All clear? With its usual great roar, the engine sprang to life. It seemed to me that anyone within a half mile ought to hear that crack of thunder and I quickly reduced to 1000 rpm for the warmup. If Ali had heard he'd be down here in no time. Or if he decided to send his regards by rifle bullet, I'd be getting the message even faster.

Ordinarily an aircraft ought to turn at least two minutes before takeoff to give the oil a chance to warm up. I figured I'd let her warm as long as the Jet Ranger was there making its noise – in any case, the chopper blocked any forward progress – and take off right after they did. The terrific wind from the rotor caused the Helio to strain at its brakes. I wished it would get the hell on its way, but at least my oil was warming and I could do the vital actions.

Prop, magnetos, carb heat, everything was looking good. All the control surfaces moved – if any cables had been tampered with I could only hope they'd hold together for another hour or so. If any tires were destined to blow, I prayed it not be today. It wasn't exactly the way I liked to start a flight, not to mention one most of which would take place above water, but I already considered myself lucky to have two wings, a tail, and a turning prop at this stage of the game.

At last the chopper, rose. Seeing it go up, then pause, tilt forward and start away, I felt a strange feeling grab me. I remembered what it had been like flying choppers those years in Vietnam. I was so fascinated watching it, so snowed with sentimentality, that for a moment I forgot what I was supposed to be doing. Then I remembered. Christ, I had to get out of there, and quick. I prayed I'd find my passengers on the beach.

With the same burst of throttle that swung the Helio around on its crosswind gear at the bottom of the runway, I was already on my way. In only a few feet the lightly loaded aircraft took to the air.

There was no reason to climb and every reason not to. For one thing, climbing would bring me right up in front of the house. For another, the beach on which I intended to land was just a few hundred yards ahead. In fact, it was so close that I nearly overshot it and at the last second had to sideslip in. During the whole operation I don't think I passed the airspeed of thirty miles per hour.

The wet sand by the water’s edge was firm. I didn't even touch the brakes just swung the plane 180 degrees around using rudder and with a fresh burst of throttle headed back to where my three passengers waited looking a little like castaways on the beach. Less welcome a sight was that of two persons standing up above on the house terrace. Even before I'd brought the plane to a stop they'd disappeared. I knew they were going to try and stop us. I didn’t know how.

In that split second when Ali and Mrs. K vanished from sight I decided I wasn’t going to take along Libby and Anna. Too dangerous. As they weren't mixed up in anything, they had nothing to fear by staying on at Io Sirena a little longer. Eventually they'd arrange to get back to France through some means or other.

My warning about the prop had had its effect. As I swung the Helio around and set the brakes, the three remained at a respectful distance. When I climbed out I saw Anna start to dash forward, but Libby caught her. Together they advanced, Anna tugging in one direction, her mother trying to restrain her in the other.

Before they reached the plane, I'd opened the luggage door for Mueller. "You're not going," I shouted to the two women.

"We are, too," screamed Anna. Breaking away from her mother she ran toward the plane. I was afraid if I tried to block her she’d attempt to evade me and run into the idling prop. A thousand rpm might not get an aircraft like that airborne, but it was more than enough to chop a little girl into mincemeat.

In a flash Anna had climbed into the Helio and jumped over the seat into the back. "Anna!" I shouted. "This is going to be a dangerous flight. You and your mother could get killed."

"I’m not afraid of airplanes," she screamed back.

"It’s not that. Some people are trying to kill me. They may shoot down the plane."

"Nonsense. Don't talk such nonsense."

"You saw what happened to Heidi."

"That's why I want to leave this island," she screamed. As I tried to reach in and pull her out, she climbed over the back of the jump seat and crouched down on the far side of the Honda.

"Pull her out by the foot," Libby was yelling. "Let me in there. I’ll get her."

As Libby climbed past me into the aircraft I motioned for Mueller to go around to the other side and get into the front passenger seat. As he opened the door something flashed under his arm and whammed into the instrument panel.

