The Last Flight Read online

  Across the aisle, a petite, middle-aged woman was returning from a visit with her sister. Attractive with a friendly disposition, her warm eyes and pleasant smile always put people at ease. Auburn hair, tinted to hide the sprigs of silver, was styled below her ears. A retired teacher, she had been widowed for several years.

  Two men situated in the middle of the cabin were looking forward to a two-week hunting expedition. Close friends since childhood, the taller of the two was a rancher from central Idaho and the other a biologist with Idaho Fish and Game. The guided hunt was a joint endeavor after years of planning and long conversations convincing their skeptical wives of the necessity.

  Nine of the remaining passengers were tourists from a cruise ship docked at the Port of Valdez, a couple hours’ drive south of the Gulkana Airport. Most were elderly retirees enthusiastic about the scenic flight north to Fairbanks.

  All seemed to be enjoying themselves, except for a couple on vacation at the urging of the wife. Their marriage and upscale lifestyle were in disarray. For the husband, there were other priorities. Unfortunately for the wife, she wasn’t one of them. Brokering trades in the stock market, making money and occasional infidelities were his primary focus. He treated his wife like a tarnished trophy, a reminder of a past conquest kept on the mantel for his ego. Overweight and diabetic, he was in poor health.

  In the last row, an older man with thinning hair and narrow eyes leaned against the window, ignoring the inane conversations around him. His face was bearded and weathered, as tough as dried-out leather. He appeared uncomfortable, continually stretching and bending his legs while flipping pages of an in-flight magazine.

  Mining had been his main occupation before starting a side business raising sled dogs. The enterprise began purely by chance after acquiring a pair of malamute-wolf hybrids for payment of a past debt. Two of the prized animals were kenneled in the cargo compartment.

  His great nephew, a tough lad of eighteen, sat next to him. The old man was the lad’s only family after his mother died when he was twelve. The boy wasn’t planning on a return flight, intending instead to seek employment in Fairbanks—a detail he hadn’t shared with his elderly uncle. Working all day on an isolated homestead was not a life he wished to continue.

  The air was smooth as the two turboprop engines pulled the modern commuter plane to a speed of nearly three hundred miles an hour. A pale blue sky, brightened by the morning sun, stretched across the horizon. High mountains, gleaming in reflective light, rose in a jagged line in the distance. Off the port wing, an approaching mass of frontal clouds was barely visible.

  The forecast was for good flying conditions. Light winds, unlimited visibility and high, scattered clouds were the same as every day for the past week. A large weather system was moving in from the west, bringing worsening conditions, but it wasn’t expected to arrive until later in the morning. The plane’s passengers expected to be safely on the ground by then, at home or enjoying the sites of Alaska’s second largest city.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The intensity of the rising sun cast a blinding reflection through the mirror of the parked car. The tired soldier behind the wheel squinted and turned his head, as if awakened from a troubling dream.

  Gil Connor sighed with a reserved finality. Lost in a void of uncertainty only moments before, he concluded today would be different. Today he would do what was necessary, without approval, without remorse and without consequence, for tomorrow might be too late.

  As Connor shifted his gaze to the rearview mirror, studying his reflection, he grimaced at how haggard he appeared. His face was creased with age, etched in a constant frown, and his short-cropped hair was stained with the color of granite. The rest of his body was worn and tired, the once lean frame now heavier and sagging. More than three decades of flying and a multitude of injuries had taken their toll.

  He should have retired years ago, but circumstances guided him down a different path. He hung on to a waning career, dismissing the thought of a sedentary life in the civilian world as unappealing. Flying and the military were the only things holding his life together. For him, there was nothing else to look forward to.

  At least he believed the thought to be true until he learned death was beating at the door. Disease was eating away at his body, killing him from the inside. After three combat tours, two helicopter crashes, twenty thousand hours of flying, and a multitude of lesser injuries, he figured cancer was fate’s way of getting even. There was a time he almost thought he was invincible. Not that he wanted to be. On many occasions he wished providence had provided a quick ending.

