The Last Flight Read online

  “How long was the flight?”

  Illiamin repositioned the mike on his headset. “Another fifteen minutes until we finally landed at the village. I taxied off the runway like a maniac and shut off the engine as quickly as I could. Then I told the old guy to go ahead and exit while I jumped out the other side without helping him. Hell, he stunk so bad I probably would’ve retched if I got any closer. I deliberately darted toward the tail to get away from him. He headed off to the nearest building, probably in as much of a hurry to get away as I was for him to leave.”

  “And the smell?” Sanders asked. “Did he take it with him?”

  “I opened all the doors and windows to air the plane out, just to make sure. The worst was gone. There was still a lingering odor but nothing else around his seat. After I unloaded the cargo, I sprayed the interior with Lysol and hung an air freshener I grabbed out of the dispatch office. There was probably some residual stink on the way back, but after being hit with the full force on the flight up, I didn’t smell a thing.”

  Sanders shifted in his seat. “So what was the guy’s story?”

  Illiamin glanced over at Sanders with a serious expression on his face. “I sure wasn’t going to track him down and ask. But after I got back to town, I approached one of our experienced pilots and told him what happened. I wanted to know what he would’ve done. After telling him the story he started laughing his ass off and said, ‘you flew Diaper Dan. We only let him fly with the new pilots.’ By his expression I knew I’d been set up.”

  “Diaper Dan?” Sanders asked skeptically.

  “Yeah, that was his nickname. Turned out the old prospector had been flying in and out of Fairbanks once or twice a year for decades. His bowel problems had started a few years before I arrived at the company. Apparently, the guy had read about some weird cure to prevent illness, which involved eating fermented meat and pickled eggs on a daily basis. The less than appetizing recipe became his primary diet. The concoction probably had something to do with the saying, ‘if it doesn’t kill you, it will only make you stronger.’ You can imagine what the ingredients must have been doing inside his digestive system. I bet he had gas something terrible on a normal day. Combined with the pressure changes during flight, his bowels couldn’t hold the toxic mixture and unloaded.”

  Sanders grunted in disgust before commenting. “So obviously the guy started wearing an adult diaper to hold in the goods. Why did the company put up with it?”

  A frown etched Illiamin’s face as he continued. “The first occurrence was the worst, I was told, since he wasn’t wearing a diaper and there were other passengers aboard. After that, the company told him he couldn’t fly unless he wore some protection. Even then the smell was terrible. The company was going to stop flying him altogether, but he was a rich old sourdough and offered to pay twice the normal fare. The company agreed as long as the flight wasn’t carrying other passengers. Of course, the pilots complained and a few threatened to quit if they had to fly with him.”

  “But the company said to screw the pilots and kept on allowing the old guy to fly, right?”

  “Yes and no,” replied Illiamin. “The company had to do something or lose experienced pilots, so they came up with another option. Turns out our director of operations was a practical joker. He decided since the old guy only flew once or twice a year, and since there was always an unsuspecting new pilot around, they would schedule the two together. Unfortunately for me, I was the unsuspecting new guy. This went on for another year while I was there, but I never had to fly him again. A newer pilot always seemed to be available. Poor old ‘Diaper Dan’ eventually passed away. He probably rotted away from the inside.”

  Sanders was laughing and shaking his head again. “That’s terrible. You’re lucky though, new pilots in this company aren’t subjected to practical jokes. At least not yet.”

  “Good to know.” Illiamin eye’s flashed with humor. “Every new guy should have to go through some kind of initiation. I think we should start right after I’m no longer the new guy.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Just remember, no practical jokes on the captain. If I smell a foul odor, I’ll know who to blame.”

  Illiamin nodded innocently and focused back on the instruments, at the same time scrolling through his mental catalog of other interesting anecdotes. He had an engaging personality and could find humor in any situation. He wondered if something might happen today worth remembering.

  Sanders looked out the window to the west, noticing the approaching storm in the distance. He spent the next few minutes reviewing an instrument approach chart. When finished, he folded the sheet into a corner of the console below the windshield.

  “Three miles until we pass the intersection,” Illiamin said, pointing to the digital readout on the instrument panel.

  Sanders glanced over to confirm the indication. “Okay, good. We’ll break off from the airway in a minute.”

  Once the distance on the console display decreased to zero, Sanders pressed his transmit button. “Anchorage Center, Northern three-six-zero passing Drum at sixteen thousand, with a request, over.”

  The response was immediate. “Northern three-six-zero, Anchorage Center, go ahead.”

  “Northern three-six-zero requests cancellation of our instrument flight plan. We’ll continue visually, direct to Fairbanks.”

  The controller hesitated before answering, making a notation in his tracking log before providing an updated clearance.

  “Northern three-six-zero, IFR clearance is canceled. No other traffic in the area. Proceed direct to Fairbanks and contact Approach Control when able on one-two-six-point-five. Good day.”

  “Northern three-six-zero copies. Good day, sir.”

  Sanders released the transmit button and placed his hands on the control yoke. “All right, I’ve got the controls. You have the radios. Let’s go sight-seeing.”