"They're shooting," he said, jumping in and slamming the door.

I couldn’t wait any longer. For better or worse the two gals were coming along. Grabbing the bags still on the sand, I flung them into the luggage compartment and slammed the door. Then I jumped into my seat, released the handbrake and pushed in the throttle. In back of me the two women were a tangle of arms and legs.

"Take seats," I yelled over my shoulder. "Fasten your seat belts."

We were airborne before the words were out of my mouth.

There are days you wish you were at the controls of a jet instead of a piston engine aircraft. This was one of them. I wanted to put as much distance as quickly as possible between me and the source of the bullet that had entered the cockpit like a mad bee to bury itself in my fan marker indicator. I could live without fan markers, but I was wondering whether and where other bullets might have hit the aircraft.

Turning off the auxiliary fuel pump I watched the fuel pressure needle. It trembled, as was its wont, but stayed in the green. Oil pressure okay. At least for the moment we were in flying shape.

I turned to look back at my passengers. However strong her anger with Anna had been, Libby wasn't worrying about that now. Bolt upright in her seat, her hands gripping the upholstery, she sat with eyes tightly shut. Her complexion was a pale green. I'd never seen anything like it.

Anna was still half in and half out of the luggage compartment, one long leg straddling the back of her seat. As I'd turned left immediately after takeoff and then right, she hadn't been able to release herself from the force of gravity long enough to get into her seat. So that she wouldn't suddenly have the opposite problem and go crashing up into the fuselage ceiling, I straightened the wings very carefully.

"Climb into your seat and fasten your belt. Put on your lifejackets." I was glad to see that this time Anna did what she was told. "And check your mother’s seat belt, too."

"It's not fastened," said Anna, closing it. "I think she's going to be ill."

Luckily I had some sick bags aboard. They'd been there a long time, and I hoped they didn't leak. I passed a few back to Anna, who put them in her mother’s lap. "Sick bags," she shouted in her ear.

A terrible, thin cry made the hair at the back of my neck stand on end. Turning, I saw that while Libby's expression and bearing hadn't changed, her mouth had parted slightly to emit that awful, most irritating of all screams I'd ever heard.

"Can't you shut her up?" I asked Anna when the scream persisted.

"You try," said the girl in disgust.

The scream had gotten to Mueller, too. Since getting into the plane he'd checked himself over carefully for bullet holes, but had found only a rip in the sleeve of his jacket where the bullet had passed on its way to my marker indicator. After this experience, his nerves weren't all that good either. Leaning back over his seat he took hold of one of Libby's arms and shook it in a useless effort to get her attention. "Get control, dear lady!" he shouted. "Get control."

His words had no effect. The scream continued, and for once I was glad the Helio was a noisy aircraft, though it didn't have the range of sound needed to mask the pitch of Libby's scream. At least I was wearing earphones; the others weren't. It seemed ironic that out of a whole nation of men and women renowned for their grit, their stiff upper lips, their dogged acceptance of danger and physical discomfort, I had to have along the one glaring exception.

My sole object after takeoff was to get as far away from the island as fast as possible. Since an aircraft goes faster when it's not climbing, for the first few minutes I had everything – throttle, prop, and mixture – pushed to the wall, flat out while we practically skimmed the waves. As soon as I felt we were out of artillery range, I began to climb.

There wasn't that far to climb. At 2000 feet there was, solid cloud cover. In most European countries, such as Greece, flying inside cloud when not on an instrument flight plan is forbidden. In emergencies sometimes the pilot has no choice. But now that we were away from Io Sirena our situation was less critical. I figured I'd try raising Athenai Control and see if it was feasible filing an instrument flight plan.

Because even if a pilot elects to go up into cloud there are a few things he'd like to know first—like what kind of clouds they are and who else is flying inside them and where. Between Araxos and Kos the minimum en route altitude over the mountains was above 10,000 feet. I didn’t have an idea of the thickness of the cloud layer above me, but it looked very wet and thick. Without weather information I had no assurance that thunderstorms weren't imbedded in it, especially in the mountain regions. Weighing alternatives, and with Io Sirena disappearing behind us, it seemed a lot safer to stay out of the cloud for the time being.