  Connor had experienced more than his share of pain. He carried the physical scars along with the emotional trauma. Shrapnel wounds dotted his legs and a three-inch scar marked where a bullet cut through his shoulder. Healed bones and damaged tissue still flashed an occasional sting of remembrance.

  Some would say he was lucky, and maybe he was, at least physically. None of the injuries were debilitating in a permanent sense, except for haunting memories of how they occurred. War had a way of doing that to a man. The sight, smell, and fear of death are never forgotten.

  Nightmares and flashes of recollection were the worst, consuming him through the years, bit by bit, even if they weren’t always visible. He hid the emotional scars well, his hard demeanor casting a protective shell around the fragile core inside.

  He was certain today would be different. He didn’t know how, exactly, only that today he would face his demons for the last time.

  Less than thirty minutes earlier, Connor sat in a sterile hospital room, listening to a man barely half his age list his options. The doctor described with clinical analysis, devoid of emotion, how the tests revealed a spreading malignancy. “The outcome might be prolonged with proper treatment,” he explained, “possibly extending your life expectancy a few months longer.”

  The doctor failed to mention the certainty of a lengthy hospitalization, with limited hope and only misery for company. Remaining bedridden in a losing struggle against inevitable deterioration was a process Connor was determined to avoid.

  “Of course, there is always the hope of a new medical breakthrough extending your life even further,” the doctor reasoned. “Cancer is a numbing realization. I’ll schedule you for counseling if you’d like?”

  The doctor sat on a stool in front of a cluttered desk, studying his notes and speaking without making eye contact. “As the cancer progresses and accelerates, drugs can alleviate the pain. Over the next couple of months, you can still be productive. Unfortunately, not as a pilot.” The doctor cleared his throat. “In the long term … well, even modern medicine will ultimately fail. I’m sorry. I know you want me to be up front with you.”

  Connor nodded then glanced out the window at the lush grass and trees, vibrant with life. He wondered if he could fly at least once more, just to say goodbye.

  “There is always hope and prayer, if you’re so inclined,” the doctor continued. His voice sounded vacant, without belief.

  Connor turned and focused back on the doctor, thinking how ironic the comment was in suggesting science might not be the answer. Perhaps the advice was a way of reassuring him there was still hope. But was there really? Religion had never been a strong focus in his life, and any connection was lost long ago.

  Connor shut the doctor’s voice from his thoughts, allowing only a brief stare of acknowledgment. His mind was on other things as he stood, scraping the chair noisily across the tiled floor. He ignored the doctor’s startled expression and turned toward the door, abruptly pulling it open before exiting the room. Halfway down the corridor, he heard his name being called and kept walking.

  The diagnosis was a stinging realization for Connor. He returned to his car and sat in a daze, contemplating the end. He was not entirely surprised. Shortness of breath and increased pain had plagued him for months. He ignored the symptoms at first, convincing himself they were a result of age and old injuries. In the back of his mind, he
had suspected something worse.

  Only when the escalating symptoms began interfering with his performance in the cockpit did he reluctantly seek medical assistance. Tests detected a malignancy intertwined around nerves and vertebra in his spine. Further analysis showed abnormalities in his lungs and a growth near his brain stem. The disease was spreading.

  The potential success of treating tumors in his lungs was encouraging. Removing tumors from the spine and brain was far less optimistic. Modern medicine hadn’t reached that level of sophistication, at least not to the point a patient could survive. Connor didn’t intend to die clinging to false hope or waiting for the inevitable.

  Through life’s challenges, Connor became convinced faith was dependent on one’s actions. He wanted nothing to do with a lengthy and bedridden illness, whether at the mercy of science or God. He would take his chances alone, as he always did, and find a way to end the suffering on his terms.

  In a way, his acceptance of the disease was a call to action, only requiring a short period of contemplation. Connor was determined to go out with more than a whimper. Dying with a multitude of tubes and wires attached, unable to function or communicate until the last breath escaped his body, was an option he was unwilling to accept.

