Stranded
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Alice Sharpe
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16.4K
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14
Prologue
February
To Alex Foster, the flight between Blunt Falls, Montana, and Shatterhorn, Nevada, felt ill-fated from the get-go. The unexpected deteriorating weather was just the latest obstacle, but at least it was one that could be managed by some decent flying skills and a deviation from his flight plan.
He yawned and rubbed his eyes, fighting a growing fatigue he couldn’t afford. Unscrewing the cap on a new bottle of the vitamin-enhanced water he carried when he piloted his plane, he took a long swallow. The numbers on the charts swam before his eyes and he blinked, performed a few fuzzy calculations and changed radio frequencies to the Bozeman, Montana beacon. He banked the plane toward the east, hoping to avoid the worst of the system and arrive just a little late.
No big deal. Nate would explain the facts of life when it came to flying to their friend Mike. And Mike’s issues would be there in two hours or two days—they weren’t going away anytime soon. The poor guy had been devastated by the incident all three men shared last Labor Day when a lone teenage gunman had shot and killed four kids in a random attack at a Nevada shopping mall. Since then, Mike had been gathering data he believed hinted at a conspiracy. This meeting would let them review what Mike had learned and maybe, hopefully, help him get past some of his wild ideas.
A glimpse out the Cessna window revealed nothing but icy-white sky that seemed to swirl in his head. He climbed higher, hoping to find less turbulent air. He was kind of glad Jessica hadn’t come along. She’d claimed she was fighting a virus and he’d accused her of making it up so she wouldn’t have to be with him. Maybe some time apart would help, he didn’t know. However, now, with his vision blurring and his stomach turning, he considered he might owe her an apology.
He yawned again and took another swallow of the drink as he tried to quench his thirst.
After thirty more minutes, the break in the weather he’d anticipated still hadn’t materialized. His eyes drifted shut and he opened them quickly, making himself sit up straighter. As he did periodically, he glanced at the control panel. It took him a second to actually register what he saw.
The oil-pressure indicator showed a rapid decline toward the red zone. He stared at the gauge with disbelief, then tapped the glass. At that moment he became aware of a burning odor and peered out the window where he found oil flying over the coaming. Liquid drops hit the windshield and crawled away, leaving portentous snail-like tracks on the glass.
A quick check of the gauge showed pressure still falling. He flipped the radio frequencies again, but the unit was now silent. He tore off the headphones as flames flared from the engine compartment. Almost simultaneously, he pulled the handle to turn off the fuel tanks and yanked on the fire extinguisher lever. Smoke billowed from under the cowling, but dissipated at once.
And then the engine seized.
The fire was out but the plane was dead.
Disaster was imminent. He was off his flight plan, somewhere over the Bitterroot Mountains in the middle of the Rockies. He had an EPIRB aboard and knew the emergency beacon would signal once activated by a crash, but unlike the newer models that communicated with satellites, his older unit required a search plane to fly directly overhead. Would anyone look for him this far afield from his expected route?
The plane began losing altitude. He spiraled down through the clouds, into the storm. Visibility cleared for a few seconds and he saw a large snow-covered meadow to the north. He quickly corrected his course to aim for that, going into a glide, pushing the yoke ahead to avoid a stall.
Seconds seemed to drag and then everything sped up as the ground once again appeared closer than ever. The plane skimmed over the snowy treetops ringing the meadow and shuddered as it made its first bounce. That was immediately followed by the scream of twisted metal as the landing-gear struts tore from their housings. The wounded plane skimmed along the snow on its belly, racing into the middle of the meadow, snow flying at the windshield.
At last the Cessna came to an abrupt and sudden stop. Alex flew forward into the instrument panel. His chest impacted with the yoke, his left leg caught and twisted in the mangled metal below. The outside of the cabin was covered with snow. He wiped something from his eyes—blood—then immediately struggled with the door, pushing against the buildup, knowing he had to get it open before it froze shut. He almost choked on relief as weak daylight flooded the cabin.
A strange cracking noise drove ice picks through his nervous system. The noise came again and he recognized it for what it was. With horror, he looked down to find water rising over his shoes. As quick as he’d ever done anything in his life, he grabbed his backpack and the medical kit and threw both through the open door. He undid his seat belt, took a steadying breath and screamed with pain as he ruthlessly extricated his leg. There was blood everywhere but he’d have lots of time to worry about that later. If there was a later...
Clenching his teeth, he used his upper-body strength to pull himself through the open door.
This was no meadow; this was a lake covered with ice and the plane, heavy with unspent fuel, had broken through. He scrambled out the door and landed on his gear. The fall sent a stab of unbearable agony racing from his heel to his groin, and he had to struggle to keep from passing out. Priority one: keep himself and his gear from going into the water. Get away, get away, as fast as possible, beat the cracks spreading out around him. His hands were clumsy as he tied things together and then he dragged himself away from the wreck, using his elbows for traction, trailing his gear from his belt, the fissures continuing to open up all around him.
