The Last Flight Read online

  Folks, the view you’re seeing up close lies between the Richardson and Parks Highways. Fifty miles across, this small section includes ten peaks above ten thousand feet and seven major glaciers. I’m sure you’ll agree the scenery is spectacular, yet the view is only a tiny sampling of all the mountains in Alaska.”

  The passengers could be heard talking excitedly in the back as a few shifted in their seats, snapping photographs of the scenery. Illiamin was equally impressed and was glad Sanders was flying, allowing him to relax and enjoy the view.

  The passenger cabin was designed with only a single seat on each side, extending back for eight rows with a ninth row of three seats across the rear bulkhead. Between the bulkhead and tail section was a large compartment for storing baggage and cargo. A rear exit was located between the last two rows on the left. Two exits were in the middle of the cabin, one over each wing. A forward access door was behind the cockpit, on the left side in front of the first row, and directly across from the entryway were several small storage lockers. Another smaller baggage compartment was located in the nose of the aircraft.

  The four girls, their coach, and the retired schoolteacher were sitting in the first three rows. The two out-of-state hunters occupied the fourth row, and the unhappy married couple sat immediately behind. Six of the seven elderly tourists from the cruise ship were spread in the three identical rows further back. The last set of bulkhead seats was filled by the remaining tourist, the old miner, and his nephew.

  Susan Douglas smiled as the girls excitedly pointed out the high peaks to each other. Fit and a few inches over five feet tall, at the age of fifty, her curved body still drew admiring looks. Her personality was her best feature, and she was often the center of attention in any social gathering. A cream-colored blouse, boot-cut beige jeans, and fitted waist length jacket highlighted her figure.

  One of the girls clicked several images before passing a disposable camera across the aisle for more photos from the opposite window. Their coach, Donna Reagan, seemed less excited about the scenery and more interested in a fashion magazine. Keeping up on the latest trends was one of her obsessions, although she rarely practiced what she read. Only when one of the girls stood up and leaned over her seat, did she divert her attention.

  The elderly group of tourists was equally captivated by the towering mountains. The scenery was the main reason they selected Alaska for a vacation. Several had expensive video cameras, which they used liberally from both sides of the aircraft. Voices filled the cabin with talk of Alaska and travels to other exotic destinations.

  The two hunters, Dave Kwapich and Hank Bidwell, appeared subdued after a series of long connecting flights over the previous twelve hours. Their seats were separated by the narrow aisle and they seemed content enjoying the view in anticipation of their upcoming hunt.

  Kwapich appeared the more relaxed of the two, wearing khaki pants, a plaid shirt, and running shoes on his wiry, five-foot-ten frame. Folded against his seat was a lightweight, fleece jacket. His feet stretched under the seat in front, and he leaned partly sideways against the fuselage. At forty-three years old, he was self-conscious of his retreating hairline and wore a faded, burgundy colored baseball cap.

  Bidwell was five inches taller with broad shoulders and thick forearms. Denim jeans and a long-sleeve, heavy cotton shirt rolled above his elbows depicted a typical rancher’s outfit. Worn hiking boots covered his large feet, which looked out of proportion in the small opening between the seats. A head of thick, reddish-brown hair and matching goatee speckled with silver gave him a rugged appearance.

  In the last row, Danny Simms had given up on trying to see outside from the middle seat. He stretched his youthful legs and immersed himself in music from an iPod, slowly rocking his head to the rhythmic beat in his headphone.

  On his left, sixty-three-year-old Otto Hackermann was uninterested in the scenery. He disliked flying and being close to the mountains made him nervous. He usually traveled by vehicle and only made an exception this time because his truck was in for repairs. Aside from personal reservations about flying, he was concerned for his two dogs in the cargo compartment.

  The remaining seat in the last row was occupied by an older woman named Doris, who was accompanying two close friends. This was their first visit to Alaska. She spoke excitedly with her companions and encouraged Lenora, directly in front, to take as many pictures as possible.

  Sanders maneuvered the aircraft close to the western slope of Mount Hayes until the summit passed off the right wing, then turned left at a sharper angle toward Mount Deborah. At the same time he nosed the aircraft slightly forward, reducing altitude. They began picking up light turbulence as they passed through thirteen thousand feet.

  “Flash the seat belt sign for the passengers,” Sanders instructed. “I don’t want anyone being caught out of their seat.”

  Illiamin flipped a switch on the overhead console, sending a signal to the passenger cabin. “Seat belt sign is on, Captain.”

  “Thank you. We’ll continue past Mount Deborah, then turn and descend over the Wood River into Fairbanks. The view is awesome up here. I never get tired of it.”

  “Sure is.” Illiamin continued gazing out the window. “This is the first time I’ve flown over the mountains without being in the clouds.”

  “I’ve never been bored flying in Alaska,” Sanders stated. “Seeing mountains like this on television doesn’t do them justice. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of the scenery.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty amazing. Nature sure has a way of making us feel insignificant.”

  As Illiamin finished talking, a strong downdraft on the leeward side of the mountain hit the aircraft, forcing Sanders to compensate for a rapid loss of altitude. Stronger bouts of turbulence began shaking the plane.

