The Last Flight Read online

  Both pilots wore a look of resignation, fully aware their situation was much more than a minor emergency. Landing safely would require every bit of skill and luck they could muster. A false reassurance might be the only thing preventing the passengers from complete panic.

  “Keep sending a distress,” Sanders instructed. “Try Unicom and Flight Service frequencies as long as you can. I hope to hell someone hears us.”

  Illiamin nodded. He transmitted on multiple frequencies without a response. The radios were completely silent, as if they’d entered a zone of dead air. In effect, they had, for the aircraft had descended amid a surrounding wall of peaks, effectively blocking all radio signals.

  Sanders pulled back on the yoke, raising the plane’s nose, slowing the airspeed as much as he dared to decrease the rate of descent. An ice-covered ridge ahead of the plane was growing at a rapid rate through the windshield. With mountains on each side, there was no room to maneuver and limited altitude to spare.

  A hundred yards from the windward side of a jagged ridge, the descent rate suddenly stopped. The flow of air changed direction as it deflected upward against the steep terrain. One second the plane was descending rapidly and the next was being lifted skyward.

  Sanders held the same airspeed, capturing as much altitude as possible in the few seconds before the wind changed direction again. He knew what was coming, but there was nothing he could do. Within seconds of clearing the ridge, the aircraft was caught in another, more violent downdraft. Power to the good engine was at maximum, the airspeed was as slow as he dared, and they were again descending rapidly into the mountains. The chance of making the glacier in the distance seemed less and less a possibility.

  Susan Douglas had been looking out the window when the engine caught fire. A frightened exclamation from one of the elderly tourists was her first inkling of danger. Within seconds, all the passengers were aware of the situation and becoming increasingly distraught. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, but before anyone could yell to notify the crew, the fire was out and the pilot was talking over the intercom.

  Susan sensed the emergency was more serious than the captain stated, and the rest of the passengers soon shared the same feeling. The mountains on each side, the turbulent winds, the changes in their flight path, and variations in engine noise portrayed the ominous truth. She was grateful no one panicked, for it would have triggered her own emotional outbreak.

  Three young girls from the swim team were crying softly, traumatized by being alone in their seats with no one beside them. The coach tried reassuring them in a voice teetering on hysteria.

  Susan’s memory flashed to the death of her husband, killed in the crash of his small plane when the engine failed. She had driven him to the hangar for a brief flight and stood in shock as the engine suddenly ceased on takeoff. Frozen in place and holding her breath in anguish, she stared in horror as her husband made a desperate turn back for the runway.

  The tight maneuver was too steep, plunging the aircraft violently earthward. Whether the sharp turn was a panicked attempt to avoid the trees or for some other reason, she never knew. The plane hit nose first in a tangle of bent metal, coming to rest in a grove of high spruce at the end of the runway. There was no sound for a moment. The pause seemed like an eternity before she began screaming for help, hoping someone could reach the wreckage and save her husband.

  Susan raced across the tarmac, dismissing the thought he was already dead. Before she was halfway, the wreckage burst into flames, quickly destroying any chance of life. She continued running until her lungs ached, unable to breathe, smelling the acrid smoke blowing across the field. She finally collapsed on her knees, out of breath and sobbing, afraid to go further.

  A hand reached from behind the seat in front of Susan, touching her knee and gently jostling her thoughts back to the present. She looked up and saw the face of the young girl sitting in front, her expression was reassuring and surprisingly composed. Her touch was warm, almost tingling, as if carried by a faint electric current. The sensation was comforting. Susan leaned forward to join hands, forcing a smile, suddenly relaxed by the girl’s calming influence.

  Other passengers were holding hands with mixed emotions, some praying and a few staring outside in disbelief. One of the men was talking forcefully to the plane, unaware he was speaking aloud, coaxing the aircraft to climb and turn as if he was at the controls.

  “It’s going to be okay,” the young girl said easily. “The pilots know what they’re doing.”

