Find below: An excerpt from Wake Turbulence, a mystery novel by local writer and photographer Stilson Snow. 

Are you a Humboldt County writer who has written a book? Or a writer who has written a book about Humboldt County? You should share an excerpt with LoCO Lit Bit! Hit us up at news@lostcoastoutpost.com, and put “Lit Bit” in the subject line. 

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“We could just kill him,” the man in the right seat said. “What do you think?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look, he’s a scumbag. You know it, I know it, everyone knows it. He’s of no earthly use to anyone. Why not just kill him?”

“Jesus. You’re serious!”

“Well, why not? What does he contribute to the society, to the economy? He’s a fucking leech. It would be a favor. We’d be doing everyone a favor. Wouldn’t have to pay to support him.”

“What about life, liberty, and the oath you took … ah, never mind.”

“What’s the matter with you?” the man in the right seat continued. “Tell me one thing he’s good for? He’s worse than the bums in the Square. Shit, we ought to off them, too. Who would miss ‘em, huh?” He looked in the back seat, then forward. “See? He’s got nothing to say. Might as well dump him right here. Nice long drop.”

The pilot shook his head slowly. “I’m delivering him as contracted. By your employer. And I’m going to enjoy the scenery. Why don’t you?” He turned his head back to look out the window.

Griffin McNab never tired of flying; never tired of watching his country roll by below. He moved easily in the cockpit, tweaking the mixture, checking the gauges. His movements had the unconscious economy of the professional. Gray was invading his black hair, though it should have started sooner. Pale azure eyes were bracketed with the crow’s feet endemic to his career. He wore wrinkled khaki pants and a soft denim shirt, frayed ancient running shoes. He had hated it when aviator sunglasses had become the fashion trend for salesmen and almost stopped wearing them. Most people would say he missed handsome by a hair. A few might mention a certain remoteness.

Huge, white, puffy cumulus clouds crowded the sky. Darting in and out of openings on the way up through the layer of grey bottomed fleece there was no way to know the beauty waiting above this lower level. Far above the small plane the mackerel sky of cirrus filtered the sunlight, dappling cloud formations as they explored this most transient of territories. There were tall crenelated spires, full and solid looking, streaked with grey and foreboding. There were wisps of white, as if some non‑Euclidian spider had hung her web in mid‑air. Mostly there was the foundation of these ephemeral structures, as folded and cleaved as a glacier.

Through the occasional hole or thin spot in the cloud floor below, the ancient forest peeked through. Steep sloped canyons and sharp ridges covered with fir and redwood slipped by, now seen through gauze, now in stark detail. Though they looked small at this altitude the world’s tallest and oldest trees still inspired the pilot. Disturbing the tranquility of his flight were bald patches on the slopes where the clear cuts, old and new, showed their scars. Each year there were more of them and each year the ferocity of the battle between the corporate giants and environmentalists increased.

He prepared to bring down the twin engine Seneca just past where the clouds ended just ahead. He looked over at the front seat passenger, about to say something, when suddenly the plane swung toward the left and started to drop.

“Dammit!” McNab stomped on the right rudder pedal and wrestled the plane level. Herman Pecheur, the deputy sheriff in the right seat, turned pale and gripped his knees until his knuckles went white. The prisoner chained to the deck in the back of the plane yelled a string of Spanish curses and pulled at the anchor bolt.

“Cut that out!” McNab yelled over his shoulder as he slapped his left knee. He muttered to himself, “Dead foot, dead engine,” following the standard procedure to identify correctly the engine that had failed. He pulled back the throttle on the left engine cautiously, to make sure he was cutting the power on the correct one. Then he shut down the engine and feathered the propeller. He looked out the window and saw oil stream out of the engine to form a trail behind. The prisoner yanked at the chain, moving from side to side. The plane rocked. “Herman, stop him! He’ll unbalance the plane!”

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck…” The deputy didn’t move, but whispered the obscenity over and over. McNab leaned back and punched the prisoner with a right backhand. Blood spurted from the prisoner’s nose and he screamed again. He stopped trying to dislodge his shackles and reached up to hold his bleeding nose all the time swearing in Spanish. The pilot quickly returned to the controls to stabilize the plane.

Suddenly the prisoner lunged forward and kicked at McNab’s seat back, screaming epithets in Spanish, then English. “Cavron! You are dead! Hijo de la puta! I kill you fuckin’ ass!” He rolled from side to side, McNab threw the wheel from side to side trying to keep the plane level.

“Herman! Stop him!” McNab screamed over the rage of the prisoner.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” The deputy continued to repeat.

McNab reached over and slapped the deputy. “Herman! Help me!” The deputy shook his head and finally looked over at the pilot. “Stop him. Now!” Herman just looked at him.

“Shit!” McNab slapped on the controls for the autopilot, which was never meant for this situation. “Herman, if we start to go down, grab the wheel and hold it!” The pilot unbuckled his seat belt and turned to the raging prisoner.

“Dead man! You dead, man!” He kept flailing and yelling. McNab braced himself against the seat and waited for an opening as the plane rolled back and forth at ever increasing angles.

Suddenly the plane lurched and McNab was almost thrown backwards into the controls. “Herman! Grab the wheel!” The autopilot’s safety range had been exceeded and it had shut itself off. As McNab regained his balance the prisoner was losing his and the pilot saw his chance. He leaned forward and jabbed the smaller man twice in the face, stunning him, then followed with a precisely aimed blow at the solar plexus. The prisoner collapsed.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Herman was still chanting his mantra of fear. McNab wheeled around into his seat, almost kicking Herman in the head, and grabbed the wheel. Quickly he reduced power, leveled the wings, pulled the plane’s nose up to where blue sky was the predominant color.

“Thanks a lot, Herman.” McNab finished up the lost engine procedure. The plane was running smoothly on the one good engine. “You’d better give him a handkerchief or something.”

The deputy slowed his breathing and relaxed the death grip on his knees. He looked over sheepishly at the pilot. “Ah, sure, Grif.” The deputy felt in his shirt pockets, then lifted himself a little ways up out of the seat to feel his pants pockets. “Shit, Grif, I don’t have one.” He looked plaintively over at the pilot. McNab shook his head.

“Christ. Someone is going to pay to have that upholstery cleaned up, Herman. I can’t ferry around people with blood on the seats.” He leaned back and reached into the pocket behind the deputy’s seat and pulled out some gasoline and oil smeared rags. “Here.” He tossed them to prisoner. “Hold them against the side of your nose.”

The captive, now just recovering his breath, picked the rags up and held them to his bleeding nose. “You’re dead, man.”

McNab ignored him and looked out at the forested hills, heavily checkered where the logging operations of Mountain Lumber, Inc. went on tirelessly. “Christ. I was hoping for another couple of hundred hours out of that engine.” He looked over at the deputy. “You okay, Herman?”

Sweat was still beading on the slick, high forehead of the middle aged deputy. His eyes were large and his breathing shallow. He nodded in one quick jerk.