Brace For Impact. Janice Kay Johnson
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“They’ll need to be sure you’re dead. Someone will be coming.” He stared at her with what she sensed took everything he had left. “Take coats, first-aid kit. Food. Run, Maddy.”
Her hot tears splattered onto his face. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Friend. Marshal. Ruzinski. Robert. Remember.”
She had to lip-read now. “Robert Ruzinski,” she repeated.
He made a sound that might have been confirmation. His lips moved again. “Trust him.”
“Okay. But I can’t leave you.”
Staring into his eyes, she saw the very second he left her. The tight clench of his fingers loosened. When she lifted her hand away, his arm flopped to his side.
He was dead.
She let herself cry for a few minutes before she made herself think through the cotton candy that seemed to fill her head.
Normally, she’d try to figure out whether there was some kind of beacon and how it worked. Or...would the radio still work? But as it was...
Run.
She didn’t dare be found. Not yet. She had to hide. Stay alive until she could really think, evaluate her options. Right now she needed to scavenge what she could from the plane, or she wouldn’t survive. She’d seen enough snow before the plane came down to know it must still get cold this high up in the mountains. And there might be some food. Something to hold water in. Yes, a first-aid kit.
Would she have phone reception? Maddy didn’t remember seeing her purse. It could be anywhere. She’d look, but the phone, even if it was what Scott had called a “burner,” would have GPS, wouldn’t it? That might not be good.
Warmth, food, water, bandages—those were her needs. And also... She turned her head to the twisted part of Scott Rankin’s body. If he carried a gun, she needed to take that.
The idea of groping his body felt like a hideous invasion. He’d want her to, though—she felt sure.
Shivering, Maddy knelt over him.
HE HAD TO be insane.
Will had had plenty of time to think about what he was doing, and how little chance there was that he’d be able to help anyone. People rarely survived that kind of crash. If anyone had miraculously lived, they might get a faster response from an activated beacon than from him. He’d known from the beginning that he’d take hours to reach the crash site.
But what if the plane didn’t have a beacon? If the pilot hadn’t filed a flight plan?
Straight lines in this country were rarely possible. No trail existed for him to follow. Instead, he’d reluctantly realized he had to drop from his current elevation of 7,380 feet on the summit and head southwest along the side of the ridge leading toward McMillan Spire. He had to stay above the tree line so he’d see the crash site. Then he just had to hope it would be possible to climb down to it.
This was not a recommended descent route from Elephant Butte. In fact, from what he’d read, he’d be facing brutal conditions. Chances were good he wouldn’t have cell phone coverage once he dropped toward the Torrent Creek and Stettatle Creek drainages. Even as he jogged along a lengthy band of snow, using his ice ax to aid his balance, he debated whether he should call to report what he’d seen. Swearing under his breath, he made himself stop, lower his pack and dig for his cell phone, which of course wasn’t easily accessed. He hadn’t expected to want it.
And then when he did find it...he had no bars. Will dropped the damn useless thing back into a pocket that he zipped, then shouldered the pack again and set off.
The speed he tried to maintain was a lot faster than was safe.
Even as he thought that, his feet caught crumbling rock and skidded. He slammed the serrated end of the ax into a crack between boulders and felt the wrench on his shoulders as the ax held and one of his booted feet slid over a drop-off.
Swearing, sweating, he made slow, careful movements to get his feet back under him on a too-narrow ledge. The unwieldy pack didn’t help; even though he’d eaten some of the food he’d carried in, it probably still weighed seventy pounds or more. Nothing he wasn’t familiar with from deployments, but this was a different landscape. The weight shifted his balance, like a pregnant woman’s belly shifted hers. He made his cautious and much slower way to another strip of snow, one of many that formed ribbons between stretches of tumbled rock.
Had to come up here alone, didn’t ya?
Maybe this wasn’t the right plan. He was strong. He thought he could make it back to Diablo by early nightfall, even though he’d taken two days to get up here. He could call 911 or find a ranger station, get a rescue helicopter in the air.
One that wouldn’t be able to land in this mountainous landscape, Will reminded himself.
Still, if he ever reached the crash site, odds were he’d find a dead pilot. Given that this was Sunday, he might also find some climbers or hikers who’d been closer and had already reached the site.
He just didn’t believe that. This was early in the season in the high mountains. A warm spring had opened the backcountry earlier than usual. A lot of people would have waited for the upcoming Fourth of July weekend. And even though people down at Ross Lake and hiking the Big Beaver Trail had probably seen the plane go overhead, if they paid any attention to it at all once it crossed the ridge, they’d have lost sight before it began to plummet. Climbers up McMillan Spire might have seen it, but they might just as well have not, too. No matter what, he was closer. Will had a bad feeling that, by sheer chance, he might be the only person who’d seen the crash.
He could do more to help survivors than almost anyone, too, although he regretted the limited medical supplies he carried. Still, as an army medic—former army medic—he’d seen and treated more traumatic injuries than most physicians. Death was all too familiar to him, but if there was any chance...
He groaned and kept moving.
IT TOOK MADDY half an hour and a panicky realization of passing time to realize the rear portion of the plane wasn’t where she thought it should be. It should have broken off first and thus been behind where she’d regained consciousness hanging upside down. Every step hurt. Even the brush of hemlock or fir needles hurt. If she hadn’t been terrified—Run, Maddy—she would have given up. But she couldn’t, in case Marshal Rankin was right.
Holding on to a tree limb to keep from falling down the slope, she made herself remember when the plane first hit the treetops. As their trajectory slowed, she’d felt hope. And then a wing must have caught, because the entire plane swung around and then flipped. What came after, she knew only from seeing two large pieces of what had been a shiny, well-maintained and loved small plane.
So...other pieces could have been flung in almost any direction, couldn’t they? She’d been lucky to find the nose of the plane so quickly. What she’d considered logic wasn’t logic at all. The tail could have ended up somewhere ahead of the nose, or off to one side or the other. It wasn’t as if chunks of airplane would have been shed in a straight line.
She paid attention to broken branches and scarred trunks. Raw scrapes in the gray rock. Her brain kept latching on to small, mostly meaningless details. What was that harsh call she kept hearing? Had the bang really been loud enough to have been a bomb going off? Could they have, oh, hit a big bird that fouled the propeller or the engine? No, Scott would have seen that; he’d been sitting in front, right beside the pilot. Of course he would. Then she started to worry about what kind of animals would be drawn by the smell of blood. Hadn’t grizzlies been reintroduced into the