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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: General Interest
- Published: 07/29/2025
M21-Take The Wheel
Born 1950, U, from Arlington, TX, United States.png)
‘Corpus Christi Ground, this is November One Seven Niner Juliette Kilo. We are ready for VFR to Ft Worth. ‘
‘November One Seven Niner standby.’
‘November One Seven Niner, Corpus Christi Ground, taxi to Runway 18 via taxi-way ALPHA, hold short. You will be number three for departure.’
After these radio transmissions, Samuel Stone advanced the throttle of his Cessna 172 Skyhawk and released the brakes to comply with the ground controller’s directions. A veteran of hundreds of hours in the sturdy little plane, he was well aware of the takeoff and landing procedures at major airports, as well as the more relaxed rules governing smaller airports like Hicks Airfield near Ft Worth where his hanger/home was located.
He was directed by Ground Control to switch frequencies to CPR Tower when he was lined up in the queue to takeoff.
‘CPR Tower this is November One Seven Niner Juliette Kilo holding short Runway 18 ready for departure.’
‘Roger November One Seven Niner. You are number three in line. Standby.’
When directed by the Tower, Samuel turned onto the runway, set his brakes, increased power to the engine and then released the brakes. His little plane started forward slowly at first but quickly picked up speed until it felt very light and eased off the ground. Just at that moment, the engine missed a beat but then returned to normal revolutions.
Samuel instinctively reached out for a knob and adjusted the engine fuel mixture. He nodded unconsciously as he heard the smooth drone of the engine. The plane continued to climb steadily.
*. *. *
Samuel was kept busy managing his heading, altitude and airspeed, to avoid busy air spaces on his way north towards Ft Worth. It was necessary to shirt the busy traffic areas around Austin and San Antonio, and also to be careful when near one of the numerous smaller fields.
Everything was going as planned for the first hour, then the engine decided to cough, and several pistons started failing to fire properly. Once more a tweak of the fuel mixture seemed to solve the problem.
He smiled as the XM radio began to play “Jesus Take The Wheel” by Carrie Underwood. At least things were not that bad yet, he thought to himself.
“I’m going to have to get you tuned up when we get home,” he said to the plane as he patted the console.
*. *. *
As he approached Ft Worth from the southwest, he plotted his course to avoid the Joint Reserve Air Base and the commercial Meacham Field, planning to land at Hick’s Field north of town where his home and hanger were located. He looked out the side window at the calm water of Lake Benbrook, thinking that landing would be easy with the winds low.
Unfortunately, his good feelings did not last long. The engine began to sputter and miss firing again. This time the problem did not respond to changing the mixture. In fact, the plane began to shake and did not seem to have the lift it usually had.
Samuel quickly decided that he should not try to make it to his planned destination. He could see that he was approaching the runway at the JRB just ahead and decided to put down there.
There was no sign of the turmoil that he felt inside in the measured, controlled voice with which he spoke over the radio. Pilots have a knack for sounding almost bored over the radio no matter the situation.
“JRB Tower, November One Seven Niner Juliette Kilo. I am approaching from the south and am experiencing engine malfunction. Request immediate vectoring to land.”
“November One Seven Niner, I have you on my radar. You are lined up on runway 18 and are cleared to land.”
“Copy JRB Tower, November One Seven Niner clear to land on runway 18. I have runway in sight.”
Samuel could not get the engine to return to normal. He quickly scanned his surroundings in case he had to ditch the plane short of the airbase. There was a lake and plenty of open area north of the base but the south side where he was coming in was a busy commercial area.
*. *. *
Looking down, Samuel saw Alta Mere Dr. a four-lane state road directly under him, pointing the way to the runway just ahead. At that moment the engine gave one last cough and ceased running.
The propeller stopped spinning, resting straight up and down. The upper blade pointing directly at the runway ahead as if mocking the pilot. Samuel knew that he was not going to make it to the base now. He was too low and his airspeed too slow.