We were pretty low but it was possible I might raise Athenai Control from here. If not, I’d try Preveza Airfield on 119.7. I pressed the transmitter button. "Athenai Control this is Helio Courier November four three eight niner. Good afternoon."

To my joy the reply was loud, clear, and immediate. "November four three eight niner, Athenai Control. Change to Athenai Information on 129.45."

I jotted down the new frequency and turned the dials on the VHF. I transmitted my callsign and this time a woman controller replied and asked me for my message.

"Three eight niner, off Io Sirena on a flight to Athens via Araxos, maintaining 2000 feet following the coast."

"Roger, three eight niner. Have you consulted the NOTAMs for the Araxos area?"

Shit, I thought to myself. What now? "Negative," I replied, shrinking in my seat like a whipped dog. "Three eight niner, hold ten nautical miles west of Araxos at 1500 feet until further clearance."

Shit shit shit. What a damn nuisance. A good thing the lady couldn't hear or see me. Managing to control myself, I pressed the transmitter button and asked with a calm voice, "Roger, Athens. Could you tell me at what time to expect further clearance?"

"It won't be long. Report reaching the holding point."

"Roger."

Bloody hell. I practically tore the chart out of Mueller's hand – he was acting as my map rack for lack of space. It wouldn't mean much of a detour, but it was a miserable waste of time given the circumstances, given particularly Libby. Besides that, I didn’t like the idea of making circles over the bloody sea ten miles out from terra firma.

I was sorry now I'd raised Athens. Lady controllers are always bad luck for me. Still, they had nice voices. This one had spoken good English with a husky Greek accent. Something else remained in my mind from our brief conversation. A strange sort of background noise each time she transmitted. A sort of tic tic tic. Well, let's hope it was her equipment that was faulty, not mine. All I needed now was to develop radio trouble. In fact, maybe it was a Greek tic, because I'd also heard it when Athenai Control was talking on frequency 128.20.

The airways chart showed no intersection ten miles west of Araxos, so I drew one in. To reach it necessitated a change of course. My passengers weren’t aware of the instructions given me by Athens, because I was receiving through the headset, not the loudspeaker. I started to tell them, but one look toward the rear made me change my mind. Libby, still green, was sitting with her eyes resolutely shut, the sick bag in her hand ready for emergency use. Anna was sound asleep, slumped down in her seat. I couldn’t tell whether she'd unfastened her seat belt, but I hoped not. That left the German.

"Slight change in the route," I told him.

"What is happening?"

"Athens wants us to hold west of Araxos."

"Hold? You mean make circles?"

"That's right."

"What for? Why"

"Something in the NOTAMS, the Notice to Airmen. There must be some military maneuvers or practice firing. Or maybe the King of Schlitzen is visiting Araxos and they've got the sky cordoned off."

"How long must we hold?"

"A good question. Probably not long. Hang on. I'll ask again."

My instruments showed we'd arrived at the intersection and the altimeter read 1500 feet. Reducing power I began a slow 360 degree turn. "Athenai Information this is three eight niner.

"Go ahead, three eight niner." The tic tic ticking sound was still there. Wiggling the squelch button while she talked didn't help.

"Three eight niner holding ten miles west of Araxos. Any more information on when to expect further clearance?"

"Very soon now, three eight niner. I'll let you know."

"Roger."

When the transmission ended, I noticed a strange thing. The ticking noise was still in my ears. What the hell was wrong with this stupid radio? No. Wait. And then the truth dawned. That tic was a fault in the radio equipment, but not control tower or airplane radio equipment. That ticking was interference caused by a faulty connection in a rotorcraft radio. I hadn't been talking with Athens. I'd been talking with someone in a helicopter! And that chopper was now awfully near, awfully near. While I like a dumb nut was changing course and flying in circles, Ali and Mrs. K were catching up in the Bell.

