The sun faded sign over the door of the rusting Quonset hut read: Tropical Islands Transport Service. Then added presumptuously, The Best Independent Airline in the Pacific. The air carrier had sprung up in the Trust Territory of the Pacific to service the far-flung islands of Micronesia. Guam was its base. The operating capital was kept in the shirt pocket of Claude Wall who filled the positions of Station Manager and Chief Dispatcher. Claude was a balding, paunchy, old airline veteran wise in the ways of the air transport business.

The trip scheduled for today was ordinary enough. The captain, and chief pilot of the outfit, George Pepperdine, had been flying island routes ever since he got his seaplane rating at the end of WWII. He didn't like to wear sunglasses and it was said the years of exposure to a brilliant sun had faded his once blue eyes to pale gray, though in all likely-hood his eyes had always been gray. He squinted into the morning glare from under eyebrows bleached almost white.  The co-pilot,  Alex Bernstein, was a serious and intense man with a wry sense of humor. George and Alex were old friends.  It was on George's recommendation that Alex had been hired. 

"How goes it, captain?" Alex inquired looking over George's shoulder at the weather report.

"Piece of cake," George replied.

They walked out onto the ramp, turned and gave a thumbs-up to Claude, who flew every flight in spirit. He returned their salute from where he stood under the hand painted sign.

43 Fox sat low to the ramp. It was a solid looking Grumman Albatross, SA-16, an
amphibian equipped with retractable landing gear, one the company's meager fleet of three.   Two floats affixed to the under side of its short wingspan carried extra fuel giving it a good range. It looked more like a pregnant duck than a sleek albatross.   It was an aging aircraft at best, once used by the military for Air-Sea rescue.

As George and Alex approached the deep hulled, blue and white plane, they scanned the exterior with a practiced eye for tell-tale streaks, drips, or other indications of possible malfunction. The mechanics in baggy, grease stained coveralls stood in the shade of the wing with a fire-bottle, ready to stand fire guard.    

The morning sun looming up over the coconut palms that surrounded the airfield grew warmer by the minute; the starched and creased gray khaki uniforms of the pilots wilting with perspiration on the short walk across the tarmac apron.

"Let's get this hog into the air." George commanded. He handed Alex his flight bag and Alex entered the plane by the door near the tail which served crew, passengers and cargo.

George did a thorough pre-flight walk around feeling and jiggling components he could reach and eyeballing others. He took a minute to touch a pool of dark fluid on the ramp with his finger, then held it to his nose. Satisfied, he boarded. Alex was already seated.

Dwight Jones, the navigator, was at his station just behind the captain's and 1st. officer's seats setting up his charts and tuning in the LORAN. His cheerful "Morning Captain. You too Alex" brought a salute from George and nod from Alex. George tossed his cap with the gold, winged-world insignia, into an empty seat just outside the cockpit door.

The crews of Tropical Island Transport were all well liked, and at times, even revered. They transported not only paying passengers and contracted cargo, but delivered on request items unavailable on the remote, outer islands. Everything from truck tires to peanut butter, which they took time to shop for, were graciously hand carried to those who lived in these out of the way places. Sometimes their reward was nothing more than a thank you, but more often than not they were given rare shells, unique items of native crafts, or a home cooked meal as payment for their trouble.

"It'll be a quick one today." Alex mentioned. "We have a good 25 knot tail wind." 

"I like the sound of that," George responded settling into the left seat.

The passengers were boarded. Today there were eleven, only three short of a full load.

The take off was routine.  The gear and flaps retracted, climb power set, and engines in sync. Dwight Jones wrote the first heading on a piece of masking tape and stuck it on the panel between the pilots. "Truk is that-a-way." He pointed out the windshield.

Jokingly, George slapped the pointing finger, "Aw, what do you know. Sit down, shut up, and keep your feet off the seats."

They relaxed for the long flight. No other aircraft was in the area and there was no terrain to worry about. The pilots assumed what they called, "the Pacific Position," which was autopilot on and feet up on the panel. George worked a crossword puzzle, Alex thumbed a dog-eared issue of Readers Digest and Dwight continued plotting positions. They churned toward Truk at a comfortable 145 knots.