Desperately he scanned the ground again. He knew that he would be down in moments, but his focus now was on avoiding hurting anyone down there. The road below him looked attractive but several cars were cruising along unaware of the plane above them. It would have to be a rough landing in the small opening on the right behind the businesses lining the road. Fewer injuries, not counting himself.
The wheel was becoming unresponsive. The plane made the decision for him when a downdraft made the little Cessna plunge lower. It would be the road. He was horrified at the prospect of trying to thread the needle between the unsuspecting automobiles, but he had no hope of clearing the buildings now.
The words of Carrie Underwood’s song flashed back into his mind, and he found himself repeating the main line.
“Jesus, take the wheel please,” he said not letting go entirely, but still trying his best.
“I’m afraid that El Cristo is otherwise engaged at the moment. Perhaps, I can be of assistance,” a voice said from just beside Samuel. He looked around wildly believing that he must be hallucinating. He could see no one.
He felt pressure on his hands as if he was being guided. With widening eyes, he watched a slightly glowing form beginning to take shape, leaning in from his side, hands holding his to the wheel.
“Who, what is happening?” Samuel blurted out.
“Sorry for the surprise. Give me a moment.” The now fully visible man obviously of Spanish heritage said.
The plane bumped onto the road surface.
“Brakes!” The stranger shouted.
Samuel complied, pressing down hard. A car swerved just missing the left wing. The tires seized up and made the plane skip and shutter, skewing slight to the left, as it slowed amid the screech of rubber being left on the pavement from the plane and cars.
Then everything got eerily quiet when the plane stopped just short of a red light.
“No time for long explanations,” the stranger said. “I am Messenger Antonio de la Varga, but sadly I cannot stay to tell you more.”
After that brief statement, the stranger flashed brightly for a brief moment and then was just not there, leaving Samuel to wonder if he ever had been.
The radio crackled to life, and he heard the voice of JRB Tower, “November One Seven Niner! Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m here,“ he said, forgetting all radio protocols. “I’m down on the road. I don’t think anyone was hurt,”
The police arrived in a few moments, all flashing lights and wailing sirens, and sorted everything out, or so they believed.
The firemen who responded to the reported crash of the small plane said that it was a miracle that he had not hit any of the wires or poles along the street. Samuel never told the story of what he had experienced, thinking that he would never be believed.
‘November One Seven Niner standby.’
‘November One Seven Niner, Corpus Christi Ground, taxi to Runway 18 via taxi-way ALPHA, hold short. You will be number three for departure.’
After these radio transmissions, Samuel Stone advanced the throttle of his Cessna 172 Skyhawk and released the brakes to comply with the ground controller’s directions. A veteran of hundreds of hours in the sturdy little plane, he was well aware of the takeoff and landing procedures at major airports, as well as the more relaxed rules governing smaller airports like Hicks Airfield near Ft Worth where his hanger/home was located.
He was directed by Ground Control to switch frequencies to CPR Tower when he was lined up in the queue to takeoff.
‘CPR Tower this is November One Seven Niner Juliette Kilo holding short Runway 18 ready for departure.’
‘Roger November One Seven Niner. You are number three in line. Standby.’
When directed by the Tower, Samuel turned onto the runway, set his brakes, increased power to the engine and then released the brakes. His little plane started forward slowly at first but quickly picked up speed until it felt very light and eased off the ground. Just at that moment, the engine missed a beat but then returned to normal revolutions.
Samuel instinctively reached out for a knob and adjusted the engine fuel mixture. He nodded unconsciously as he heard the smooth drone of the engine. The plane continued to climb steadily.
*. *. *
Samuel was kept busy managing his heading, altitude and airspeed, to avoid busy air spaces on his way north towards Ft Worth. It was necessary to shirt the busy traffic areas around Austin and San Antonio, and also to be careful when near one of the numerous smaller fields.
Everything was going as planned for the first hour, then the engine decided to cough, and several pistons started failing to fire properly. Once more a tweak of the fuel mixture seemed to solve the problem.
He smiled as the XM radio began to play “Jesus Take The Wheel” by Carrie Underwood. At least things were not that bad yet, he thought to himself.
“I’m going to have to get you tuned up when we get home,” he said to the plane as he patted the console.
