Stranded (A Samantha Starr Thriller, Book 4)
Stranded
A Samantha Starr Thriller, Book 4
S. L. Menear
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Copyright © 2018, 2019 by S.L. Menear. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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eBook ISBN: 978-1-64457-097-5
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Before You Go…
Acknowledgments
Afterword
Vanished
Also by S.L. Menear
About the Author
For Gal Pals:Cindy Weeks, Vicky Edwards, Barbi Leonard, Tiesha Starkes, Sonia Díaz, Debbie Saari, and Patti Roth
One
Present Day, RAF Brize Norton Air Base - Oxfordshire, England
Three weeks ago, I almost destroyed the world.
Destiny averted—at least for now.
I’m Samantha Starr, an American closely bonded with Great Britain. The Brits call me Sir Lady Samantha, but my friends call me Sam. My older twin brothers saddled me with the nickname Danger Magnet—a name I’ve been trying to ditch for years.
I earned my fourth stripe at the age of twenty-six, the only female pilot at elite Luxury International Airlines. Except for two small bombs that exploded on board during my first flight as captain last summer, the bad stuff tended to happen outside the B767. And it happened way too often—like three weeks ago in the Himalayas.
Hence my nickname.
Fears continued to haunt me about my destiny, which was tied to the ancient city of Atlantis, recently discovered underwater near Cuba.
For now, I kept my mind focused on flying the Bearcat. I turned and lined up with the runway at the RAF base in Oxfordshire. My final landing in the mighty beast was flawless, and I taxied to the parking ramp with a big smile on my face.
The deep rumble of the radial engine sputtered out as the propellers wound to a halt. My checkout in a rare two-seat WWII fighter from Duxford’s Aviation Museum was complete. The tailwheel airplane sat at a nose-high angle on the pavement.
“That does it, Sir Lady Samantha. You’re good to go,” RAF Major Arthur Ferguson said in his sexy Scottish accent as he slid back the glass canopy.
I climbed out of the front tandem seat, stepped onto the wing walk, pulled out a rag, and lovingly wiped oil off the windshield and left side of the magnificent old airplane. Spitting oil and belching fire were part of the Bearcat’s charm.
After I climbed down from the wing, I stowed the rag and shook the major’s hand. “Please, call me Sam. The unique title your queen gave me should be reserved for special occasions.”
“This is a special occasion. There hasn’t been a woman pilot in this airplane since the WASPs in World War Two.” Tall and lean, with thick salt-and-pepper hair and an aristocratic bearing, the major unzipped his leather flight jacket.
The April weather was special too—unusually sunny with a few puffy clouds and balmy temperatures in the mid-sixties.
“Your VIP passenger should be here any minute. Then I’ll lead you back with the museum’s British bomber.” He gestured at a big four-engine Avro Lancaster parked beside us. “It should be about a fifteen-minute flight to Duxford.”
“I’m taking a passenger?” I scanned the ramp as I unzipped my leather flight jacket.
“An American actress, Carlene Jensen. She said she shared quite an adventure with you last fall.” He pointed. “There she is.”
“This Bearcat might not be big enough for her larger-than-life personality.” I waved and braced for impact.
A curvy, five-foot-nothing blond bundle of dynamite in five-inch stiletto boots ran up and hugged me.
“Sam, how the hell are ya?” Carlene squealed in her high-pitched, slightly nasal Texas drawl.
“Things are finally getting back to normal.” I smiled. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Hey, your eyes look different…still aqua,” she moved closer to my face, “but now they’re studded with deep blue and emerald green.” She squinted. “Are you wearing colored contacts?”
“I wish it were contacts.” I shook my head. “Some strange things were done to me in that Himalayan enclave.” Can’t tell anyone what really happened there.
“Huh, I don’t understand how they changed the color, but I like it.” She grinned. “I called our favorite copilot yesterday. Lance told me all about you and them triplet goddesses. Hard to believe.”
“Harder to forget, but that’s all over now, and I’ll be back in the left seat of an airliner soon.”
“Are you gonna help the Navy with that underwater city they found near Cuba?”
I shook my head. “They’ll have to wait. I don’t want to lose my airline job.”
She glanced at the major and lowered her voice. “Any news about all the weird stuff we discovered together last fall?”
“Turns out everything we found was connected to the underwater city. Maybe you should make a movie about it.”
“Is it really Atlantis?” she asked.
“Yep, definitely Atlantis. A bunch of pictures were posted on the Internet, so it’s not a secret anymore. I can’t wait to see it. Bet you never dreamed you’d be connected to a discovery like that.” I grinned. “I know I sure didn’t.”