  Perhaps the recurrence of a dream the night before, after years of absence, was somehow a premonition. The loss of his beautiful, young daughter still haunted Connor. The recollection never completely went away. At times he found a release for his emotions in fits of tears and anger but only when alone.

  Connor often displayed a temperament of apathy that few understood. He knew he could never let the memories of his daughter or his guilt completely disappear. He never wanted to. Soon, maybe, they could be together again, dad and his little girl. The life he let slip away and the one he would never forgive himself for losing.

  The day so long ago began innocently enough. He was with his family in a relaxing setting on a pristine lake. Connor and three-year-old Tara were spending time together after his return from a second tour in Vietnam. They were boating while his wife and fourteen-month-old son remained ashore. Tara was as excited about going fishing with her dad as he was having her along. At the age of three, anything new was a big adventure, and he relished the chance to teach her about the outdoors, just as his father had done with him.

  “Cutie pie,” as he often called her, always made Connor happy. Her big almond eyes and brilliant smile could charm the hardest soul. Tara always greeted him by running into his arms and giving him a big hug, speaking loudly with glee, “Daddy, my daddy!” Then she would grasp his face between her tiny hands, stare into his eyes for a few seconds as if searching for some hidden secret, and smile widely. To say she had him twisted around her little finger was an understatement.

  Fishing was unsuccessful. Connor wanted Tara to catch at least one to take back for dinner even though, for her, just being with her dad was all that really mattered. After venturing across the lake in search of a better location, the weather took a turn for the worse. At first the change was only a light drizzle, but Connor saw the dark mass of clouds approaching and decided to make a run back to camp. They never arrived. Motor trouble sent them adrift, then strong winds hit, and waves swamped their small boat, spilling them into the cold water with only light jackets for protection.

  For three hours they clung together against the overturned hull. Connor reassured her, as much as himself, help was coming and told stories to keep their minds off the cold. They even laughed some in the beginning, until the shivering became uncontrollable. Connor wrapped his jacket around her as best he could, but the thin fabric was useless. Tara never panicked or even cried, not once. Her trust in her dad was absolute.

  When Tara stopped shivering Connor knew hypothermia had reached a critical stage. At first, he begged then cursed God as she slipped into unconsciousness and stopped breathing. A rescue boat found him later in the afternoon, barely alive, still clinging to his daughter, refusing to let go until they pried his arms from her lifeless body.

  Connor almost died on the way to the hospital, but eventually recovered, except for the nightmares. Months after the funeral he remained withdrawn, blaming himself, wanting to die, unable and afraid to end his own life. Instead, he hid behind a bottle of liquor, pushing away his wife who mourned their daughter’s death as much as he.

  Within a year his wife divorced him, taking his young son with her. Whether she left because she was unable to find forgiveness or because the thin bond holding them together was broken by his own self-pity, didn’t matter to Connor. His family was gone, and in his eyes their departure was well deserved retribution for Tara’s death.

  Eventually, Connor overcame his grief enough to renew contact with his young son, trying to be a father again. But like so many of his relationships, it also failed. He wanted to blame his wife for taking his son thousands of miles away and giving him a new father who would always be there for him, but in his heart he knew letting him go was best.

  Years later, circumstances changed for the better. Once his son reached manhood, the military, ironically, brought them back together. As fellow soldiers they renewed their family bond and learned to appreciate what they had missed for so many years. The blood between them was strong and restored Connor’s faith. At least until a roadside bomb in Iraq took his son away for good. Since then, he could barely hang on to the lingering shreds of his own life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sanders watched the flight instruments as the first officer leveled the aircraft, then keyed his transmitter.

  Hundreds of miles away, an air traffic controller sitting in front of a large circular screen saw the altitude flash above the radar blip, followed by a routine radio call over his headset.

  “Anchorage Center, Northern three-six-zero is level at sixteen thousand.”

  “Northern three-six-zero, Anchorage Center, roger. Proceed as filed. Advise when passing Drum Intersection.”