  “We may have to cut this short. Looks like the winds ahead of the weather front arrived earlier than forecast,” Sanders explained. “The scenery is a nice bonus, but I don’t want the passengers getting jostled around too much.”

  Illiamin looked out ahead at the highest peak and noticed a trail of blowing snow tapering sharply away from the summit. “Do you see that?” He pointed toward the peak. “The wind wasn’t doing that a few minutes ago.”

  “No, it wasn’t. I’m turning toward Fairbanks.” Sanders suddenly felt uncomfortable being close to the mountains. He realized he allowed the aircraft to divert too far into the path of the approaching storm.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain again. I’m afraid we’re going to have to cut the scenic tour short. As I’m sure you already noticed, we’re picking up increased turbulence. For your comfort and safety, we are continuing on to Fairbanks. I apologize for any inconvenience.”

  There were a few grumbles of dissatisfaction from the cabin, mostly from the youngsters, but after a few seconds they subsided. The passengers soon realized there was still ample scenery to enjoy during the remainder of the flight.

  “Should I give Fairbanks Approach Control a call?” Illiamin watched as Sanders turned on a new heading.

  “Not yet. We’re still about a hundred miles out. Give them a call at fifty miles.”

  The turbulence slackened after Sanders turned the aircraft away from the higher peaks. He continued a slow descent, expecting the winds to decrease further. At first they did, and when another sharp downdraft hit the aircraft, he was caught by surprise. The force of violent air took only a few seconds to subside, but in the same time the aircraft dropped three hundred feet.

  The next loss of altitude was even worse. The drop wasn’t a downdraft, but a loss of power. The aircraft began to roll right, followed by the sound of a high-pitched audio horn and illumination of the number two fire-warning light on the instrument panel. The emergency immediately caught both pilots’ attention.

  “Fire indication on the number two engine,” Sanders declared. He quickly adjusted the power levers to level the aircraft. “Any smoke or fire visible on your side?”

 
; Illiamin quickly turned and leaned against the side window, glancing back toward the starboard wing. His voice increased in pitch. “Roger. We’ve got smoke trailing from the engine and flames around the cowling.”

  Illiamin reacted automatically. Without waiting for a command, he reached for the overhead console and placed his hand on the fire suppression handle. “Number two fire handle identified.”

  Sanders grabbed the starboard engine’s fuel and throttle controls, yanking the levers to the off position. He then feathered the propeller, aligning the blades to a zero pitch angle. The procedure stopped their rotation, reducing drag on the aircraft.

  Sanders confirmed Illiamin’s hand was on the correct fire suppression lever and in a much calmer voice than he expected told him to initiate the emergency procedure. “Pull the fire handle.”

  Illiamin immediately did as instructed. After waiting a few seconds, he looked back at the engine, relieved to see the fire was extinguished. “The fire’s out. No visible flames, and the smoke is subsiding.”

  Sanders didn’t answer. He concentrated on flying the aircraft. With an engine out and a full load of fuel and passengers, the plane was descending rapidly into the mountains. He barely noticed the frantic, terrified voices of the passengers.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Connor sat in the parking lot, the car’s engine off, remembering the events of Tortello’s death all too vividly. The memory had been resurfacing more often in the past few months, allowing only fitful sleep.

  For a moment he forced his eyes into the glaring sunlight, welcoming the pain. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. He forced the emotion back into a hidden recess, where the memory lingered with the others, waiting to come forward again.

  A sharp spasm suddenly shot through Connor’s back, reverberating down his left leg. He grimaced and forced himself to lean back against the headrest, closing his eyes. The episodes were becoming more frequent and painful. The throbbing intensified for a moment before slowly fading. He relaxed his breathing, recalling better times when he was healthy and young.

  Less than two months after Tortello’s death, Connor returned to Alabama as a flight instructor, providing fledgling pilots the benefit of his experience. Away from the war he found a temporary peace. He married and his loving wife bore him a beautiful daughter and son. The time was one of the happiest in his life. He relished each passing day, especially the time with his family. The memories of war, which he hid so well, were left behind, at least for a while.

  Once American forces began their systematic withdrawal from Vietnam, Connor thought he would escape being sent over again. His wife didn’t want him to go, and for the most part he didn’t either. But another part grew anxious with the prospect of returning. Lost friends and personal demons still pulled at his conscious.

  Whether he wanted to return or not didn’t matter. The Army soon made the decision for him. One day he was in the comfort of his home, surrounded by family, and the next in Vietnam wondering if his new assignment would be his last.

  On the second tour Connor always seemed to be in the thick of dangerous situations. Twice, helicopters were shot out from under him in enemy territory, where he barely managed to evade capture. Three other helicopters were so badly damaged they barely made the flight back to base.

  Members of his crew, some of them close friends, were killed, each loss making him harder and more determined. Several times he was wounded, although never severely enough to be sent home. He ignored the physical pain, but the mental stress kept building inside. When he finally left Vietnam again, he was near the breaking point. The loss of his daughter on his return finally pushed him over the edge.