“Hot damn, girl!” She did a little happy dance. “How about helping me write a screenplay for the movie? It’s sure to be a blockbuster.”
“Sam should be in the movie with you,” the major broke in. “She’s better looking than most movie stars—I mean, except you, of course.” His face flushed from his minor faux pas.
To help him save face, I didn’t acknowledge his compliment. “Sorry, Carlene, but I’m like a homesick eagle. I need to get back to flying with the airline. An
d I’m sure there are plenty of experienced screenwriters who’d jump at a chance to work with a famous actress like you.”
“Okay, but when the movie begins production, you have to play the airline pilot.”
“Alrighty.” I glanced at a serviceman as he finished topping off the Bearcat’s fuel tanks. “On another subject, what brings you to merry old England?”
“I just wrapped up a bodice-rippin’ medieval romance movie based on one of your mother’s steamy Highlander novels.” Carlene adjusted her ample bosom, displayed in a tight, low-cut red silk pullover under her unzipped leather jacket. “Good thing it’s finished. Those big dresses would be hot as hell in the summer. ’Course, my dress was off more than it was on, but the dang corset smashed my titties and damn near suffocated me.”
After a quick check of the airplane’s fuel tanks, I turned to Carlene. “Why are you flying to Duxford with me? Are you getting ready for a World War Two movie?”
“Didn’t they tell you? I’m helping you open a new wing of the aviation museum. It’ll be fun. Lots of hot British men and cold French Champagne.” She winked at the major. “You look sexy in that flight suit, Major.”
He smiled and stood a little straighter—if that were possible. “Ready to depart, ladies?”
“Sure, what could possibly go wrong?” I grinned at them.
He handed Carlene a helmet. “Miss Jensen, we have this special helmet for you with a small video camera mounted on top. It’s connected to the airplane’s intercom. It’ll record what you see and everything you and Sam say during the flight. Later, the video will be used to promote the museum.”
“We’ll have a bird’s-eye view of castles and manor houses along the way,” I said. “Should be fun. Just remember to be respectful of the airplane so it doesn’t buck off us girly girls. It’s normally flown by manly men.”
“What’s the big deal?” She cocked her head. “It’s just an airplane.”
“Oh no, that’s just an airplane.” I pointed at a C-130 cargo plane parked on the ramp. “This is a testosterone-filled, fire-breathing, mighty warrior of the sky.”
“Really?” She giggled.
“Hey, it may be hard for a non-aviation person like you to understand, but this airplane has a soul. The Bearcat comes alive whenever its engine is started.” I patted the side of the tall, single-engine American fighter preserved from WWII. “You’ll see.”
I climbed onto the wing and into the front tandem seat while the major fussed over Carlene, strapping her in behind me.
When she was settled, I spoke into the voice-activated helmet mike, “Testing,” to ensure Carlene could hear me on her helmet’s intercom.
“Gotcha loud and clear,” she said.
As soon as the Lancaster’s engines were running, I lit the fire in the Bearcat. Its radial engine roared to life, and I slid the glass canopy forward to the closed and locked position. The airplane vibrated like an eager racehorse ready to burst from the starting gate, and its life force surged through me when I released the brakes.
“This’ll be a nice, relaxing flight over the English countryside,” I said as we taxied behind the perfectly restored old bomber. “Let me know if you want a closer look at anything along the way.”
The major had just become airborne, and I was about to taxi onto the runway, when Carlene screamed.
“Arggh! There’s a spider as big as an armadillo back here!”
“Bearcat, cleared for takeoff,” the tower controller said.
“Standby, Tower, we have a problem,” I said as my passenger shrieked.
“Bearcat, this is Lancaster. Is there a mechanical issue?” the major asked.
“Uh, no, the passenger has a spider issue. I’ll deal with this and meet you at Duxford. I know the way. Bearcat out.”
After I set the brake and opened the canopy, it took a moment to unbuckle my harness and turn around. A spider the size of a fifty-cent coin was crawling across the top of her instrument panel. Before I could do anything, she pulled a small can of hairspray out of her handbag and drowned the spider, gluing it to the panel.
I hate spiders, but my flight gloves gave me the confidence to grab the now gooey arachnid and fling it out of the cockpit.
Problem solved, or, as the Brits would say, “Done and dusted.”
“You okay, Carlene?” I strapped in again.
“I was freakin’ out until I remembered my secret weapon and killed the big bastard.” She zipped up her bag. “Let’s roll.”
