Somewhere over the interior of Alaska
Sam Harbeck would have given anything at the moment to be in sunny Key West bolting down margaritas and kicking back with friends. Theyâd invited; heâd refused. Which was why, instead of lounging around in swim trunks, he was capping off his first vacation in years by piloting a floatplane into a September snowstorm deep in the Alaskan wilderness.
Some vacation, he thought ruefully. A killer storm roaring out of nowhere, a decrepit plane hell-bent on shaking itself apart, a distasteful errand and, on top of all this, Kerry Anderson. She wasnât expecting him, and Sam didnât relish the encounter. Oh, she was gorgeous with that wild tumble of blond hair and those long shapely legsânot to mention thick-lashed gold-and-silver eyes whose unerring gaze knew how to pierce right through a man. But leaving out her spectacular good looks, there was something about Kerry that made Sam uncomfortable. And when she found out what he wanted from her, all hell would break loose.
Sam gripped sinewy fingers around the yoke of the Cessna 185 and forced himself to concentrate on the challenge of setting this baby down safely on Kitty Kill Lake. If he was anywhere near it, that is. To the north, summits of the highest mountain range in North America shored up the skyâhad to stay clear of them. Somewhere to the west, a vast frozen river ground toward the sea: Williwaw Glacier. Its icy tongue split the land, its meltwater fed the lake below as well as the Kilkit River. Silverthorne Lodge was at the juncture of lake and riverâGodâs country.
But he didnât see the glacier, the lake or the lodge. All he saw was dreary gray clouds concealing the glorious scenery of what Sam considered the United Statesâ last frontier. With its icy tundra, vast distances, untold natural resources and teeming wildlife, Alaska was big, bold and unlike any other place in the world. Sam liked to think that he was like the landârugged, brash and untamed. A lot of people would have agreed with him.
No point in trying the radio; too much static. He peered out the Cessnaâs window, searching for landmarks. A sudden blast of turbulence knocked the plane into a prolonged pitch and yaw. Cursing, Sam yanked back on the yoke to halt a sharp descent before he rammed in the power. Clouds fell away to reveal the snow-crested tops of trees and a dark slice of water. Ahead lay a curve of the river surmounted by a rocky bluff.
He fought to hold the plane level in the wind and tipped the nose up slightly as a swirl of snow across the windshield blurred his vision. Forget a clean approach; heâd have to make do with these less than ideal conditions. Adrenaline kicked in, the high he always got when faced with a dangerous and demanding task.
As he swooped low over the gray belly of the river looking for a patch free of rocks, he saw a downed tree spreading a tangle of limbs across the riverbank and into the water. He cursed again and tried to avoid the obstruction. Too soon he felt a thud of impact against the right float and strut. Something snapped, and a branch scraped across the top of the plane before the Cessna veered and hit the water with a sickening lurch.
It was a couple of minutes before Samâs head cleared. The Cessna was upright, at least, but the right wing leaned into a tangle of vegetation. The left float was in place on the water. He climbed out of the cockpit groggily, sidestepped along the length of the float, and jumped across to the rocky bank before easing down on his haunches to assess the problem.
The planeâs right strut was broken, and its float had sheared off and lay on its side amid snow-covered boulders a few feet behind. The plane was skewed at an angle, its left wing canted in the air. Wait until he told his friend Vic Parnell that heâd damaged the plane. Vic admitted to a sentimental fondness for the Cessna, his first and only floatplane.
Sam straightened and brushed the snow from his shoulders before climbing back into the cockpit. He checked the Emergency Locator Transmitter, the ELT; evidently the plane hadnât impacted hard enough during the landing to trigger the signaling device automatically. The ELT would guide search planes to him if anyone was monitoring. He flipped the switch experimentally. Nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing. Great. Apparently the battery was dead.
Jeez, if heâd known this would be the result of doing Vic a favor, he never would have taken off this morning. Sam kept his own planes in excellent condition, and this particular friend wasnât ordinarily lax about safety precautions. However, Vic had been sick for over a year and was now recovering from an operation at his daughterâs house in Anchorage. Sam checked the survival gear and discovered that there wasnât much. A roll of duct tape, a musty sleeping bag, a Mylar survival blanket, some canned food. No flare gun, no matches, no drinkable water.