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I turned to the passengers. “All right, everybody. Let’s go over the landing procedure. The ground crew will be there to meet us, but we’ll have to anticipate a hard landing.”
“How hard?” they asked, alarmed.
“Hard. But we’ll be safe inside the basket. It’s likely to drag over the ground for a while, and that could be bumpy, so I’ll need everyone to crouch down inside until I give the okay. Not the time for pictures, folks. It’s a serious situation, but everything will be fine.”
I made sure my voice communicated calm and certainty. Madden, on the other hand…
“Shit!” he cursed, giving the balloon a burst of hot air.
I whirled. What the hell was he doing?
“Fence,” he grumbled.
“Power lines,” I hissed, pointing.
Madden started dumping air again. “We have plenty of space before them.”
My jaw dropped, and ugly statistics ran through my mind. Balloon accidents were rare, but when they happened, they often involved power lines. The balloon could get tangled, or the power lines could ignite an onboard fire — every pilot’s nightmare.
“After the power lines. We have to landafterthe power lines,” I barked. “Otherwise, we risk the wind pushing us into them.”
“There’s no road to land on back there,” he countered. “We’ll damage the basket.”
We would damage a lot more than the basket if we hit the power lines — a fact I made clear with the evil eye and a very quiet, “Too risky.”
Madden pointed to the storm, which was almost on top of us. “We need to land before that hits.” Then he turned, jutting an elbow to keep me away from the burner. “All right, everyone. The minute we land, bail out and move clear of the basket.”
I fumed — and fretted, because he was risking all our lives. But short of tackling him and taking over the controls, there was nothing I could do except make sure everyone was prepared.
My only consolation was the van racing toward our position, kicking up a plume of dust. I trusted Nash, Chico, and even John more than I trusted Madden — and we would need their manpower to land the balloon upright. They sped ahead, jumped out of the vehicle, and fanned out.
Nash made an urgent, no-go motion, telling Madden not to risk it.
For once, I wouldn’t have minded Madden listening to Nash rather than me. Unfortunately, he didn’t and continued the risky maneuver.
To his credit, Madden did get the balloon on a low, steady line two or three yards off the ground. But we were sweeping along so fast, it would be hard to land without tipping and ejecting the passengers.
“Shit,” one of the guests muttered, ducking into the shelter of the basket.
The rest followed suit. Finally, they’d grasped the severity of the situation.
“I told you we should have brought Lola,” one of them muttered.
Yeah, a blow-up doll would make a handy cushion for a crash landing. But I would rather die than stoop that low.
“Now, Madden. Now!” I yelled.
Still, we swept onward. Nash, Chico, and John converged on us, but we were still too high.
“Madden!” I yelled. “Dump air!”
“Hurry!” Nash roared.
But Madden was frozen, staring at the power lines, his face twisted in panic.
“Dammit…” I reached over and pulled the valve, dumping hot air. “Everyone, get down. Brace yourselves!”
Everyone did — including Madden, who ducked down, leaving me to handle things alone.