  By the time Connor pulled himself away from a personal hell of blame and self-pity, reinforced all too frequently by haunting nightmares, his career was in ruin. Two more failed marriages along the way didn’t help. Only his love of flying finally turned his life around and eventually his career.

  Five years after the loss of his daughter and still in a repetitive routine as an instructor at the Army’s flight school in Alabama, Connor asked for reassignment to Germany. There, he flew a more challenging schedule, flying high-ranking officers across Western Europe or supporting tactical operations with specialized troops. The change was rewarding and allowed him to place his personal failures in the past.

  His renewed enthusiasm for flying was soon outdone by his next assignment in Alaska. The beauty captured him in a spell of newfound affection and adventure. He was finally able to experience flying in the Last Frontier first hand, outside the pages of the books he consumed as a kid.

  Connor was always a step above most pilots and soon became as adept and confident at mountain flying as he had been in combat. He had few equals. His commitment to his career, and more importantly to himself, was restored.

  Further assignments followed in Colorado, the Middle East, Louisiana, and Korea. With each new posting came increased responsibility, and as a senior warrant officer he served in multiple administrative positions. His flight hours decreased, but his motivation never changed. He always found time to fly. Flying was his equalizer and a way of reducing the stress of everyday life.

  Now at the end of his career, Connor gratefully found himself back in Alaska, ironically assigned to a company of outdated helicopters nearing their own retirement. Unlike the machines, however, he did not intend to fade peacefully away.

  Over the years, Connor had seen aviation change for the better and for the worse. As technology improved, so did the capability of the helicopters. Training, tactics, and even the motivation of pilots changed along with them. For some, flying was simply a job, a paycheck and nothing more. As far as he was concerned, they were pilots in name only—unreliable in tight situations.

  Following major force cuts after Vietnam and the first Gulf War, flight hours became less available, often only enough to maintain minimum requirements. Pilot proficiency declined, and increased regulation left many disillusioned and bitter. For most, the drawdown was a tough transition, but for others, less enthusiastic about their profession, a lack of flight time was an insignificant diversion. For them, pay and career advancement were far more important than flying, although most never acknowledged the fact outside a close circle of friends.

  Those who chose aviation for the love of flying became fewer in number. They alone possessed something special—qualities that set them apart and molded them into the best of the best. The traits were more than physical capabilities or experience, more than even determination and personal drive, which often define success. All were important, even vital, yet there was something else that distinguished the good pilots above the rest.

  Some would say the best pilots had a special karma. Their attitude was different, more assured. Not fearless, but an anticipation and unique focus, an uncanny feel for flying most pilots never possessed. The distinction was mostly unspoken, acknowledged with only silent recognition from their peers.

  Connor knew there would always be pilots who stayed in aviation for the wrong reasons, but their skill would never equal those he considered real pilots. Wars and other harsh conditions had a way of weaning them out. Even away from the rigors of war, a pilot was often tested. Mountain flying and weather, like combat, were especially cruel discriminators.

  Ordinary aviators, of which there were many, often labeled the best pilots as hot-dogs or mavericks, just as Connor had been throughout his career. The critics were partially right, but the best pilots knew and understood their own limitations—how to challenge themselves and master what others considered dangerous.

  Even as Connor’s well-honed skills became rusty with age and lack of use, he was still better than most. His abilities were fading, but the demons never left. They always were there, reminding him of the past.

  Now cancer had joined the fight. The last battle, his last challenge would be to defeat them both, and at the same time, perhaps, destroy himself as well.

  CHAPTER SE
VEN

  Under normal conditions, the twin-engine commuter could maintain level flight with only one operable engine. Unfortunately for the passengers and crew above the mountains, they were not in normal conditions. The aircraft was near maximum gross weight, being forced lower by rough air currents billowing off the peaks, at a rate one engine couldn’t compensate for.

  At first, the rate of descent kept the aircraft clear of the mountains at a shallow angle toward a distant river basin. Sanders thought they were out of danger. Once the downdrafts began increasing in intensity, he realized he was terribly wrong.

  The aircraft quickly began losing altitude at a much steeper angle into the high, rugged terrain. A massive glacier, snaking out of a sharply cut valley several miles away, appeared to be the only hope of a safe landing.

  “Get out a Mayday call,” Sanders instructed Illiamin. “I can’t maintain altitude. Tell them our position is on the north side of Mount Deborah, south of Crosson Glacier, heading northwest. Send our coordinates when you make contact.”

  Illiamin swallowed hard before transmitting a distress call over the VHF radio. He spoke rapidly, trying to keep his voice from breaking. There was no response. After a few seconds he transmitted again, but the second try also went unanswered.

  Sanders could hear the alarmed voices of the passengers through the cockpit door. Realizing they were almost in a panic, he reassured them over the intercom, simultaneously using every bit of skill to maneuver the aircraft for a safe landing.

  “Folks, we have a minor emergency. We lost power on one engine and are losing altitude, but the aircraft is still flying. We need to make an emergency landing. Please stay in your seats with your seat belts securely fastened and remain calm. Rescue services have already been notified and we will be safely on the ground before long.”