  Susan grasped the girl’s hand harder in reply before speaking in a shaky voice. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

  “Lisa,” she replied with an almost angelic expression. “Don’t be afraid. You’re going to be okay.”

  Susan wanted to ask how she knew but for some reason believed her. She nodded and thought of her husband again. “My husband was a pilot. He practiced this type of emergency all the time.” She spoke as much for her own benefit as the other passengers within hearing distance. They needed reassurance, too.

  “The pilots will find a place to land.” Confidence was evident in Lisa’s expression.

  “Thank you,” Susan replied. Her voice was stronger now. “Thank you for talking with me, Lisa.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll be here with you. Can I still hold your hand?”

  Susan was surprised by the question, then realized the gesture was more for her benefit than Lisa’s. “Of course. God bless you.”

  Lisa smiled knowingly, giving Susan’s hand a gentle squeeze before facing back forward, her arm still extended behind her.

  Illiamin continued sending distress calls. There was no response on any of the frequencies. He knew the terrain was blocking the signal but hoped a high-flying jet might be able to receive the transmission. None did.

  Without radio contact, the situation was critical. Even if they landed safely, a quick rescue was unlikely. Basic emergency equipment was carried on the aircraft but no cold weather gear. Weather conditions in Alaska were warm in August near sea level, but the high mountains were more reflective of winter. Freezing temperatures and snowfall were common.

  Powerful air currents off the slopes accelerated through narrow channels of terrain, increasing in strength as they pushed the aircraft faster toward the earth. The glacier was no longer visible, hidden behind a saw-toothed ridge extending across their flight path.

  Sanders willed the aircraft to stop losing altitude. His silent plea was ignored. If he didn’t do something quick, the aircraft would hit below the crest of the ridge.

  “Give me thirty-degree flaps,” he ordered.

  Illiamin glanced at him in surprise and then at the airspeed, a questioning look on his face. With the gusting tail wind, the use of flaps was dangerous. They could tear loose and damage the integrity of the wings.

  “Now, damn it! Thirty-degree flaps or we’re going to eat the mountain,” Sanders exclaimed.

  The aircraft buffeted sharply for a brief moment as Illiamin did as instructed. The flaps worked as intended in spite of the fluctuating air currents stressing their design capability. He emitted a slow breath of relief.

  The plane steadied as Sanders adjusted the flight controls, keeping the airspeed above stalling, anticipating each gust and trying to gain every foot of altitude he possibly could. The descent slowed momentarily, stopping for a few seconds before continuing again.

  “Give me sixty degrees flaps, now.” Sanders felt the change before there was an indication on the instruments.

  The plane fought for altitude, trying to lift itself higher, struggling with the decreasing distance between earth and sky. The ridge drew closer with each passing second. Sanders knew they needed the wind to help if they were to clear the ridge. An updraft of air was their only hope.

  Nearer the windward side of the ridge, the aircraft caught the deflected flow of air, stopping the descent from moments before. Suddenly the plane began ascending. Almost level with the top, the pilots sensed they
might clear the ridge after all.

  Sanders began talking the plane forward over the sound of the engine. “Come on baby. Come on, you can do it. Keep climbing. Come on baby.”

  Illiamin listened to Sanders and stared at the ridge, holding his seat as if trying to pull the aircraft higher. He began to repeat the same words, willing the plane upward foot by foot. Slowly, as the edge of the ridge dropped below his line of vision, a smile spread across his face.

  His exhilaration was short lived. As they cleared the summit of protruding rock, the strong vertical air current changed to a more horizontal direction. Both pilots were caught off guard. They should have known even if there was nothing they could do.

  The updraft disappeared. The wind shifted, varying direction off the steep cliffs angling toward the center of the ridge. At first the change wasn’t dramatic but was enough to steal the narrow margin of lift they needed.

  Sanders felt the shift in direction and immediately knew they were in trouble. “Full flaps!”

