Scott Free by John Gilstrap

ex-president’s kid,” James added. “When he crashed, they dispatched the whole friggin’ Navy.”
    Barry rolled his eyes. Why was everyone on edge tonight? “And the two incidents are exactly alike,” he scoffed. “Except for those little details like (a) it was a president’s kid, and (b) it was over water in stable weather.”
    â€œTypical of those assholes in Washington,” James said, but Barry cut him off.
    â€œJames, that’s it. You’ve got your speech-making face on, and I’m too tired.”
    â€œI got a question,” Jesse said, “speaking of Washington assholes. How much crap do I gotta take from that Secret Service prick, Sanders? I don’t say hello to that guy without he starts giving me directions.”
    Barry smiled wearily. “Take the crap he gives you, multiply it times five and welcome to my world.”
    â€œWho gives him the authority?”
    â€œHe’s the head of the president’s security detail, Jesse. As long as the First Skier is in our backyard, I guess Sanders gets to call his own shots.”
    â€œI don’t like him,” Jesse said.
    James laughed. “Well, I think you ought to write a letter.”
    Charlotte turned to the chief. “Did we ever make a decision about search and rescue?”
    â€œI think we decided to wait,” Barry said. “For tonight, those two kids—if they’re still alive—are just going to have to make do. Like I said, prayers and good thoughts are always welcome.”
    Â 
    B Y TWO IN THE MORNING , Scott was all but spent. Working in the dark to conserve battery power, the effort to build his shelter had left him exhausted. For nearly four hours, he’d been using a hand-size piece of wreckage as his shovel, trying to dig a hole big enough to shelter him from the biting wind and deadly temperature, but it wasn’t going well. The wind kept undoing everything he did. His shoulders ached and he felt dizzy from the exertion. He had a hard time catching his breath.
    He tried to grunt his way through it, the way he’d grunted his way through countless soccer games when he thought that his body had nothing left to give, but this time was different. No matter how aggressively he gulped at the air, it seemed that his lungs couldn’t get enough, and the effort of it all left him feeling progressively worse; sick to his stomach with a pounding headache.
    But there was no stopping. Not in this game. To stop was to die. His efforts had produced a hole in the snow. Two holes, really; one straight down about two feet, and then another that extended off of that one three feet horizontally. Maybe he should call it a tunnel—the shortest tunnel ever built, leading to nowhere. And because he’d deposited the excavated snow back up on the surface, creating a little dome, he’d been able to carve out enough height to make the space maybe three feet high on the inside. He’d covered the floor with spruce boughs he’d dragged over from the ground surrounding the wrecked airplane.
    He was sweating like a pig. He should have taken off his coat, or maybe his sweater or turtleneck to keep from soaking them, but now he worried that it was too late. If he exposed the wet fabric to the elements now it would freeze for sure, and then he’d be in a world of hurt. Tomorrow, maybe the sun would come out and he could dry his stuff. Meanwhile, he had to hope that the extra $300 he’d paid for his high-tech parka would pay off and the material would wick away the perspiration as advertised.
    Numb, and barely able to stand, he dug the flashlight out of his coat pocket and dared a quick look at his handiwork. The shelter had a lot wrong with it. It looked nothing like the well-engineered example that Sven had built, or even like the one he’d constructed with his dad’s assistance. The flat ceiling was bound to drip water on him, and the flat