Two hundred miles out they reported at the ADIZ. There had been nothing more eventful than an occasional course correction to dodge a threatening thunderhead.  Most of the passengers were asleep, reading, or engaged in a game of poker.

Two loud backfires shattered the calm of the cockpit. The plane yawed left. George swiveled his head to see the prop of No.1 stopped dead and frozen in position. It should have been windmilling, but wasn't. He immediately knew he had a catastrophic internal failure of the engine.
"No. 1's failed," He shouted as he fought the yoke to straighten the plane against the pull of the automatic pilot. He quickly snapped it off.  "Number one throttle to idle!" He initiated the often-rehearsed drill of shutting down an engine. "Number one mixture, idle cut-off!" He continued, "Feather number one!"

Alex reacted swiftly, his hands reaching for appropriate switches and buttons without hesitation.
"Rudder boost . . . on! Number one generator and boost pump . . . off! No fire, disregard the bottle, give me the rest of the check list."

When the remaining items on the list were cleared, George ordered the maximum allowable power to the No. 2 engine. Alex complied. The airspeed indicator dropped to 95 knots, which made George very uncomfortable.

"Notify Guam we've lost an engine and are returning. Request a lower altitude."  Alex picked up the mike and in a steady voice informed Guam of their situation and position. 

George turned into the dead engine and started down. Dwight hurriedly worked the numbers twirling the hand held navigational plotter to figure fuel flow, winds and an ETA.

The cabin attendant, Manny Kaimi, poked his head through the cockpit door. "What the hell's happening? I got me a cabin full of scared passengers back here. Wha' shud I tell 'em?" Manny was a burly Hawaiian.  His dark complexion had drained to a pasty grey and his large fingers gripping the doorway, were white to the knuckle. His dark eyes were wide and darted from George to Alex and back again.

"We've had an engine failure. Tell them everything's under control, strap themselves in. We're headed back to Guam. How long, Dwight?"

The navigator referred to his figures. "2 hrs and 25 min, Captain."

"You heard 'em Manny, break it gently. And get them into their May-Wests."

Manny, tried to sound calm and reassuring but there was a tell-tale quiver in his voice when he informed the passengers of the situation. One or two gave a short scream. Most had flown back and forth between the islands almost daily, but this was their first emergency. He added hurriedly, "We have a good, experienced crew. Keep calm. We're gonna be okay. Now, let's get 'cha life vests on."

He passed down the isle and helped those whose trembling hands needed assistance. His own were not too steady. When everyone was wearing a bright orange vest he announced, "Shoes off, and secure your seat belts." In a few minutes the passenger cabin was ready. 

In the cockpit, Alex informed George, "We've been assigned four thousand."

"Roger that." George leveled out at the new altitude and prepared to make the one engine run for Guam.

"Captain, No. 2  is overheating." Alex called over the roar of the remaining engine.

George had trimmed the plane to compensate for the failed engine and was concentrating on maintaining air speed at the assigned altitude. At Alex's warning he took a quick glance at the gauges. The temperature of the good engine was nicking the edge of the red line. "Shit!" he barked. "Throttle back."

As soon as power was reduced the bulky plane began to lose altitude. George was in the impossible position of sacrificing altitude for air speed, and visa versa.

Alex called off the altimeter readings "Thirty five hundred! Three thousand! Twenty-nine hundred! Twenty-eight hundred!" The needle fell back in the green. George fought to maintain altitude at the reduced speed, to no avail.

"George, twenty-five hundred."

"I can see," George barked. "Give me full power."

The good engine roared and the decent ceased. All eyes in the cockpit watched as the temperature needle again began to creep toward the red line.

"That engine won't last at this setting. We sure as hell won't make the island if it blows." George said what was obvious to everyone in the cockpit. "Damn, I don't want to ditch in the open sea. Look at those white caps. There's a 20 foot swell running. We'll go ass over teakettle if we try to set down in that."

They were bucking a head wind as well as nursing a sick engine.

"And to think I was thrilled with that tail wind this morning," Alex remarked to no one in particular.
"Pull it back, Alex, and inform Guam to clear all altitudes below us. We're screwed. We'll keep it as high as we can for as long as we can, but we’re headed down." He paused, shrugged to relieve the tension in his shoulders and flexed his fingers on the yoke. "We're really gonna earn our wages on this trip, boys."