Had caught up. As I cut short my turn, literally wrenching the Helio's nose around toward the east, like a great, black fluttering bird of doom the helicopter was above us. More maneuverable than this slow-flying boat of mine, there was no wriggling away. Worse, there was no possibility now of climbing into those clouds which suddenly seemed so very, very safe. Even with full power the terrific wind from above caused by the rotating airfoils forced me downwards towards the water. Christ. I had to get to the coast.

I glanced at Mueller. His sample case was open on his lap. With calm precision he was fitting together the various pieces of a rifle. I can’t say I wasn't glad at that moment to see my suspicions about him confirmed. Killers, when they're on your side, are a whole different ballgame. The only thing worrying me was that the window on Mueller’s side of the airplane wasn't the kind that opened. He wouldn't be able to use the rifle while in the Helio, but if ever we made it to terra firma it might come in very handy.

Screams from the rear told me things weren't going too well back there. I turned to see Anna in her mother’s lap, the two of them clinging together in the buffeted plane as if the world was coming to an end. And maybe it was, for this aircraft and its passengers. It was too late now regretting having brought them along. But I regretted it.

And then I forgot my passengers. Fly the plane. The first rule. Whatever else is going on, the first rule is fly the plane. And fly it I did. Every foot, every yard nearer to the coast I could bring the Helio was closer to what was at best a doubtful security.

The next rule, send out a MAYDAY message. Frequency 121.5. There was every chance in the world I'd be heard. Turning to the distress frequency, I was about to transmit when a hand gripped my wrist.

"Um Gottes willen," said the German. "Look."

I looked upwards and forward in the direction he was pointing. It was the first time I'd actually caught sight of the Jet Ranger which had momentarily gotten itself off our back, so to speak, and had risen a few hundred feet ahead of us. But that wasn't what Mueller was pointing at. He’d seen something, a body, detach itself from the side of the helicopter, pushed through a window. As I looked up the body began to fall, spinning through the air, growing larger and larger as it rushed toward us.

My God, it’s going to hit the prop. I jammed my right foot forward on the rudder pedal, nearly broke the control column off at the roots yanking the wheel to the right. With only inches to spare, the body of a young woman flashed past. I could see her dead, staring eyes, the pale, bruised flesh. Oh, Heidi, I thought, that sea is such a cold, cold tomb for you.

As I righted the plane, I was shaking like a leaf. Do pilots ever get scared out of their wits? Indeed, they do. The strange, the deadly, and the unexpected can terrorize the calmest pilots. Things can happen in flight for which no emergency procedures have ever been written out or practiced. Or imagined.

A moment later a shock hitting the side of the aircraft in the vicinity of the tail had both Mueller and the female passengers jumping around. Something was going on outside. Were they shooting at the plane?

"Can you see anything out your side?" I shouted to Mueller.

"They have lowered something on a cable. A kind of large hook."

I remembered Ali working under the chopper. That bastard. A hook? Were they going to ... ? But there was no time to speculate. Once again the hook hit the plane. And this time they had it. I could feel the tail of the plane start to rise. We were caught. Caught like a fucking fish. Could we get away? I had on full power but wasn’t going anywhere. Held back by the hook, the airspeed was dropping off in spite of the spinning prop. The controls were turning to mush in my hands. The rudder pedals kicked at my feet as the rudder flapped uselessly from side to side. And the land was so near, so near, yet so damned far.

As the tail rose higher there was a commotion in the back. The Honda had broken loose and was sliding forward onto Libby and Anna. The girl was screaming terribly as the full weight of the machine bore down on her. There was nothing I could do. The plane was completely on its nose. I had closed the throttle. Things were happening too fast, I hadn't even gotten off a MAYDAY, though I didn't know what good it would do now.