  Illiamin glanced across the cockpit, verifying the captain’s hands were on the opposite set of flight controls before releasing his grip.

  “You have the controls.”

  Sanders banked the aircraft in a smooth turn, aiming toward the highest peak in a line of towering mountains.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Gil Connor was raised in northern Minnesota, where his father was employed at a local mill. He was content as an only child in the small town with plenty of friends. Luxuries were scarce, but he never lacked for necessities and earned a small allowance for weekend movies at the town theater. His mother kept busy with housework, church activities and as a member of the local sewing club, which met every Thursday.

  On Sundays after service, the family went fishing in one of the nearby lakes or hiked old logging roads that cut through the surrounding hills. By the time he was ten, he was included in hunting trips with his father, who taught him to appreciate and respect the outdoors. Life was simple, with plenty of adventurous activities for a kid.

  Connor’s world changed in his first year of high school. His father had been diagnosed with lung cancer the year before, and his condition worsened until he passed away, bedridden, over the Christmas holiday. Connor was devastated. He tried to be strong for himself and his mother, secretly wishing for a miracle that never came.

  Within a year his mother remarried and the family moved to a small farm near the North Dakota border. Life was hard with full days of work tending livestock and working the fields, but there was still time for hunting, fishing, and other activities.

  Connor enjoyed his time alone, even more so as he grew older. His mother became more distant and rarely escaped the presence of his overbearing stepfather. The man rarely spoke to Connor, dealing with him instead through his mother. Sneaking away from the farm became a daily pursuit.

  A farmer’s life was never a goal for Connor. He was unsure of exactly what he wanted, but a sedate lifestyle was not what he was looking for. College seemed a logical choice in the interim, and following high school he enrolled in the state university. A year later h
e was still searching for something challenging in his life.

  Flying had always appealed to him. Exciting stories of barnstormers and fighter pilots were a conduit into a life of adventure he could only read about in his youth. Finally realizing he was wasting time and money at college, he joined the Army to fly helicopters.

  The Army was the only branch in the military accepting applicants for flight school without a college degree. The war in Vietnam was requiring pilots, lots of them. At the time his decision seemed hasty, but it was one he would never regret.

  The first time he touched the controls of the small, temperamental helicopter over a small training field in Alabama, he knew he found what he was looking for. The satisfaction and thrill of flying overcame him immediately and would remain with him forever.

  Connor was not only good at what he did, he was lucky. After graduating near the top of his class in flight school, he was assigned to a general support company in Vietnam, flying UH-1 Huey helicopters. Connor had the luxury of honing his flying skills in diverse missions and with experienced tutelage from older pilots, who took him under their wings.

  By the time he flew his first combat mission, he was already a seasoned pilot and well ahead of his peers. Often flying in situations others avoided, he soon developed a reputation as a fearless pilot with an uncanny ability to survive the worst circumstances. He was known for pushing his aircraft and crew to their limit and always finding a way to accomplish the seemingly impossible.

  He sometimes had a feeling someone or something was guiding him, keeping him safe. The presence was faint, barely perceptible. Often the feeling was only a whisper or nudge to his subconscious, but the sensation was real. Whether it was a sixth sense or second thoughts steering his decision, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t care, but he trusted whatever was there. The voice over his shoulder was never wrong.

  Many soldiers owed their lives to his timely rescue or for flying in critical supplies when others couldn’t get through. A few jealous pilots considered him a maverick, often accusing him of being out of control and willing to take unnecessary risks. But most pilots, especially those who flew with him, offered a different opinion. To them he was simply the best.

  The hardest part for Connor was losing his friends. A few were killed outright during combat missions and some sent home with severe injuries. Each loss made him tougher on the outside, where he appeared determined and self-assured, but inside he was struggling with uncertainty.

  Watching Tortello die toward the end of his first tour was particularly hard. Connor and Tortello graduated from flight school together, drank and chased women together, and almost died together. They became close friends. Almost inseparable, they were brothers in arms with the same dreams and ambitions.

  He and Tortello were piloting separate helicopters on a joint supply mission to a remote firebase. On the third sortie, they encountered enemy fire over a patch of dense jungle. Tortello’s ship was damaged and unable to maintain flight. Connor watched as the ship went down in a small clearing, hitting hard and bouncing before coming to rest on its side.

  One of the door gunners, Willie Smith, was thrown clear on impact. Dust was still settling as the pilots staggered out of the wreckage. The copilot, Jack Roberts, barely able to walk, managed to reach Smith and help him sit upright. He was in shock and hardly moved. Tortello pulled the limp body of the other door gunner clear before kneeling weakly beside him.

  The small opening in the jungle was impossible to land in without damaging his own helicopter, forcing Connor to circle while radioing for assistance. He knew the enemy was close by and virtually invisible beneath the thick canopy, but he stayed in position, hoping a helicopter with hoist capability could reach their friends in time.

