, this is stupid.
Just do it, David.
I pop open the overhead luggage compartment door in the first class section and pull myself inside then try to keep it as close to looking shut as possible.
This is idiocy, David.
When it doesn’t work and they start laughing at you, maybe you can try to escape then…
THUNK…goes the door.
SSSSSSS…the almost properly pressurized cabin hisses.
BANG! The door hits the exterior of the plane as they slide it open.
STOMP STOMP STOMP STOMP They all pile inside. First they run to the cockpit and find it empty — well, empty except for Cap’n Crunch.
There’s a bunch of chatter in Spanish. I can barely make out any of it.
CREAK They shout and yank open the forward bathroom doors.
STOMP STOMP STOMP STOMP
Four pairs of boots run past me. As soon as they’re in the middle of the plane I swing my door open and drop down into the aisle.
The man in the back, closest to me, stops and turns around.
“Mira!” he shouts.
All the others spin around and point their rifles at my head.
My right hand is in the air and my left is still on the ledge of the overhead compartment.
They start walking towards me.
Wait for it…
3…
2…
1…
I pull the cord attached to the rolled up bundle in the compartment.
And…nothing.
They give me a confused look. I shrug.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSBOOM!
The emergency exit slide belatedly inflates and shoots down the aisle, knocking the men down, then pinning them to the ground as it keeps filling with compressed air.
That will hold them until they try slicing it with a knife. I’ve got maybe a thirty second head start.
That’s thirty seconds to figure out how to disable their Humvee and make a run for it before the helicopters show up.
I jump through the door and land on top of their vehicle then leap onto the hood before hitting the ground.
The driver left his door open. I peer inside for some way to disable their ride.
Trying to pop those tires is impossible. I could mess with the engine…
I look under the dashboard for a release, then remember that you get access through two latches on the hood.
There’s a lot of screaming from inside the plane. Sooner than later one of them is going to crawl out and try another exit and come shoot me.
I’m about to raise the hood when something occurs to me…
They left the keys in the ignition. In fact, this thing is still running.
You would think with as much recent experience as I’ve had stealing things lately, I’d be really keen to notice little details like that.
I blame the jet lag.
I run around the Humvee and climb inside, slam the door, pop the shifter out of park and send up a cloud of dirt as I press the accelerator into the floor.
POP! POP! POP!
And they’re shooting at me.
Wonderful, David.
You’ve been in Mexico all of two minutes and you’ve already got the Mexican army after you.
Wait, I crashed through the border fence… this is US territory.
The Mexicans invaded to get you. Well, that’s some kind of achievement.
POP! POP! Crack! They just put a bullet hole in the passenger mirror.
I keep my head low and my foot on the gas as I bounce over the desert, north, hopefully towards a highway and something resembling civilization where I can hide before all hell breaks loose around here.
40
Convenience
Everybody has to know that I've managed to crash land the plane. But how many steps ahead of the US authorities am I?
The first thing they'll do is send a reconnaissance plane to do a flyover. If there's a helicopter within range they'll send that out as well. Most likely it'll be Border Patrol on both counts.
Will my Mexican friends stick around and wait inside the border? Or will they pull back? I have no idea how those kinds of jurisdictional things work.
I suspect that since they were responding to a plane crash, crossing the border to provide "help" is probably okay to do.
That means they'll tell Border Patrol to be on the lookout for a stolen Humvee with the Mexican flag painted on the side. So maybe I should ditch this thing first chance I get…
I see a straight patch of unpaved road and turn onto it. The desert is criss-crossed with these kinds of paths. My hope is that this one will take me to one covered in asphalt with helpful signs telling me which way to go.
Thirty minutes later my wish is granted. I pull onto the blacktop and feel like I just time-travelled to the present.
A sign marker says "Ranch Road 92." Whatever that means. I just keep going north.
Odds are, if I head south I'll run into a border town that might have what I need, but that will also be the first place they look. I'm sure all the sheriffs around here have already been warned that I might be nearby.
Lock your doors, folks.
I drive for another half hour, constantly on the lookout for circling Black Hawk helicopters or highway patrol hiding behind cacti. I don't see any, but civilization slowly creeps up on me.
First it's metal cattle guards lining the road. Then it's aluminum sheds and the signs of ranches. When I start to see green fields and irrigation, I know I have to be close to some kind of town.
Agriculture means produce. Produce means trucks. Trucks mean truck stops. All of that hopefully indicates a farm community of some kind.
I pass a small collection of double-wide trailers and a faded billboard that says "Historic Hotel El Monte Restaurant and Bar 1.9 miles."
I love that they shaved off that one tenth of mile in case that was a deal breaker for some starving weary traveler.
At some point I pass the historic hotel because I'm not watching my odometer, being more focused on the town of Van Clark.
It's tiny, filled with box-shaped buildings that look half abandoned. But there are also signs of life as pickup trucks pass me on the street. I even drive past a school bus and get a few stares from kids in baseball uniforms.
For a moment I think about the children in Rio that helped me out — the ones I left sitting by the concrete soccer court.