And then it happened. The Helio flipped onto its back. With a sickening crunch the Honda and all the rest of the luggage was on top of us. Anna, torn from her mother’s arms, was lying above me on the roof of the plane, screaming into my ear. Then there was a terrific whap against the plane. I didn't know it then but they had released the cable holding the hook.

My one thought was to get the aircraft rightside up again. What I needed now was some airspeed, but I dreaded hearing the sound – if any – the engine would make when I pushed in the throttle.

Fly the fucker, fly the fucker. With the engine coughing and choking and more airspeed coming from our inverted fall than from any source of power, I put the stick hard to the left and gave enough rudder to roll it out. Instantly everything that had been on the roof crashed down on us.

Complete chaos. Blood was everywhere. I didn't have time to check whose it was. Something awful had happened to my sight. I couldn’t see through the windscreen. I rubbed my eyes frantically before realizing what it was. The windscreen was covered with oil. Oh, God. At the same time the engine, which had been deprived of fuel when the plane went over, was still coughing. I switched on the electric pump and primed the throttle, but still the coughing continued.

"Mueller," I yelled, "put away that rifle and get this fucking bike off my head!" As the pressure lifted from my skull the screams from Anna intensified. They'd have to work it out for themselves.

My eyes were on the gauges as I hit the transmitter button. "MAYDAY, MAYDAY..." I couldn't hear my voice. My hand shot to my ear. The headset was gone. I felt around. Shit, where was it?

Who cared? Fly the plane, fly the plane. But the oil, the life blood of an engine, was all over the fucking place. For some reason it had come out when the plane was on its back. Why didn't matter. How much was left? Enough to get us to shore?

I looked at the gauges. The oil temperature needle was rising. It was already way past its usual position, moving up through 100 degrees toward the red zone. As the temperature rose, the pressure was beginning to drop. At any moment the engine would seize up, stop, and the airplane would come down. We'd have to ditch in the sea.

The land was only another mile or two ahead of us. If the shore was forest, road, or beach, landing there would be safer than ditching. I prayed it wouldn't be rocky cliffs. Turning my head, I began to shout ditching instructions at my passengers. Anna, her head covered in blood, seemed unconscious in her seat. "Buckle her in," I shouted to Libby who now seemed shocked out of her earlier state of shock and quickly did as she was told. "Take off your shoes, protect your heads with your arms." I knew it would be beyond her to locate the inflatable dinghy and extract it from the, mess in the luggage compartment.

Anyway, it was stupid, useless. What did I know about ditching a plane with a fixed landing gear? Books carefully avoid the subject, and it's not a thing you ever practice. A pilot can spend his life speculating on what to do and what will happen in such a situation, but it’s mostly hangar talk and hot air. Whatever happened, I was pretty sure I’d get out all right, and Mueller, because we were sitting next to doors. But what about the two trapped in the back seat if the plane went right under, or flipped onto its back?

The engine was running smoother but the oil temperature needle was at 110 degrees and moving into the red, the oil pressure needle descending into the same color. Once again I tried to find my headset. It had to be in the plane somewhere. In fact, I'd just seen it. Where? I turned again. Yes, there it was, behind Anna, hooked onto the handlebar of the Honda, the same handlebar which I later learned had partially torn off the girl's ear.

"Mueller," I shouted, "can you reach back and get me that headset?"

Mueller lurched but remained seated. He looked at me in surprise.

"You'll have to unbuckle your seat belt," I yelled. He'd forgotten he had it on.

Mueller nodded, undid the belt, then made a lunge into the back for the headset, grabbed it and passed it to me. It was covered with blood, the headband was bent double, and the transmitter plug torn off. The second headset was probably floating around somewhere in the extreme rear of the luggage compartment. Shit.

Rule one in a desperate emergency situation: Fly the fucking plane. Rule two: Get off a fucking MAYDAY message. So much for rule two. Rule three: Climb if possible. Well, it would have been so nice to climb, but I was ready to settle for just maintaining the 400 feet above the water we already had. I didn't have enough oil left to grease the revs I was already getting.

