them," Stanton said. "The last digits were lost in the static. But I got enough to give us a good idea where they went down. They're somewhere in the vicinity of Caribou Mountain."
Dr. Katukan was nervously turning an empty coffee mug in his hands. "How soon can you get a plane out there?" he asked.
"That's the million dollar question," said Stanton. He pointed his pencil toward the weather radar screen. The large pattern of light was spreading over the screen like a virus. "The storm is moving fast and it's heading our way."
He peered out the huge glass window toward the mountains to the north. Enormous clouds were piling up, gray in the middle and black at the bottom, all along the horizon.
"I can tell you one thing," he said, staring into the distance. "Nobody's going to fly out there now."
Dr. Katukan glanced nervously at Adashek. Then he stepped up beside the air traffic controller. "Mr. Stanton, you said... You said if the plane went down the men would be killed. Do you think that has happened? Do you think... Do you think they're all dead?"
"I don't know, Doctor," Stanton answered. "If they're alive, they might get the radio going again, or activate the emergency-locator beacon." He turned and looked squarely at the doctor. "Until we hear from them, there's no way of knowing what 's going on out there."
19.
Josh woke up on the couch in his studio apartment. The room was dark; the sun had been down at least an hour. He was in his clothes, under his red-and-black Hudson Bay blanket. Two cold pieces of microwave pizza lay at the edge of the table in front of him. The ancient TV with its rabbit ears glowed across the room.
He sat up and pulled the blanket around his shoulders, felt a cold draft across his bare feet. He stared at the TV screen. The sound was off, but he saw the weatherman gesture across a video map of Alaska. A bulging front — a phalanx of brightly shining snow crystals — was marching down from the Arctic Circle.
Josh rose up with the blanket and walked like a monk to the window. Cold air was seeping into the room right through the bathroom towel he'd jammed into the bottom of the sill. The pane of glass had spawned crystals of frost. He rubbed a circle with his palm until a hole cleared he could see through.
Outside, street lamps lit the swirling snow, and a broken beer sign at the corner market swung creaking in the wind. So this was the storm they'd said was going to roll off to the east. Instead it had barreled over the mountains into the Yukon Flats and rolled right to Fairbanks' door. He wondered about his plane at the field, wondered if he'd get snowed in.
Then he remembered Kris. Andrea had planned to drive up the Dalton Highway north through the mountains. Had they heard about the storm? Had they left yet? He might be able to stop them.
He dug out his address book in his overnight bag, still unpacked from Anchorage. In the mountains there would be no reception for her cell, but he found Andrea's Fairbanks listing, along with the number for the condo in Pine Summit. He punched the Fairbanks number and waited.
People can die in a storm like this, he thought.
The phone rang eight rings before he finally hung up.
* * *
Listening to the dull drone of the road, Kris remembered the trips she'd taken in her father's truck, heading up for cross-country skiing in the mountains of the Alaska Range in Denali National Park. Her father was one of the park's full-time Rangers. To her it seemed she'd grown up in that truck, making long climbs up rugged mountain roads, her father at the wheel, her little brother bouncing between them. Steel bear traps — confiscated from poachers — clattered noisily in the bed of the truck. Kris would watch for caribou and moose as they drove up the winding road through Sable Pass, then Polychrome Pass, while above them towered the omnipresent peaks of Mt. McKinley, and her favorite, Mt. Silverthrone.
"Does God live up there?" Paul asked his father.
"I
Dr. Katukan was nervously turning an empty coffee mug in his hands. "How soon can you get a plane out there?" he asked.
"That's the million dollar question," said Stanton. He pointed his pencil toward the weather radar screen. The large pattern of light was spreading over the screen like a virus. "The storm is moving fast and it's heading our way."
He peered out the huge glass window toward the mountains to the north. Enormous clouds were piling up, gray in the middle and black at the bottom, all along the horizon.
"I can tell you one thing," he said, staring into the distance. "Nobody's going to fly out there now."
Dr. Katukan glanced nervously at Adashek. Then he stepped up beside the air traffic controller. "Mr. Stanton, you said... You said if the plane went down the men would be killed. Do you think that has happened? Do you think... Do you think they're all dead?"
"I don't know, Doctor," Stanton answered. "If they're alive, they might get the radio going again, or activate the emergency-locator beacon." He turned and looked squarely at the doctor. "Until we hear from them, there's no way of knowing what 's going on out there."
19.
Josh woke up on the couch in his studio apartment. The room was dark; the sun had been down at least an hour. He was in his clothes, under his red-and-black Hudson Bay blanket. Two cold pieces of microwave pizza lay at the edge of the table in front of him. The ancient TV with its rabbit ears glowed across the room.
He sat up and pulled the blanket around his shoulders, felt a cold draft across his bare feet. He stared at the TV screen. The sound was off, but he saw the weatherman gesture across a video map of Alaska. A bulging front — a phalanx of brightly shining snow crystals — was marching down from the Arctic Circle.
Josh rose up with the blanket and walked like a monk to the window. Cold air was seeping into the room right through the bathroom towel he'd jammed into the bottom of the sill. The pane of glass had spawned crystals of frost. He rubbed a circle with his palm until a hole cleared he could see through.
Outside, street lamps lit the swirling snow, and a broken beer sign at the corner market swung creaking in the wind. So this was the storm they'd said was going to roll off to the east. Instead it had barreled over the mountains into the Yukon Flats and rolled right to Fairbanks' door. He wondered about his plane at the field, wondered if he'd get snowed in.
Then he remembered Kris. Andrea had planned to drive up the Dalton Highway north through the mountains. Had they heard about the storm? Had they left yet? He might be able to stop them.
He dug out his address book in his overnight bag, still unpacked from Anchorage. In the mountains there would be no reception for her cell, but he found Andrea's Fairbanks listing, along with the number for the condo in Pine Summit. He punched the Fairbanks number and waited.
People can die in a storm like this, he thought.
The phone rang eight rings before he finally hung up.
* * *
Listening to the dull drone of the road, Kris remembered the trips she'd taken in her father's truck, heading up for cross-country skiing in the mountains of the Alaska Range in Denali National Park. Her father was one of the park's full-time Rangers. To her it seemed she'd grown up in that truck, making long climbs up rugged mountain roads, her father at the wheel, her little brother bouncing between them. Steel bear traps — confiscated from poachers — clattered noisily in the bed of the truck. Kris would watch for caribou and moose as they drove up the winding road through Sable Pass, then Polychrome Pass, while above them towered the omnipresent peaks of Mt. McKinley, and her favorite, Mt. Silverthrone.
"Does God live up there?" Paul asked his father.
"I
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