  Illiamin reacted quickly, but the action didn’t make a difference. Sanders simultaneously adjusted the controls, reducing the airspeed to a dangerous level. An audio horn began sounding a warning and the flight controls began shaking uncontrollably. A stall was imminent.

  The mountain ridge was nearly a hundred and fifty yards long, slanting down at a twenty-degree angle from the southwest and curving at a sharper angle to the east. The width was two hundred feet at the widest point, tapering to half that distance between the almost vertical cliffs of the surrounding slopes. Large outcroppings of jagged rock protruded unevenly from the granite surface. Smaller mounds interlaced with patches of colored lichen covered the ground. Snow remained in the deeply shaded areas protected from the sun.

  “We’re going to hit. Brace yourself!” Sanders exclaimed.

  He managed to align the aircraft with the ridge before the aircraft stalled. A split second later he pulled back on the yoke, raising the nose just enough to clear the first seam of rocks. The loss of lift caused the plane to fall violently. Sanders barely had enough time to reach for the throttle and fuel levers, quickly pulling them to the closed position before being knocked unconscious.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Connor’s muscles ached as he drove away from the hospital. The intense pain had subsided, providing temporary relief. A bottle of prescription pills was in his pocket, but he was reluctant to use them. He couldn’t chance the side effects. He would endure the pain and make do with some less effective over-the-counter medicine.

  There was no other traffic on the short drive across base. Soldiers and support personnel were already at work performing a diversity of duties befitting a military base. Over half the assigned soldiers, including the majority of aviation assets, were deployed overseas.

  Originally named Ladd Field during construction in World War Two, the airfield and surrounding facilities were renamed Fort Wainwright in the 1960s. Located in the center of Alaska, the base bordered the city of Fairbanks on the west side, and the Richardson Highway on the south. A large airfield stretched across the north end, framed by the Chena River.

  Two runways were the biggest features on the airfield, running parallel between an array of hangars and support buildings. Constructed as a staging base for equipment and supplies during World War Two, the airfield served as a transfer facility for thousands of Lend-Lease aircraft bound for the Soviet Union. Following the war, the base was used by a multitude of military units. Many of the original hangars were left in place.

  Dozens of scout, medevac, heavy lift, and utility helicopters, normally parked inside the hangars or on the tarmacs, were missing, serving in Afghanistan and Iraq. The airfield appeared abandoned accept for a few remaining helicopters and a small contingent of support personnel.

  Connor parked near a large wooden hangar with bleached siding and a pitch-domed roof on the southwest corner of the airfield. He took his time getting out of the car, pausing to straighten the cuffs of his olive-gray flight suit over his boots. He carefully stood erect and donned a camouflage fatigue hat. A silver bar with four black dots, signifying the rank of a senior warrant officer, adorned the front. The flight suit was without insignia, except for a leather nametag above the left chest pocket identifying his name and rank.

  Connor glanced at the sky before stepping carefully across the gravel parking lot. He wondered if he would ever fly again or if he should even try. Deep inside, he knew the answer.

  Upon reaching a single door on the south side of the building, he entered and removed his hat. The hangar always made him feel welcome. It wasn’t much in appearance but had been his place of work for nearly three years—seven if you included his first assignment. Even though the building was old and had seen better days, the memories inside reflected a happier period in his life.

  Connor walked through a narrow entryway, past a set of stairs leading to administrative offices on the second floor. The walls were painted light beige, barren except for two safety posters mounted in cheap wooden frames. Vinyl tiles, worn from years of foot traffic and yellowed by over-waxing, covered the floor.

  He continued through another door leading into the open bay of the hangar. A familiar smell of oil and grease, the sound of mechanical activity, and the sight of two UH-1H Huey helicopters greeted him.

  The hangar bay was a large, spacious area allowing as many as a dozen helicopters inside for maintenance and storage. Telescoping doors, nearly as high and wide as the walls, stretched across each narrow end of the hangar. Thick wooden beams supported the open, elevated ceiling, and the floor was the original concrete, swept clean of dirt and maintained in a polished hue.