When ditching at sea, says one famous book on aviation, try to land upwind and downswell. Fine. Like hitting a moving target with a pea shooter on the first try. More to the point, you have a choice of ditching downswell at a higher speed because of the wind pushing you, or of touching down slower, with the wind in your face, smack against an arriving wave.

The prevailing hangar wisdom offers a compromise. Ditch at right angles to the swells, at stalling speed, and plunk ‘er in feet first. Fine again, except with almost no depth perception above the flat water, pilots of planes that stall might stall a little early and go in nose first.

The last piece of free advice is to try and perform emergency landings and ditchings while your engine is still functioning, as before running completely out of gas or oil. Fair enough. But in real life things are never so simple. For instance, what's the procedure when you're over water at 400 – oops, 300 – feet with a half mile to go to land, with a mangled headset, an unconscious girlie, and an engine that’s about to seize up? Do you fly down with your still-functioning engine and try to zero in neatly on the backside of a swell? Or do you sit staring from the oil gauges to the land, bite your fingernails off, and not pray but beg God to have mercy on one more failing sparrow.

"It's okay'?" asked the German, smiling hopefully.

With the engine sounding smoother he dared to hope. Yet it probably didn't tally with the rest of his impressions – the ashen pilot chewing the ends of his fingers down to the nubs. So much for reassuring the passengers. I couldn't have yawned to save my life.

By this time I'd stopped studying the water and had turned my attention to the shore, or as much as I could see of it through the veil of gray oil and the side windows. If we made it that far there was, I could see now, a beach, one of those extremely finite Greek beaches nestled in a cove between sea and volcanic rock. Enough room to put down a Helio? Sure. Beggars aren't choosers.

The engine was still functioning as we reached the shoreline and there, I'm ashamed to say, came the moment separating the sheep from the real bastards, putting me in the latter category. Try and make your emergency landing with the engine still functioning. This good advice was echoing in my brain as I shut down the engine, turned off the switches, and started to glide. With both gauges in the red, my only thought was to save my engine from oil starvation. Fuck the passengers, I said to myself. Long live the Helio.

Then I landed the plane on the beach.

The silence was deafening. I turned in my seat. Three pairs of eyes looked at me. I didn't even want to know the emotions behind those looks. Hate for getting them into this trouble? Love for saving them? I didn’t want to hear.

"Let's get Anna to a doctor," I said gruffly.

Like old people we climbed painfully out of the Helio. Anna half fell into my arms. Besides the damage to her ear, which she didn't know about, her left arm seemed to be broken.

While the chart I'd been using didn't show things as insignificant as this beach, it did indicate a road a short distance inland. With nobody about, we decided to head for the road and flag down a passing car. A footpath leading away from the beach showed us the way.

"I must say," said Libby suddenly in her loud, clear voice, "we do look a sight. But at least were in one piece."

"I'm not," objected the limp bundle in my arms.

"No, my pou, you're not. But you will be. We'll have you stitched up in no time. And you know how you love wearing plaster casts. Just be glad your father wasn't along or we'd be carrying him, too."

I was glad to hear Libby in such good spirits but was so ashamed for having suggested she fly to Athens in the Helio that I couldn't look at her. She must have guessed what was going on in my mind, because she said, "Chet, I really must thank you. Thanks to you I've gotten over my fear of flying."

"You have?" I could hardly believe my ears. "You mean you'd go up in an airplane again after today?"

"Absolutely never. Never never. If ever I had a doubt, it's gone now. If ever again someone says, 'Libby, girl, let's take an airplane,' I'll say, 'An airplane? What’s that?’"

I grinned at her. It's not a bad thing if you can escape your greatest fear in life by simply avoiding it. If you're afraid of flying, don't fly. If you're afraid of sex, don't screw.

"What are you afraid of, Chet? There must be something."

"There is," I admitted.

"What’s that?"

