Two pairs of hands sought urgently to pull the nose up again. Winds screamed through the antennas, propellers groaned and there was a grinding jolt as the plane hit a lower cloud bank before leveling off again.

The captain worked the controls, straining to compensate for the swirling winds. He eyed the gauges, especially the altimeter. On his next trip he’d walk into the Cape Verde weather room and tell that forecaster exactly what he thought of him! But now all he could do was to ride out this storm.

The copilot worked as hard as the captain. He advanced the throttles, keeping all four engines equal in power. “Fans, keep turning,” he pleaded, “keep turning!” They were burning over two hundred gallons of gasoline an hour. He looked at the gyrocompass, its spinning needle turning in every direction but toward their initial course. He took a second more to check the time on the black-faced panel clock. How much gas was left? And where were they anyway? It was their navigator’s job to know, but the copilot was too busy to turn to him now and ask. As close as he could figure it they had fuel for about two more hours.

Suddenly the hail and lightning came on again, beating and burning the aluminum skin.

The captain’s legs were numb from working the worn rubber pedals; his eyes were bloodshot from the constant strain of watching the white dancing needles on the panel; his insides groaned from the beating they were taking on this crazy, bouncing deck; and his arms felt like pieces of lead. But at least the plane was still in the air.

He pushed the nose down as engines screamed and rain whipped the windshield in a thunderous splattering of pellets. Since there was no top to this boiling mess, he’d try below again. His eyes, slits now, remained on the instruments as he ordered his copilot, “Try to raise someone again. If we don’t get help soon, we’ll be going for a swim.”

The copilot shook his head sadly. “No night for swimming,” he answered with attempted humor. The radio wires were already overheated from use and their acrid odor filled the deck, more overpowering even than the smell of high-octane gas, hydraulic oil, metal, leather and the sweat of the crew’s bodies.

The copilot pressed the receivers against his ears and reached for the microphone. Twisting the dials angrily, he channeled the transmitter to route frequency, all the while knowing it would do no good. The storm static bit into his earphones. He pressed his microphone and began calling:

“MAY DAY, MAY DAY, MAY DAY. This is Aircraft BAT 29167, Aircraft BAT 29167, Aircraft BAT 29167. We’ve run out of communications and are being swept by hurricane winds. Exact position unknown. Last position taken at 2200 was 11–14 north, 45–10 west. MAY DAY, MAY DAY, MAY DAY. Come in if you hear us. MAY DAY, MAY DAY, MAY DAY …”

There was nothing in his earphones but static. Finally he twisted in his seat and shot a question at the navigator, who was sitting directly behind the captain. “You got any better idea where we are?”

The navigator met the copilot’s eyes. “As close as I can figure it we’re going nowhere fast—just around and around.”

“Funny,” the copilot said bitterly, turning back to his radio and cutting off the switch.

No, not funny at all, the navigator thought. And I didn’t mean it to be, either.