  Built into the walls on each side were supply and maintenance offices. Directly above on the second floor, other offices were used for classrooms, storage, and administration. All were accessed by identical stairwells on opposite sides of the building. Except for the men and equipment inside, the hangar had experienced only minor change since original construction.

  The two UH-1 helicopters were partially dismantled as mechanics worked around the transmission and engine areas, preparing them for shipment to a depot facility outside Alaska. There, the helicopters would either be converted into target drones or auctioned off, more than likely to a foreign country.

  The hangar, like the rest on the airfield, was relatively void of the usual activity befitting an aviation unit. Only two of the original six helicopters were left for training and support missions. Their scheduled turn-in was for the following spring. Two others had already been shipped. Six smaller OH-58A scout helicopters had met the same fate the previous year, their pilots and mechanics reassigned to units outside Alaska.

  Only the two outdated UH-1 helicopters and a pair of UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters were left at Fort Wainwright—the UH-60s for medical support missions.

  Connor strode across the rectangular bay, holding a rigid posture that only added to his discomfort. He acknowledged one of the mechanics working atop the closest helicopter, nodding his head in reply to a brief wave, then continued without stopping. He reached the stairwell and grimaced in pain.

  Whispering a profanity, Connor hunched forward and grabbed the railing. The ache in his back seemed to spasm without warning and at the most inopportune times. After a long pause, he straightened and continued gingerly up the stairs.

  The worst of the pain subsided upon reaching the top of the landing. He leaned against the wall, took a deep breath, and stretched his back into a fully erect posture. The tension was bearable again.

  The hallway was dimly lit. A framed recruiting poster, lithographs of famous military battles and 8 x 10 photographs of the chain-of-command hung in rows on each wall. The paint was clean, applied in a shade of light blue, but did little to alter the drab atmosphere of musty wood and faded ceiling panels. He turned left and approached the open doorway of the company first sergeant.

  Voices were emanating from inside the office. Glancing inside, Connor spotted First
Sergeant Killian and Sergeant First Class Mayo sitting around a metal desk, discussing a computer printout. Identical mugs of coffee rested within easy reach. The conversation paused as they each took a sip.

  Killian wasn’t into flashy accommodations even though his position dictated better furnishings. His desk was standard military issue, painted in gunmetal gray and chipped on the corners. A porcelain stein full of pens and pencils rested beside a framed photo on one end. Paperwork piled high in a plastic tray and a desk calendar were positioned in the middle. A thin clipboard and sheets of paper were spread out on the opposite side.

  The office was painted in the same shade as the hallway. A worn leather couch and matching chair were positioned along the near wall, and a small wooden bookcase filled with manuals rested below the single window overlooking the tarmac. Three straight-back metal chairs were aligned under a red and white banner along the far wall. A coat rack with two hanging jackets stood in the corner. Another bookcase butted against the desk, filled with more manuals, history books, small mementos, and a pearl-white, push button phone on the top shelf. Above the bookcase was an old lithograph depicting a flight of helicopters over a rice paddy.

  The two men looked up as Connor cleared his throat in the doorway. They recognized the senior warrant officer and smiled with curiosity, pleased at being interrupted from the mundane discussion.

  Killian was wiry and short in stature, with piercing, dark eyes and a reserved personality. His wrath was legendary, but among friends a relaxed humor was easily visible. He was a career soldier who took a personal interest in each member of the company.

  Mayo was the opposite in appearance, tall and powerfully built. His dark complexion revealed his Samoan ancestry. Connor knew him well, having served with him during previous assignments. His intervention following Mayo’s drunken brawl at a seedy watering hole saved the young soldier from being booted out of the Army.

  “How goes the battle?” Connor asked, leaning against the doorframe. He hid his nagging pain with an easy banter unreflective of his mood.