Rooftops.
And one big, flat, perfect green rectangle, lit up like daylight. The only open ground for three miles.
The high school football field.
“Seven Romeo Alpha, you have an open field at your one o’clock, two miles. The stadium.”
A long pause.
“Millbrook… there’s a game on.”
I looked again. She was right. The stands were full. Friday night. Two thousand people. Kids on the field.
“Seven Romeo Alpha, understood. Say intentions.”
Another pause. I could hear her breathing.
Then she said the words that made Carol’s hand tighten on my shoulder so hard it left a mark.
“Millbrook, Seven Romeo Alpha. I’m turning left. I’m going for the reservoir.”
Clearwater Reservoir. East of town. Away from the houses. Away from the road. Away from the stadium.
And away from any realistic chance of a good landing. A small plane hitting water at that speed usually flips. The water in October is cold enough to stop your breath.
She knew that. Every student pilot knows that.
“Seven Romeo Alpha, roger, reservoir. Emergency services are rolling.”
“Thank you. Doors unlatched. Belt’s tight. Master off at touchdown.”
She was doing the checklist. Out loud. The ditching checklist her instructor drilled into her, word for word.
Then, about forty seconds from the water, she keyed the mic one more time.
“Millbrook… if this doesn’t go right. Tell my dad I did the checklist. Tell him I did everything right.”
“Seven Romeo Alpha, you tell him yourself. Fly the airplane.”
“Flying the airplane.”
That was the last thing she said.
Then nothing.
Three minutes and forty seconds of nothing.
I called her eleven times. Carol had the fire chief on one line and the sheriff on the other. Nobody in that tower said a word that wasn’t on frequency.
At 6:49, the phone from county dispatch rang.