  “Northern three-six-zero, wilco,” Sanders replied. He turned his attention outside, captivated by the spectacular scenery. Every so often he looked back at the instruments, verifying the systems were operating correctly.

  “Hey Captain, we still going to divert closer to the mountains so the passengers can get some photos before descending into Fairbanks?” Illiamin was hoping they could fly near the peaks and barely hid his enthusiasm.

  “Sure. We can divert off the airway after passing Drum Intersection. The winds shouldn’t be a problem. I don’t want anyone getting sick in the back.”

  Illiamin thought for a moment. “I know what you mean. The smell is contagious.”

  “True.” Sanders emitted a brief chuckle. “And remember, happy passengers make for return customers. Being jostled around or getting sick could deter future business.”

  “I guess I’m still used to flying small bush planes,” Illiamin said while nodding his head. “We had a captive audience flying into the villages. Repeat customers weren’t a problem and rough weather was pretty common.”

  Sanders smiled as he recalled his own experiences as a young pilot. The flights were almost always long and hectic, lasting from early morning to evening, with multiple stops for passengers, cargo, and fuel. Loading and unloading was done by the pilots, and breaks were often of short duration with only enough time for a cup of coffee or cold sandwich. The schedule was mostly sustained by their youth and eagerness to build flight time, eventually allowing a progression to bigger aircraft and better pay.

  “A passenger getting sick is bad enough, but I’ve got a worse situation for you.” A mischievous grin creased the corners of Illiamin’s mouth.

  “Oh yeah?” Sanders stated suspiciously, familiar with his first officer’s penchant for telling stories.

  “I was flying a mail run to a village on the Koyukuk River a couple years ago. There was only one passenger, an old sourdough returning from a doctor’s visit in Fairbanks. We’d been in the air for about thirty minutes when this awful, disgustin
g smell hit me. At first I thought maybe one of us had stepped in something before boarding, but the smell kept getting stronger and stronger.”

  Sanders grimaced. “So what was it?”

  Illiamin ignored the question, becoming more animated. “I looked over at my passenger, wondering if he smelled what I smelled. He was staring out the window, seemingly unaware of the odor even though I was about to gag. The stink was overpowering, and I figured the smell must be from him. I asked if he was all right. He said he was, acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Finally, I couldn’t stand the stench any longer and slid my window open to get some fresh air. It was the middle of winter and the temperature was thirty below outside.”

  Sanders smirked, anticipating the rest of the story, but he had to ask. “So what was it? Did the guy crap his pants?”

  “Wait a minute, there’s more. Not only was the odor getting stronger, the smell reeked something terrible. I mean a noxious, putrid aroma of rotten garbage, mixed with the worst case of diarrhea you can imagine. And of course with the cold temperature outside, the heater was on, making the smell even worse. So I looked at the guy again, and he was still staring out the window but now with an embarrassed look on his face. Well, I didn’t want to humiliate the guy by asking if he did what I thought he did, so I kept my mouth shut. I mean I literally kept my mouth shut because I didn’t want the stink hitting my taste buds.”

  “So what did you do?” Sanders asked, laughing aloud.

  “I jammed the throttle full open and flew as fast as the damn plane could carry us. All the while I was holding my head close to the open window, trying to keep the smell out of my nostrils, and at the same time trying not to get frostbit from the wind.”

  “And the old guy still didn’t say a thing?” Sanders paused to wipe the moisture from his eyes after laughing so hard. “I’m surprised the guy could sit still.”

  “Oh yeah, he hardly moved and definitely didn’t say a word. Of course, I wondered if the excrement was going to leak through his clothes onto the seat. I mean the smell was so strong there must have been a couple gallons worth. So I flew with my nose out the window, trying not to be obvious about what I was doing. Every few minutes I looked over to check whether he was leaving any residue on the seat, expecting the worse and pretending to look out the opposite window as if watching the weather. I swear if there had been a place to land, I would’ve been tempted to kick him out. But he was a paying customer, so I kept on flying.”