Expect the Sunrise (6 page)

“Mayday, Mayday.” Andee heard the reined-in panic in Sarah’s voice.

The scenery hurtled by, and the yoke shook in Andee’s grip. She adjusted the throttle to get a better mixture for more power, but to her dismay, it didn’t cut their descent.

Praise the Lord, the flaps miraculously responded. She barely missed clipping the wing on a snowy boulder outcropping.

The screaming in the passenger area stilled. She tasted their fear.

She needed to find another carpeted basin to set them down in before they crashed so high they’d never be able to hike out, let alone survive the landing.

Ripping off her headset, she glanced at Sarah. “Find me a meadow or a gravel bar to land on.”

Sarah’s eyes widened.

Andee heard moaning. A furtive glance behind her showed ashen faces. All except for McRae, who wore a grim, dark look, as if he might hold her personally responsible for the storm clouds that drove them from the sky.

Then again she did too.

“Prepare for crash landing.” Andee knew she didn’t have to yell to get her message across. She throttled back to an airspeed of 100 knots, then released the lock on the door.

Nothing more than the roar of the motor filled the cabin.

“There!” Sarah pointed to a swath of reddened tundra surrounded by cut granite spears and falls of gray scree splotched with white snow.

Andee nodded and descended hard into the high meadow.
Short approach, here we come.
She cut her speed to 71 knots, thankful she now had flaps, and nosed the Cessna down, barely clearing the greedy claws of a sharpened peak.

The plane hummed as she angled down. Andee was painfully aware that she’d probably lose her left wing at this angle.
Please, Lord, straighten her up!

The ground rose to meet the plane, and an eerie silence filled her ears as she cut the engine. The plane bumped hard on the tundra, skipped, bumped again, then bounced as the wheels hit a boulder. She heard ripping and guessed they’d lost at least one wheel. Then the wing caught and the world upended.

Rolled.

Sparks littered her knees; heat rushed her body.

Andee held on to the straps and for the first time let herself scream.

Darkness and the smell of avgas, hot and pungent, filled his nose and mouth. Mac’s head throbbed with the sting of fresh blood, and his arm burned. He opened his eyes and clawed through the layers of confusion.

He hung upside down, his arms over his head. He heard groaning and moved his head. Beside him and slightly higher, Phillips hung unconscious, his thick arms obscuring Mac’s view. Behind Mac—or rather above him—Ishbane and the hunter and Nina hung from their seats. Blood dripped off Nina’s face.

He did a mental check, touched the gash on his head, moved his arms and legs, and found that right behind the adrenaline rush of relief the only thing that really ached was his stupidity muscle. Why had he stepped inside an airplane? Obviously he needed a good head slap … if they got out of here alive. He reached to unlatch his seat belt, then grunted as he landed with a whump on the ceiling of the Cessna.

Phillips was just rousing.

“Hey, wake up,” Mac said.

Phillips opened his eyes, frowned, and stared at Mac.

Aye
,
me too, pal.
“We crashed,” Mac said. “You okay?”

Phillips stared at him as if he were speaking Swahili.

“You okay? Anything broken?”

Behind Phillips, Ishbane came to with a few choice words.

“I think I’m intact,” Phillips mumbled, then reached for his seat belt.

Mac leaned out of the way as the man kerthumped beside him. “How’s the pilot?”

They’d landed roof down, leaning on the right wing side, the left side up at an angle. He heard sparks, probably what was left of the instrument panel. Chemistry 101 told him that sparks plus leaking fuel equaled a big bang. They needed to exit this craft—and now. From his two-second evaluation inside the darkened cabin, he surmised the only way out was through the pilot’s door.

Mac hustled to the front to check on Emma. Her pulse at the base of her jaw bumped under his two fingers. Relief blew through him in a hot breath. Her eyes were closed, and a nasty bruise swelled in the center of her head, probably where she’d hit the yoke. But at his touch, she roused, moaned.

“Shh. Don’t move. You could be hurt.” He’d like to snap a C-collar on her, his days in first-responder training kicking in. But for now, getting out of the plane seemed top priority.

He’d let the fact they’d made it alive sink in later.

“Sarah. How’s Sarah?” Emma turned her head, searching for her friend.

Mac turned and barely concealed a groan. Sarah’s seat had sustained the brunt of the landing. Although still strapped in, Sarah lay crumpled against the crushed aluminum of the plane, her face white, blood trickling from her nose.

He reached around her head and felt for injury. Wetness dampened his fingers, and he felt softness and raw flesh. His hand came back bloody.

He glanced at Emma. Her face was white, her dark eyes laced with horror. “Oh no.” She reached for her buckle and landed hard in a crumple, nearly kicking him as she righted herself.

So much for rescuing her.

“We need to get out of here and get Sarah onto a backboard.” Emma looked back into the cabin at the other passengers. “Anyone else hurt?”

“No thanks to you,” Ishbane snapped. He undid his buckle and filled the cabin with expletives as he untangled himself and crouched on the ceiling.

“Enough. Just be glad we’re alive,” Mac said quietly. Not that he particularly felt like reserving judgment against Emma—he had his own choice words of frustration brewing in his gut—but blame wouldn’t get them to the nearest hospital any faster.

“Help me get her out of here,” Emma said, apparently ignoring Ishbane.

“The passenger door is wedged,” Phillips said. He gave it another good bang with his shoulder, and Mac made a face.

“We’ll have to go out the pilot-side door.” Emma unlatched it, then pushed it open with her feet. It groaned on its hinges, then cracked. Emma startled, as if reliving their harrowing descent.