*. *. *
As he approached Ft Worth from the southwest, he plotted his course to avoid the Joint Reserve Air Base and the commercial Meacham Field, planning to land at Hick’s Field north of town where his home and hanger were located. He looked out the side window at the calm water of Lake Benbrook, thinking that landing would be easy with the winds low.
Unfortunately, his good feelings did not last long. The engine began to sputter and miss firing again. This time the problem did not respond to changing the mixture. In fact, the plane began to shake and did not seem to have the lift it usually had.
Samuel quickly decided that he should not try to make it to his planned destination. He could see that he was approaching the runway at the JRB just ahead and decided to put down there.
There was no sign of the turmoil that he felt inside in the measured, controlled voice with which he spoke over the radio. Pilots have a knack for sounding almost bored over the radio no matter the situation.
“JRB Tower, November One Seven Niner Juliette Kilo. I am approaching from the south and am experiencing engine malfunction. Request immediate vectoring to land.”
“November One Seven Niner, I have you on my radar. You are lined up on runway 18 and are cleared to land.”
“Copy JRB Tower, November One Seven Niner clear to land on runway 18. I have runway in sight.”
Samuel could not get the engine to return to normal. He quickly scanned his surroundings in case he had to ditch the plane short of the airbase. There was a lake and plenty of open area north of the base but the south side where he was coming in was a busy commercial area.
*. *. *
Looking down, Samuel saw Alta Mere Dr. a four-lane state road directly under him, pointing the way to the runway just ahead. At that moment the engine gave one last cough and ceased running.
The propeller stopped spinning, resting straight up and down. The upper blade pointing directly at the runway ahead as if mocking the pilot. Samuel knew that he was not going to make it to the base now. He was too low and his airspeed too slow.
Desperately he scanned the ground again. He knew that he would be down in moments, but his focus now was on avoiding hurting anyone down there. The road below him looked attractive but several cars were cruising along unaware of the plane above them. It would have to be a rough landing in the small opening on the right behind the businesses lining the road. Fewer injuries, not counting himself.
The wheel was becoming unresponsive. The plane made the decision for him when a downdraft made the little Cessna plunge lower. It would be the road. He was horrified at the prospect of trying to thread the needle between the unsuspecting automobiles, but he had no hope of clearing the buildings now.
The words of Carrie Underwood’s song flashed back into his mind, and he found himself repeating the main line.
“Jesus, take the wheel please,” he said not letting go entirely, but still trying his best.
“I’m afraid that El Cristo is otherwise engaged at the moment. Perhaps, I can be of assistance,” a voice said from just beside Samuel. He looked around wildly believing that he must be hallucinating. He could see no one.
He felt pressure on his hands as if he was being guided. With widening eyes, he watched a slightly glowing form beginning to take shape, leaning in from his side, hands holding his to the wheel.
“Who, what is happening?” Samuel blurted out.
“Sorry for the surprise. Give me a moment.” The now fully visible man obviously of Spanish heritage said.
The plane bumped onto the road surface.
“Brakes!” The stranger shouted.
Samuel complied, pressing down hard. A car swerved just missing the left wing. The tires seized up and made the plane skip and shutter, skewing slight to the left, as it slowed amid the screech of rubber being left on the pavement from the plane and cars.
Then everything got eerily quiet when the plane stopped just short of a red light.
“No time for long explanations,” the stranger said. “I am Messenger Antonio de la Varga, but sadly I cannot stay to tell you more.”
After that brief statement, the stranger flashed brightly for a brief moment and then was just not there, leaving Samuel to wonder if he ever had been.
The radio crackled to life, and he heard the voice of JRB Tower, “November One Seven Niner! Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m here,“ he said, forgetting all radio protocols. “I’m down on the road. I don’t think anyone was hurt,”
The police arrived in a few moments, all flashing lights and wailing sirens, and sorted everything out, or so they believed.
The firemen who responded to the reported crash of the small plane said that it was a miracle that he had not hit any of the wires or poles along the street. Samuel never told the story of what he had experienced, thinking that he would never be believed.
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