“Alrighty, crisis averted, although the Brits aren’t going to like that hairspray on the instrument panel.”
“Don’t worry, it’s jasmine-scented. This ol’ cockpit smells better already.”
“Great.” I closed the canopy and keyed the radio. “Bearcat ready for takeoff.”
In seconds, we were airborne and headed for the Imperial War Museum Duxford. Britain’s famous aviation museum was situated on its own airport where many of its vintage airplanes were flown in daily flight demonstrations for the public.
I throttled back so we could enjoy the sights below. “Check out that big castle on the right,” I said, banking so Carlene could see it better.
A minute later, she said, “Ooh, look at that huge mansion on the left surrounded by all the green hills.”
Not concerned about catching up to the major, I dipped the left wing for a closer look.
A loud roar rattled our canopy and shook our aircraft.
“Sonofabitch!” she screamed. “That plane almost hit us!”
“A Focke-Wulf FW190! What a beauty!” I said as it streaked over us in the clear blue sky. “Its low wings probably blocked his view.”
“How can you be so calm?” Her voice had shot up two octaves. “I about had a heart attack.”
“He missed us. I’m sure it was an honest mistake.”
“Oh yeah? Then why the hell is he coming back?”
The Focke-Wulf had turned around and was diving straight for us. When he was too close to react, I banked sharply to the right. As he blew by, I turned on course and hoped that was the last of him.
“Do you think he’s gone?” she asked.
As if on cue, he passed over us much too close and rattled our canopy again. The Bearcat snapped over in the Focke-Wulf's wake, and I righted it.
“Sam, that guy’s gonna kill us! Call for help!”
My mind raced as I struggled to understand what the other pilot was trying to accomplish. Then it came to me.
“Oh geez, I get it. He’s in a German World War Two fighter, and we’re in an American one. He’s trying to goad us into a dogfight.”
“Why the hell would he do that?”
“Because that’s what men do for fun. Believe me, they love playing fighter pilots.”
“Fun?” Carlene screeched. “Our airplane don’t even have guns, does it?”
“Not anymore, but I don’t think he’ll stop dive-bombing us until we engage with him in mock aerial combat. If we don’t, the fool might accidentally kill us.”
“Do you know how to dogfight?”
“Not really, but neither does he, judging by the way he flies. I can take him. The Bearcat can out-climb any piston-engine warbird.” I rocked my wings as he came at us.
When we were abeam the FW190, I pulled straight up, and so did he. We easily outpaced him in the climb. I kept climbing after he lost momentum and pivoted to a nose-down attitude. Then I pivoted and zeroed in on his tail.
Caught up in the moment, I yelled, “Eat lead, kraut heimer!” and made machine-gun sounds. Then I dove past him, pulled up, and executed a victory roll.
Problem solved…or so I thought.
Apparently, he wanted a rematch. He charged us again and banked hard, trying to get behind us. Visions of Top Gun danced in my head as I turned and scanned the sky.
“Talk to me, Goose. Where is he?” I said, channeling my inner fighter pilot.
“Who you calling a goose?” she snapped.
“Oh my God, Carl
ene, haven’t you ever seen the movie Top Gun?” I searched the sky, looking for the Focke-Wulf and thinking that Maverick didn’t have to deal with a shrieking radar intercept officer.
“I don’t like war movies unless I’m in ’em,” she snapped. “When are you gonna stop this insanity and land?”
“I’ve got him at two o’clock. Keep him on camera in case we need evidence later.” I banked toward him.
“Who the hell cares what time it is when a maniac is trying to kill us?”
“I meant his location as it relates to the positions on a clock.” Good thing she was behind me and couldn’t see my eye-roll. I pointed. “Twelve o’clock is directly ahead of us, six o’clock is directly behind us, and so on. Ten o’clock high would be in our front left quadrant above us. Get it?”
“In that case, he’s at twelve o’clock and fixing to hit us head-on. Do something!”
Dammit, not again! I banked right and pulled up as he did the same. Like before, I got on his six and pretended to shoot him down. But this time, I dove on him and rattled his canopy before I pulled up—a taste of his own medicine.
He disappeared low over a forest.
“That should convince him to back off.” I turned back on course.
“Just in case, I sent an emergency text to the major,” Carlene said, her voice shaky.
“You did what? He might scramble fighter jets or send an SAS team in a Super Lynx. I have to call them off!” I pulled out my cell and texted him: Disregard Mayday. Stand down. ETA 5 mins. Need alcoholic beverage for Carlene.