seat harness.
"You better hurry," Jake said.
Donny took off his headset, and headed unsteadily back toward the cargo hold.
Jake grabbed the radio mike. "Fairbanks Tower, this is Whiskey 403, do you read me, over?"
The radio coughed with ragged static.
"Fairbanks Tower do you read me, over?"
* * *
Adashek and Katukan had stopped their conversation mid-stream the moment they heard the radio sputter. Jake's voice came through sporadic and faint. All they heard was "... 403..."
Dean Stanton leaned toward his microphone. "Whiskey 403, this is Fairbanks Tower, do you copy, over?"
The three men listened to the static. Then Stanton spoke again. "Whiskey 403, do you copy, over?"
A hiss of static, then, "... losing altitude..." More static, then: "... cargo..."
"Whiskey 403, please give us your coordinates, over."
Static.
"Whiskey 403, give us your coordinates, over."
Static.
Stanton glanced at the two men standing behind him. "Something wrong with his reception. He's not hearing us at all." He looked at the radar screen. A large pattern of green light spread itself along the top half of the glass. "They must be right in the middle of it."
Dr. Katukan exchanged an anxious look with Chief Adashek. Then he nodded toward the radar screen. "If they go down in that, what are their chances?"
"Depends," Stanton said. "If they find a straight run of river, or a lake, they might land all right."
"And if they don't?
"If they don't what?"
"If they don't find a river or a lake."
Stanton didn't answer. Katukan persisted. "Will they all be killed , Mr. Stanton?"
Stanton turned, looked at the doctor a moment. He decided he really didn't like the man.
"Yeah," he said. "They'll be killed."
17.
The lights had gone out in the cargo hold.
Donny felt his way blindly through the piles of baggage, stumbling toward the red emergency light that glowed faintly at the far end of the long compartment. He climbed up a mountain of plastic garbage bags stuffed with sharp-cornered boxes, and onto a pile of rickety wooden crates. The plane pitched suddenly and sent him crashing through a cardboard box filled with four-foot-long florescent light bulbs. He gingerly picked himself up, shook off the flakes of broken glass, and hurried on. He made his way back over the crates onto a broad, irregular surface of timbers. Scrambling over this, his foot slipped deeply through a gap, and for a moment, he was stuck.
"What the hell is this?" he grumbled, struggling to free his leg in the dark. His foot kicked something soft below. When he realized what it was, he froze.
"Oh... fuck," he whispered, his heart palpitating.
Slowly, he turned, sat softly on his hip. He gently twisted his leg around, trying not to bump the sleeping prisoner with his foot. Then, carefully, he shimmied his leg back up, gradually sliding it out through the tight sapling bars.
At last the foot broke free. He dropped down onto a pile of stuffed mail bags and — glancing over his shoulder — quickly moved away from the cage. He pushed his way through another stack of crates, squeezed between two large flat-screen TV boxes, and finally found the cargo bay doors.
The double doors were set into the floor at the sloping tail of the plane. He located the metal clamp-lock handle, pulled it back and turned it counter-clockwise, then braced himself and kicked open the doors.
A blast of freezing wind whipped into the compartment, lashing Donny's face with needles of snow. He covered his eyes with the back of his arm, then leaned forward and squinted into the whirlwind, a white barrage of swirling flakes and fog. Far below, he saw a blurry hint of dark trees. He pulled back into the compartment and started for the cargo.
The TV’s went first. He slid the boxes across the floor and, without a thought, tumbled them out the yawning gap. Then he tore at the pile of loaded pine crates, flinging them through the doors with abandon. He dragged bags of mail out of the dark and fed them
"You better hurry," Jake said.
Donny took off his headset, and headed unsteadily back toward the cargo hold.
Jake grabbed the radio mike. "Fairbanks Tower, this is Whiskey 403, do you read me, over?"
The radio coughed with ragged static.
"Fairbanks Tower do you read me, over?"
* * *
Adashek and Katukan had stopped their conversation mid-stream the moment they heard the radio sputter. Jake's voice came through sporadic and faint. All they heard was "... 403..."
Dean Stanton leaned toward his microphone. "Whiskey 403, this is Fairbanks Tower, do you copy, over?"
The three men listened to the static. Then Stanton spoke again. "Whiskey 403, do you copy, over?"
A hiss of static, then, "... losing altitude..." More static, then: "... cargo..."
"Whiskey 403, please give us your coordinates, over."
Static.
"Whiskey 403, give us your coordinates, over."
Static.
Stanton glanced at the two men standing behind him. "Something wrong with his reception. He's not hearing us at all." He looked at the radar screen. A large pattern of green light spread itself along the top half of the glass. "They must be right in the middle of it."
Dr. Katukan exchanged an anxious look with Chief Adashek. Then he nodded toward the radar screen. "If they go down in that, what are their chances?"
"Depends," Stanton said. "If they find a straight run of river, or a lake, they might land all right."
"And if they don't?
"If they don't what?"
"If they don't find a river or a lake."
Stanton didn't answer. Katukan persisted. "Will they all be killed , Mr. Stanton?"
Stanton turned, looked at the doctor a moment. He decided he really didn't like the man.
"Yeah," he said. "They'll be killed."
17.
The lights had gone out in the cargo hold.
Donny felt his way blindly through the piles of baggage, stumbling toward the red emergency light that glowed faintly at the far end of the long compartment. He climbed up a mountain of plastic garbage bags stuffed with sharp-cornered boxes, and onto a pile of rickety wooden crates. The plane pitched suddenly and sent him crashing through a cardboard box filled with four-foot-long florescent light bulbs. He gingerly picked himself up, shook off the flakes of broken glass, and hurried on. He made his way back over the crates onto a broad, irregular surface of timbers. Scrambling over this, his foot slipped deeply through a gap, and for a moment, he was stuck.
"What the hell is this?" he grumbled, struggling to free his leg in the dark. His foot kicked something soft below. When he realized what it was, he froze.
"Oh... fuck," he whispered, his heart palpitating.
Slowly, he turned, sat softly on his hip. He gently twisted his leg around, trying not to bump the sleeping prisoner with his foot. Then, carefully, he shimmied his leg back up, gradually sliding it out through the tight sapling bars.
At last the foot broke free. He dropped down onto a pile of stuffed mail bags and — glancing over his shoulder — quickly moved away from the cage. He pushed his way through another stack of crates, squeezed between two large flat-screen TV boxes, and finally found the cargo bay doors.
The double doors were set into the floor at the sloping tail of the plane. He located the metal clamp-lock handle, pulled it back and turned it counter-clockwise, then braced himself and kicked open the doors.
A blast of freezing wind whipped into the compartment, lashing Donny's face with needles of snow. He covered his eyes with the back of his arm, then leaned forward and squinted into the whirlwind, a white barrage of swirling flakes and fog. Far below, he saw a blurry hint of dark trees. He pulled back into the compartment and started for the cargo.
The TV’s went first. He slid the boxes across the floor and, without a thought, tumbled them out the yawning gap. Then he tore at the pile of loaded pine crates, flinging them through the doors with abandon. He dragged bags of mail out of the dark and fed them
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