As he spoke the power setting was lowered and the plane again sank into a gradual decent.

This was not the honeymoon trip Angie had envisioned.  The view from the small square window of the amphibian plane was definitely not the one she wanted to see. The endless expanse of deep blue, dimpled ocean loomed closer each time she looked.

Perhaps it was all a bad dream. That was it. She had fallen asleep in the drone of the big, Wright 1820 engines and was dreaming. If I try I can wake up, she thought. But no matter how hard she concentrated on forcing her eyes to open, the fact remained that she was already awake. My God, she thought, it's really happening.

Blinking back tears she squeezed the hand of John Foster, her new husband.  He had his arm around her shoulders in a tight, protective grip. They looked at each other. Neither spoke.
What could they say that had not already been said when they took their wedding vows not 24 hours ago.

John was an island official. This honeymoon trip was to introduce his new bride to this tropical paradise, showing it in its best light, a romantic notion. He wanted her to love it as he did; after all, they would have to live out here for many years. Now, it seemed that they may not even live through the next hour.   

Captain Pepperdine had to do something about their inability to maintain altitude. 

"Dwight, get in the back. You and Manny throw out anything that's loose. If it ain't loose, break it loose. We have to lighten this bird."

Dwight lost no time. He ran to the back of the plane and opened the door. He and Manny began throwing out luggage while the passengers watched, terrified.

To reach an auxiliary power unit stowed in the tail, Dwight dragged the 14-man life raft, packed in a duffel bag, out into the aisle. The power unit was hacked apart with the fire axe and piece at a time, jettisoned. Cargo, flight lunches and tools, all went out. The mail sacks broke open when they hit the air stream and letters fluttered down like falling snow.

Dwight heard the power come up on the right engine and held his breath. Would it function on full power long enough? After a few minutes it was pulled back again, and he felt the crippled aircraft resume its gradual decent toward the rough sea.

Suitcases, cargo, even blankets and pillows, streamed from the open door of the SA 16 as they hurriedly jettisoned everything that was loose in an effort to lighten the aircraft. Angie
watched her large, white suitcase free fall in slow motion, hit the ocean and burst, flinging her beautiful trousseau into the air, then it all sank below the uncaring waves. 

The passengers, eager to help, passed back items stowed under their seats. Gifts, shaving kits, shoes, books, someone grabbed the Captain's hat and it too went out. Manny was in a frenzy.  Without thinking he grabbed the duffel containing the life raft and had it, and a water bottle, through the door before Dwight could stop him. "Damn it, Manny!" Dwight delivered a sharp, open handed slap to the big Hawaiian's perspiring cheek. "What do we do if we have to set down?"

"Oh God, oh God. I'm sorry." Manny was losing it. He slid down the bulkhead and hid his face in his hands. Unexpectedly he leapt for the open door in an unreasoning attempt to retrieve the raft. Dwight pulled him back in the nick of time.

The last article out the door was the double locked canvas bag containing the pay roll for all of the Trust Territories.

"Here," Dwight handed Manny the fire axe. "Get rid of the empty seats. I'm going forward to see how things are going."   Manny, now more in control, gripped the axe and began chopping loose the unoccupied seats.

The cockpit was tense. Dwight resumed his navigator’s position and checked his figures. His heart stopped. He couldn't believe his eyes, he had to tell George right away.  "Captain, I hate to tell you. I screwed up. I made a mistake in our fuel flow."

"You what? Damn it, Dwight! By how much?"  

"Thirty minutes. In the excitement I forgot to factor in the damn increased fuel consumption." All eyes went to the fuel gauges.

The altimeter, engine temperature and air speed told the rest of the story. The right engine, at METO power, was consuming fuel at the rate of 145 gallons per hour, but was delivering only 90 knots. That was almost twice the consumption of two good engines operating at normal cruise power, but only half the speed. The altimeter now read, eight hundred feet. The white hands continued to crawl counterclockwise past the numerals on the black face. They were still 90 minutes out.

