Thorpe's Candle

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“We got trouble.”

The words jarred Henry Bristol from his sleep. He looked up at the weathered face of the pilot. “What?”

“I said we got trouble.” Chewing on a cigar, the pilot leaned over the makeshift seat in the back of the cargo bay where Bristol sat. “See that engine out there?”

Bristol glared out the window of the old DC-4. A black patch of oil streaked across the wing like a bloody wound.

“Pressure's dropping like a brick and we got a blizzard down there. Got to turn around.”

“No!” Bristol's eyes widened. He was suddenly wide awake. “I already paid you. You assured me this plane could make it with no problem. I can't go back! Don't you understand?” His voice rose in pitch almost to the point of cracking.

“I think you're the one that don't understand. We can't make it on three engines with a payload this heavy. Got to turn around and find a place to put her down for repairs. Our best bet's Godthab, Greenland. Get the oil leak fixed — day or two at the most.”

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