"I'm afraid of the paperwork and the investigation the Greek government will lay on me when they learn how Anna was injured in my plane."

"But then why should they ever find out? We could say she fell and hurt herself playing. Children are always doing that. She could have fallen out of a tree. But what about your plane? It's back there on the beach. Someone's bound to see it."

"As long as it isn't a Greek official, I'm okay. Mueller and I could be out of here early tomorrow morning."

"I thought the horrid thing couldn't fly."

"I want to see why we lost the oil. Someone may have tampered with the oil cap and when the plane went over most of it came out. If that's the case I can put some more oil in and fly out of here."

"You mean you still want to fly after what just happened?"

"Not right this minute. But I think maybe by tomorrow..."

"You're quite mad. Completely around the twist. But all right. Anna, if anyone asks, you say you fell out of a tree.

"I'm not going to tell that to Brigitte."

"Just say it for the present, please, if anyone asks. When you see your friend Brigitte back in France you can tell her anything you like. She won’t believe it anyway. Who could possibly believe you broke your arm in an airplane that turned upside down in a storm?"

I glanced at Libby. Yes, it was possible she didn't know why the Helio had turned over. Sitting in the back she wouldn't have seen the chopper even if she'd dared open her eyes. She really could think we were caught in a storm. I was just as glad she didn’t know the truth. It was better for all concerned.

Even at some distance from the road we could see that transportation wouldn't be a problem. Cars were traveling along it in both directions.

"What I want to know," Libby said, "is which way is Athens?"

"You won't be in Athens tonight," I told her. "We're on Peloponnesus. Athens is on the mainland, quite a ways from here."

"Chet, don’t tell me we’re on another effing island," said Libby aghast.

"Technically, ever since they dug the Corinthian Canal, this is an island. But there's a trestle over the canal for trains. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if this track we're coming to would take you right to Athens."

"Then why don't we hitch a ride in a train instead of a car?"

"The nearest hospital would be here, in Patras." In the fading light I showed Libby the ONC where a yellow blot indicated the city. "It’s about twenty-five miles from here. Anna could be in a hospital inside an hour."

"We're going to Patras," came a little voice from the child in my arms.

"Of course, my pou. Now just let's find us a nice car to stop that isn’t filled with dope addicts or rapists."

The first motorist to see us screeched to a stop. A large Mercedes full of German tourists, there was just room for the two women. Mueller told them in German that we'd found the two in this condition on the beach. Even so, they looked at us rather strangely. It was only later that I realized we looked little better than Libby and Anna, smeared with blood and oil and me staggering from fatigue.

Whatever they thought, no sooner had our female friends climbed in than the driver fired up his diesel and pulled away in the direction of Patras. We stood a moment watching the car disappear up the road. I'd never taken Libby’s address, didn’t even know her last name.

"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away." This said, we turned and made our way painfully down the embankment in the direction of the sea. I felt about ninety years old by then and would have liked nothing better than to crawl into a cave and sleep for twenty-four hours.

But we had work to do. First of all, we had to hide our weapons. Any police patrol happening upon the Helio would search it for contraband first thing. If they found the guns we'd be a long time explaining.

"What I don't understand," I remarked to Mueller, "is why Ali didn't stick around and finish us off. If he hadn't released the hook cable they'd have been towing us along backwards and upside down. They could have dumped us right in the water."

"Perhaps they saw those helicopters."

"Which helicopters?"

"There were three not too far away. Perhaps our friends thought they would see what was happening."

So some other aircraft had been in the vicinity. I'd been too busy to notice. Now, safe on the ground, I was glad I hadn't gotten off a distress message. We'd have had the entire Greek military down our necks. It wouldn't have been easy convincing anyone we'd suffered all that damage in a storm. Mentioning the parts played by Mrs. Koundiotes and Ali would have blown the whole thing sky high, compromising Koundiotes and his kids, not to mention the possible repercussions on my search for Jeanne.