  Connor’s helicopter began taking small arms fire within minutes after the crash. The rounds peppered the fuselage, causing only superficial damage but forced him to climb higher. His two door gunners blindly sprayed suppressive fire into the thick foliage around the wreckage, with no noticeable effect. Moments later they watched helplessly as over a dozen black-clad soldiers emerged into the clearing, gesturing frantically at the injured survivors with their weapons.

  Connor cursed and banked sharply in a high turn overhead, keeping the area in sight. “Cease fire! Cease fire! We don’t want to hit our own guys.”

  “Holding fire,” The right door gunner, Private Purelski, spat in disgust. “Just give me the word and I can take the bastards out.”

  “Keep your finger off the trigger and keep watching. I want to know which way they go when they move out with our guys. I doubt the bastards will stick around for long.”

  The copilot, Jim Henderson, had been on the radio trying to coordinate a rescue helicopter and close air support. He looked dejected. “Five minutes until the fast movers arrive. At least another ten before an Air Force helo can get here. They’re the closest helicopter with hoist capability.”

  Connor glanced at Henderson with a solemn look. “That will be too late.”

  Just then, Purelski yelled over the intercom. “They just shot Willie and Mister Roberts. Jesus Christ! Those fucking bastards shot them both.”

  Connor snapped his head around to see the bodies of Smith and Roberts lying motionless on the ground. The limp body of the other door gunner lay nearby, apparently killed in the crash.

  Several of the Viet Cong stood glaring at Tortello, who stayed kneeling with his hands on his head, staring back at them. The others were ransacking the interior of the wreckage, searching for anything useful and completely ignoring the helicopter circling overhead. They knew they wouldn’t be fired upon while holding a captive.

  “Shit! Those dirty yellow bastards,” Henderson exclaimed. “Why? They were unarmed. They weren’t even resisting.”

  “I don’t know,” Connor answered his copilot even though he knew the reason. Wounded prisoners would slow them down.

  “They’re tying Mister Tortello’s hands,” Purelski stated coldly. “Looks like they’re getting ready to move.”

  Connor noticed the activity and watched intently. He was relieved they didn’t shoot his friend, but equally worried about his chance of survival as a prisoner of war. The Viet Cong were noted for their brutal treatment of captives, especially airmen.

  The soldiers around the helicopter joined the group surrounding Tortello and motioned toward the jungle. Two of them seemed to be arguing. Suddenly, one stepped forward and jammed something in Tortello’s mouth. Connor first assumed the object was a gag. But a gag didn’t make sense. Why muffle a prisoner deep in their own territory?

  Tortello was pushed backward by one of the soldiers, and in that instant Connor realized it wasn’t a gag in his mouth. The object was a grenade. He watched in horror as the Viet Cong hurried into the tree line while his friend looked helplessly skyward. In the next second he saw Tortello’s upper body disintegrate in an explosion of blood and tissue, collapsing the headless corpse on the ground.

  Connor stared wide-eyed at the gruesome scene for only a moment, then pushed the helicopter in a steep dive, yelling at the two door gunners. “Fire! Fire, damn it! Spray inside the tree line. Kill them before they get away!”

  Purelski and White were firing before he finished speaking. They let loose a stream of repeated bursts as Connor dove low and fast over the clearing, searching the surrounding jungle for potential targets. They were too late. The enemy was gone. Their friends were dead.

  Only feet above the trees, Connor banked tightly for another pass, finally realizing the futility of continuing. “Stop firing. It’s over. There’s nothing more we can do.”

  Both gunners continued firing for a few more seconds before obeying. They knew he was right.

  No one said anything for a few moments, afraid their emotions would seep through. The four men had been friends. Remaining silent was hard—trying to speak even harder.

  “Take us back to base.” Connor’s voice was quivering as he motioned to his copilot. “You’ve go
t the controls.”

  Henderson noticed the pained expression in Connor’s eyes and took control of the helicopter. They were his friends, too, but Connor and Tortello were especially close.

  Purelski sat on the metal floor, resting his head in his hands. White sat across from him, staring straight ahead and silently cursing the Viet Cong, the war, and the Army. They all wondered when the killing would end.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The six-hundred miles of the Alaska Range curve through the interior like a giant fish hook. Beginning in the Saint Elias Range in Canada, the formidable mountains extend halfway across the state before bending south and joining the Aleutian Range near Bristol Bay. Hundreds of towering, snow-capped peaks and an equal number of massive, seemingly endless glaciers add to the expanse.

  Sanders flew the modern commuter plane with an easy confidence. He adjusted the twin throttle levers on the center console as they approached the nearest peak, pulling back slightly on the control yoke. The airspeed slowed as they descended, allowing more time for sightseeing out the windows.

  “All right folks, this is your captain speaking. By popular request, we will be passing near a few majestic peaks for some photo opportunities before beginning our descent into Fairbanks. Coming up on the right side is Mount Hayes, which is just under fourteen thousand feet in elevation. A few miles further out, you can see Mount Moffit at thirteen thousand and four other peaks rising above ten thousand.

  Closer in on the left side, you will see Mount Balchen at eleven thousand, then Hess Mountain and Mount Deborah at around twelve thousand. Between them is a massive ice field, branching into separate glaciers cutting through the many valleys.