They all startled really. Mac felt his nerves buzz right below his skin, and adrenaline made him light-headed.

“Let’s see what we can find to get your friend out,” Mac said, trying to keep them focused. He sucked in his breath as he squeezed out between the rock face and the door.

Emma climbed out of the wreckage and stumbled away from the plane, rubbing her shoulder.

They’d wedged against a fall of Volkswagen-sized boulders. It had probably stopped all of them from becoming flapjacks by bracing up the tail section, which lay nearly severed from the plane somewhere on the other side of the boulders. They must have cartwheeled, although Mac didn’t remember much—lots of blurring and screaming, heat and fear.

Mac surveyed the debris trail that littered the wake of their crash. The belly pod had ripped off, most likely at the same time as the struts. Baggage had ripped open, strewing socks, shirts, backpacks, papers, books, and shoes in the churned-up tundra. The air smelled of gasoline, and the cloud cover that had taken them down moved in to finish them off. Mac tasted snow in the air, and the wind whipped his jacket against his body. They seemed to have landed in a high bowl. Jagged peaks framed his view from every direction, spires of ice and cold and death that ringed them in and would obstruct any attempt at communication.

“Did anyone hear the Mayday?” he asked Emma.

“I don’t know,” she said, picking her way through the debris. “We need to evacuate the passengers right now. I don’t know how much fuel spilled, and the engine’s still hot. Help me find something to put Sarah on.”

Emma stepped around the remnant of the left wing, which Mac guessed had been sheared off during the spectacular landing, and as he watched, she lifted it and tugged out a backpack. Pulling it free, Emma took out a knife from her belt—where had she gotten that?—and cut off the straps holding the external metal frame to the canvas.

A backboard.

“Good thinking,” he said as she worked.

She didn’t respond, her movements tight, nearly robotic. Then again, her friend had a serious head injury. Apparently that drove Emma’s thoughts for now. That and the smell of gas and a few sparks still jumping from the instrument panel.

Yes, get the passengers out—fast.

He noticed that the bump in the center of her forehead had swelled and turned purple. “Your head looks bad. Are you feeling dizzy?”

She looked at him. In her dark brown eyes, he saw the inklings of fear, despite her seeming calm. What he didn’t want was for the fear to take over and invade everything else. He needed her calm until he figured out where they were.

“It’ll be okay. We’ll get through this.” Only, even to him, his words sounded empty. Especially with the wind swooping down the sides of the bowl, carrying winter in its breath, flattening their clothes to their bodies, stinging their ears.

She nodded. “I know.” And just like that, the emotion vanished, her eyes became flat, her mouth set in a grim line.

Phillips emerged from the plane, groaning and holding his chest. A big man, he’d probably have bruises from the seat belt.

Ishbane had already exited and sat not far away, shaking. He held his hand to his bloody nose. Mac guessed it might be broken.

“What about Nina and Flint?” Emma asked as they maneuvered the makeshift backboard close to the plane.

As if on command, Flint emerged. He held his knee, gritting his teeth.

“Are you okay?” Emma pulled his arm over her shoulder and assisted him as he limped out.

He settled with a moan. “I think so. It’s an old injury. Probably just twisted it.” But by the grimace on his face, Mac had his doubts.

“See if you can find a towel or a piece of foam,” Emma said, turning to Mac.

“Foam?”

“For a C-collar.”

Aye.
He had to admit, she might look rattled, but she thought in a linear, controlled pattern that spoke of experience. How many times had she crashed an airplane? He shook that thought loose and focused on her request while she climbed back inside the plane.

Maybe he could find a sleeping pad in one of the passenger’s camping gear. He scanned the litter as he jogged over to the pink backpack. His own duffel had broken open, spilling his clothing and the pictures of him and Brody. He nearly stepped on one of Brody hauling in a chinook salmon out of Prospect Creek. He snatched it and shoved it into his back pocket.

Mac grabbed the remains of Nina’s pink pack. A couple of the pockets flapped in the breeze, shredded. Inside the pack he found clothing, a stuffed orca, two wrapped gifts, and a foam pad at the bottom next to her sleeping bag.
Jackpot.
Mac snatched it and ran to the plane.

Nina had pulled herself out of the plane and slumped against the rock, a hand over a gash behind her ear. She looked dazed.

He poked his head inside the wreckage. Emma was leaning over the seat, assessing Sarah’s injuries. Somehow she’d dug out the first-aid kit from the rear cargo area. He hoped that she also had a survival kit somewhere in her bag of tricks.

“Did you find foam?” Emma asked.

He nodded and passed it in to her. Producing the knife again, she made quick work of ripping it into a long, wide strip. Then she wrapped the foam around Sarah’s neck, securing it with medical tape. “I’d rather have a mini-board, but this will have to do.” Emma looked at him, her eyes dark and tense. “We need a sleeping bag or something.”

“Phillips!” Mac yelled. “Grab a sleeping bag!” He glanced again at Emma. She touched her friend’s cheek, then found her arm and took a pulse. Her tender movements made him wish he’d had someone this calm around when Brody had been shot. Mac had unraveled on the spot. If it hadn’t been for his brother’s thinking, Mac would have remained frozen in shock.

In many ways, however, he still felt frozen.

Phillips came running with the sleeping bag.

Mac untied it, then handed it to Emma.

“I’m going to unbuckle her and brace her fall,” she said. “Try and move her onto the bag. We’ll ease her out and put her as gently as we can on the backboard.”