One thing was clear: For better or worse Jeanne was on the side of Ali and Mrs. K in this affair. The young woman whose lifeless body was floating right that minute somewhere in the Ionian Sea had most likely been killed by my companion, not by them. But if those two were the good guys in this business, and in my book Jeanne had to be on the side of the angels, God help us heavies!

Reaching the plane we had another surprise in a day already pretty crowded with surprises. More German tourists. It seems we'd landed near a trailer park. Fortunately it was off-season, for the whole camp had turned out to see the Helio, all twenty inhabitants. I let Mueller handle them in their native language.

"What happened?" cried the fattest of the group.

"Bad weather," sighed Mueller, shaking his head.

"And that?" The fat one was pointing at the terrible gashes on the fuselage near the tail where the hook had grabbed hold.

"Lightning," improvised Mueller adroitly.

"My God, lightning," breathed the man. He looked to me for confirmation.

I shrugged, meaning either that I didn't understand German or that there weren't trente-six things up there that could do that kind of damage to an aircraft.

"Blitz," repeated the German. "Und es ging von unten hoch."

That did it. I couldn't help bursting out laughing. To explain the marks on the plane the German had decided that the lightning must have come up from beneath.

Once having started laughing my tired brain wouldn't let it go. I sat on the ground by one of the front wheels and yocked until my face was streaming. The Germans, after whispering to Mueller that we should come to their camp for dinner, drifted off, throwing glances back over their shoulders. The last comment that drifted back to me, that both my front wheels were broken – apparently they'd never seen crosswind landing gears before – convulsed me again.

Finally only Mueller and I were left. When I finished laughing he was standing a short distance off looking at me. Our eyes met.

"Also, Sie sprechen Deutsch," he said.

"Ja," I admitted.

"Interesting," he commented.

At least now we were alone and could get things done. I gave Mueller the job of hiding our guns and ammo in some place safe from inquisitive authorities. The fact I had a gun didn't surprise him, given the work I'd been hired for. And I avoided the awkward subject of Mueller's own arsenal.

My curiosity was now about to be satisfied regarding the great oil disaster. I opened the cowling and looked inside. Cowling and engine were covered with oil. As I suspected, the oil cap had come open, no doubt the work of Ali. Luckily the dipstick attached to the cap had kept it from getting lost. In the back of the plane I found some battered two-liter cans of oil. I poured these in, screwed on the cap, and three eight niner was back in the flying business.

When Mueller returned gunless from his mission I sent him off again to borrow a pail and sponge and, if possible, a couple of flashlights from his compatriots. It would be his job cleaning up the blood. I'd get at the oil with some rags and a little gasoline which I drained from the fuel tanks. Rags were not difficult to find; what might be in short supply after today was Mueller's shirts.

My assistant returned with what was needed, including a small butane lantern which I hooked on the upper tip of the prop. After emptying the aircraft of Honda and everything else, we went at it. Soon the water in Mueller's bucket was pale red. It was a depressing sight, but I consoled myself, thinking that by now Anna was patched up and probably sleeping peacefully in a hospital bed. I hoped Libby had found some cognac, ice, and company.

Having cleaned the engine, the cowling, and the windscreen as best I could, I went back to look at the damage to the fuselage and tail. An earlier cursory examination had indicated the damage wouldn't interfere with flying. A closer inspection seemed to bear this out. There was some bent metal, but when I gave it a severe shaking nothing seemed about to fall apart or come off. All the controls worked smoothly.

The Honda was difficult to start, but after that seemed to run okay. As for the rest of our gear there was nothing much that wasn't broken, bloody, or torn. Mueller’s suitcase had sprung open, but most of his clothes only needed dry cleaning. My own belongings had fared little better, and I found the photograph of Jeanne, its frame smashed, the picture badly soiled. Carefully I put it into my jacket pocket. I was sure she was alive. Sure of it.

Later that evening, eating by the campfire with our German hosts, I reached out and dropped the damaged photograph, unnoticed, into the clean flames.