into the hole. He found a snowmobile engine and rolled it out. A pile of bear and moose hides and a twisted bundle of antlers. A stack of bundled firewood. Office supplies, canned food, washing detergent, Christmas presents.
Then he saw the wooden cage.
"Donny!" Jake screamed from the cockpit. "We're going down!"
Donny's heart banged at his ribs. He grabbed hold of the cage, peered in through the crooked bars. In the murky darkness of the hold, he could just make out the heaving mass of skins.
It was moving. "Son of a bitch!" he cried.
He clambered behind the cage, braced his back against the wall and pushed the sapling bars with his legs. The cage slid a couple of feet. Then he put his shoulder to it, and with a holler, heaved with all his might.
The cage moved toward the doors.
* * *
"Mayday! This is Whiskey 403!" Jake yelled into the mike.
A rising slope of trees suddenly appeared through the windshield. Jake dropped the mike and hauled on the stick, but the ailerons were jammed with ice. He rocked the stick to crack them loose, and at the last moment the plane abruptly banked to the right, sweeping past the tree-covered bluffs into the gap of a plunging ravine.
Jake could just make out the frozen white curves of the Kanuti River snaking through the valley below. But there wasn't a straight patch to land on for as far as he could see.
And the plane was dropping fast.
Jake glanced at the control panel and grabbed the mike. "Mayday! Mayday! This is Whiskey 403. Co-ordinates sixty-three-nine north, one-fifty-two-zero west. We are going down! Repeat, we are going down!"
He threw the mike aside and shouted back into the cargo hold. "Donny!"
18.
Donny shoved the heavy cage farther and farther out of the darkness toward the gaping doorway. The hold raged with whirling snow, the plane wobbled and shook in the wind. Losing his footing, he crashed to his knees. He got up, painfully, and hobbled around the cage to the other side. He grabbed the sapling bars, tried pulling the great mass toward the hole. It wouldn't budge.
He looked around and realized he was pulling the cage uphill — the plane's angle of descent had steepened.
He ran to the open cargo doors, peered down into the blizzard. Five-hundred feet below, the twisting turns of the frozen river were fast approaching.
If he didn't jettison the load, they'd crash!
Donny raced back behind the cage. He grabbed hold of the branch bars solidly with both hands. Planting his feet squarely on the ground, he raised his head and readied to push.
His eyes filled with horror.
Donny's scream was cut off before it left his throat.
* * *
"Donny!" Jake hollered. "There's a fucking lake goddammit!" A quarter-mile ahead, the Kanuti broadened out into the frozen expanse of a snow-laden reservoir. Jake screamed at the top of his lungs. "Mo-ther-fu-cker!"
The landing skis brushed the pointed tops of the fir trees.
"Hold-on-goddammit!" He hauled the control yoke with all his might.
"MOTHERRR-FUCKERRRRRRRRRRRRR!"
The right ski caught the tip of a towering spruce and tore loose from the plane with a sickening screech of scraping metal. Jake tried to straighten out as the DC-3 came over the lake, but it fell fast and hit the snow, caught the left ski and careened across a fifty-yard arc before it flipped.
It flipped three times. The first cracked the left wing in half. The second crushed the tail. The last split open the fuselage, crumpled the nose, and shattered the windshield in a thousand pieces.
The wreck finally settled upside down in the middle of the silent lake.
* * *
"Whiskey 403 come in!"
Stanton took his finger off the button; the three men in the tower listened. Nothing but a clean hum of static.
"Whiskey 403 come in. 403 do you read me?"
More static. The radio was dead. Nothing since the last frantic calls from Jake. The DC-3 had gone down.
"You got the coordinates, didn't you?" the Chief asked. He had shed his jacket and tie.
"Part of
Then he saw the wooden cage.
"Donny!" Jake screamed from the cockpit. "We're going down!"
Donny's heart banged at his ribs. He grabbed hold of the cage, peered in through the crooked bars. In the murky darkness of the hold, he could just make out the heaving mass of skins.
It was moving. "Son of a bitch!" he cried.
He clambered behind the cage, braced his back against the wall and pushed the sapling bars with his legs. The cage slid a couple of feet. Then he put his shoulder to it, and with a holler, heaved with all his might.
The cage moved toward the doors.
* * *
"Mayday! This is Whiskey 403!" Jake yelled into the mike.
A rising slope of trees suddenly appeared through the windshield. Jake dropped the mike and hauled on the stick, but the ailerons were jammed with ice. He rocked the stick to crack them loose, and at the last moment the plane abruptly banked to the right, sweeping past the tree-covered bluffs into the gap of a plunging ravine.
Jake could just make out the frozen white curves of the Kanuti River snaking through the valley below. But there wasn't a straight patch to land on for as far as he could see.
And the plane was dropping fast.
Jake glanced at the control panel and grabbed the mike. "Mayday! Mayday! This is Whiskey 403. Co-ordinates sixty-three-nine north, one-fifty-two-zero west. We are going down! Repeat, we are going down!"
He threw the mike aside and shouted back into the cargo hold. "Donny!"
18.
Donny shoved the heavy cage farther and farther out of the darkness toward the gaping doorway. The hold raged with whirling snow, the plane wobbled and shook in the wind. Losing his footing, he crashed to his knees. He got up, painfully, and hobbled around the cage to the other side. He grabbed the sapling bars, tried pulling the great mass toward the hole. It wouldn't budge.
He looked around and realized he was pulling the cage uphill — the plane's angle of descent had steepened.
He ran to the open cargo doors, peered down into the blizzard. Five-hundred feet below, the twisting turns of the frozen river were fast approaching.
If he didn't jettison the load, they'd crash!
Donny raced back behind the cage. He grabbed hold of the branch bars solidly with both hands. Planting his feet squarely on the ground, he raised his head and readied to push.
His eyes filled with horror.
Donny's scream was cut off before it left his throat.
* * *
"Donny!" Jake hollered. "There's a fucking lake goddammit!" A quarter-mile ahead, the Kanuti broadened out into the frozen expanse of a snow-laden reservoir. Jake screamed at the top of his lungs. "Mo-ther-fu-cker!"
The landing skis brushed the pointed tops of the fir trees.
"Hold-on-goddammit!" He hauled the control yoke with all his might.
"MOTHERRR-FUCKERRRRRRRRRRRRR!"
The right ski caught the tip of a towering spruce and tore loose from the plane with a sickening screech of scraping metal. Jake tried to straighten out as the DC-3 came over the lake, but it fell fast and hit the snow, caught the left ski and careened across a fifty-yard arc before it flipped.
It flipped three times. The first cracked the left wing in half. The second crushed the tail. The last split open the fuselage, crumpled the nose, and shattered the windshield in a thousand pieces.
The wreck finally settled upside down in the middle of the silent lake.
* * *
"Whiskey 403 come in!"
Stanton took his finger off the button; the three men in the tower listened. Nothing but a clean hum of static.
"Whiskey 403 come in. 403 do you read me?"
More static. The radio was dead. Nothing since the last frantic calls from Jake. The DC-3 had gone down.
"You got the coordinates, didn't you?" the Chief asked. He had shed his jacket and tie.
"Part of
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