Claude Wall had experienced many emergency situations through the years, but this one was unique. He'd helped organize this little airline and all the flight personnel and the ground crews were like his children. He was gruff, but fair. No one snowed old "Clawed balls" with phony sick calls, or mysteriously lost tools or supplies. He knew the shortcomings of the equipment, and he knew the professionalism of his crews. If the plane would hang together, George, Alex and Dwight would bring it home. He hovered over the radio, waiting for contact. The small office began to fill up with mechanics and baggage handlers who had gotten wind of the situation.

"Tropical ops, Tropical ops, this is 43 Fox, over." The radio crackled with static, but the transmission was readable.

"Praise the Lord," Claude murmured. He keyed the mike, "43 Fox this is Tropical ops, go ahead. How's it look?"

"Not too good, Claude."

It was Alex's voice, controlled but worried. "We still can't maintain altitude. The right engine keeps overheating. We're gonna blow a jug if we keep it at METO power."

Claude glanced over at the lead mechanic who shrugged and nodded, "Could happen," the mechanic said.

"What's your altitude now?" Claude inquired.

There was a long, ominous silence. Finally, it was George who spoke, "We're down to 75 feet, Claude. There's so much sea-spray on the windshield I can hardly see, but with any luck we'll make it." Claude clapped his hand to his forehead and ran it down his face pulling his cheeks taut. "My God man, you're too low for the runway at Agaña."

"No shit, Dick Tracy," was the sarcastic reply. The elevation of the field was 297 feet.

"You've got to pull it up, George!"

"I'd love to, Claude." The strain was evident in George's voice. "We're gonna try to go around the south end of the island and put it down in Apra Harbor." There was another static filled pause. "We're sucking fumes for fuel. Keep your fingers crossed, Claude."

The Operations shack emptied in short order as every one ran for a vehicle to get to Apra Harbor, 6 miles away. This was one landing they didn't want to miss.

"I'll have the Coasties out to meet you." Claude continued trying to impart confidence.  "If it all turns to worms, they'll be right there to pull you out."

"Thanks Claude, see you in a few."      

The radio went silent. Then Claude heard it in the distance, the labored growl of the overworked, Wright 1820 dragging the reluctant plane past the narrow waist of the island toward the harbor. Claude shook his fist in the direction of the noise. "Stay together you son-of-a-bitch," and he ran for his car.

"Flaps 15 . . . check mixture, rich."   George started the landing procedure. "Rudder boost . . . on." His commands were habitual; there was comfort in the familiar.

George and Alex looked out their side windows to confirm that the landing gear was in the up position. Then, a quick check of the nose wheel. One careless mistake would ruin their whole day. George held the 90 knots, gripped the yoke, and started the short glide to the water.
Alex called out the rate of decent and monitored the airspeed. The keel kissed the short chop of the harbor then settled into the water like a mother hen on her chicks. George immediately pulled the power back and shut down the engine. They drifted like a boat on a lake on a Sunday afternoon in the park. The silence was deafening. Cries of relief and joy erupted from the passenger cabin with a smattering of applause. Manny came into the cockpit, kissed George on the cheek and beat Alex on the back. Dwight, in the navigators seat was easier to reach and so received the full strength of the big Hawaiian's powerful embrace.

"Last stop, all out," George said. Then added in a voice that betrayed his fatigue, "I've had enough of this hog for one day." When he stepped through the cockpit door into the passenger cabin he realized his hat had been jettisoned. It brought a smile to his lips.

The Coastguard whaleboat pulled up to the door and sailors assisted the trembling and shaken passengers from the plane. Angie and John Foster still clung to each other, refusing to let go even to disembark. The others, a few college students, Trust Territory Officials, and some local natives, sang the praises of the crew to each other, and anyone else who would listen.

"Great landing . . . Thank God for a hell of a crew . . . They brought us back . . . Fantastic flying job." The adulation continued, heartfelt.

Captain George Pepperdine, First Officer Alex Bernstein, Navigator Dwight Jones and Cabin Attendant Manny Kaimi, were the last to leave the plane. The adrenaline rush that had sustained them through the ordeal was gone and now they were emotionally drained, weary, and tired to the bone. They glanced at each other in silent camaraderie, exchanging "at-a-boy" smacks on the seat of the pants.  They were glad it was over.