Dana Stabenow - A Fine and Bitter Snow

He was on call twenty-four/seven and the ringing of the phone sounded to his ear like a bugler sounding a charge. He was the cavalry riding to the rescue of any Park rat who was under attack, and he didn’t care how politically incorrect the analogy was.

The phone rang constantly that morning in his office as he fielded calls from an irate father whose daughter had run off with her high school sweetheart, a distraught grandmother whose grandson had been beating her, a village elder reporting a shipment of 102 cases of vodka and whiskey into a dry village, a big game guide wanting to know what the summons was for and how the hell he was supposed to get to Ahtna for a courtroom appearance with his plane broken down. The next call was from a young man who had failed at fishing in Alaganik and who now wanted to go to the University of Alaska Interior in Ahtna to learn how to work a computer but didn’t know how to fill out the form. Jim ascertained that the eloping daughter was of legal age, dispatched one corporal to take the grandmother’s statement, dispatched another to intercept and confiscate the shipment of alcohol, hung up on the big game guide, and walked the fisherman through the application form.

The next call was from his boss in Anchorage. “Hey, Jim, how’s it hanging?”

Jim sat back and put his feet up on his desk, there to admire the immaculate shine on his black leather boots. “About six inches from the floor,” he replied.

A scoffing laugh. “Yeah, you wish.”

“No, you do.”

There followed the traditional exchange of insults and exaggerations so dear to the hearts of the male of the species, particularly those who were longtime friends and allies in the war on crime. Finally, his boss said, “We’ve been doing some thinking down here, Jim.”

Uh-oh. “Thinking about what?”

“About your workload.”

“What about it?”

A genial chuckle. “It’s kind of heavy, isn’t it?”

“So what else is new?”

“Well, we were thinking of lightening it up a little.”

Jim took his feet off the desk and sat up to look at the map of the Park tacked to the wall behind his desk. “Define ‘lightening up.” “

Another chuckle. “Breaking a chunk off your post’s area of jurisdiction, for starters.”

“What chunk?”

“The southern half. From, say, Niniltna south.”

Fully half of his command. Which wouldn’t do his career a hell of a lot of good. But then, he wasn’t bucking for promotion anyway. He had no ambition to retire in Tal-keetna.

On the other hand, he and his people were getting the job done. “What brought this on?”

A sigh. “You know we’ve got these bean counters running around down here right now, looking over our shoulders.”

The Outside auditors the state had brought in. “I’ve heard.”

The chuckle was not quite as genial this time. “Yeah. They’ve seen the amount of reports you file, the case load. They’re thinking you’re overworked, and that it’s going to cause problems down the road.”

“Why not just assign me another corporal?”

“I suggested that.”

“And?”

“They also looked at the response times. Hell, Jim, they’ve got a point. That’s the hell of a lot of territory you people cover. Some of that territory is a long way from where you’re sitting.”

Jim sat back and propped his feet on the windowsill this time, looking at the map of the Park. Niniltna was at its heart, when Ekaterina Moonin Shugak was still alive in more ways than one. Ahtna and Cordova were bigger, but Niniltna had the strong native association, with its solid leadership, and some legendary figures as shareholders. One in particular.

It also had a 4,800-foot airstrip, long enough to land a jet on-a small one anyway. Always supposing any pilot worthy of the name would put anything other than a Here down on gravel. “Just as a matter of curiosity,” Jim said, “have we got enough funding to create a new post?”

“Yeah, right.”

A brief silence as Jim surveyed the map again. “Gene,” he said, “are you satisfied with my work?”

A snort this time. “If I wasn’t, you would have heard so before now.”

“So if I come up with another way to set what passes for the bean counters’ minds at ease, you’d listen to it?”

“Hell yes. What is it?”

“Give me a couple of days?” He waited.

“Yeah,” Gene said finally. “Okay.”

“One more thing.”

“What?”

“You know Dan O’Brian?”

A brief pause. Jim could hear the Rolodex between his boss’s ears clicking. “Dan O’Brian. Right. Chief ranger your area. What about him?”

“He mouthed off about drilling for oil in ANWR. They’re trying to force him into retirement.”

“So? Should have kept his mouth shut.”

“Agreed, but otherwise he’s a good man. We work well together. I’d hate to have to break in some newbie. Can you call somebody, make some noise?”

“I can call several.”

“I owe you.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll see after the next time we talk.”

“Gotcha,” Jim said, grinning. He hung up, and grabbed his jacket and hat on his way out the door.

It was as clear and calm this morning as it had been the night before, the big high pressure system hanging over interior Alaska strong enough to keep it that way for the next three to four days. He had done preflight and refueled the Cessna with the shield on its side the night before. All he had to do was roll her out, and he was in the air five minutes later. He was on the ground in Niniltna in less than an hour, taxiing up to the hangar that served as headquarters for George Perry’s two-plane air taxi service. George was there, pulling the backseat from his Super Cub and loading the back with mailbags. “Thank God for the U.S. Postal Service,” he said in greeting.

A U.S. Postal Service mail contract had been the savior of more than one Bush air taxi running on duct tape and the owner’s sweat. “What’s with all the packages going out?”

George grinned. “Christmas returns.”

“Oh.” The only Christmas presents Jim sent were to his parents, usually something out of a catalog. In return, he got a card accompanied by a baseball cap with the logo of whatever sports team his father was currently following, and a box of his mother’s homemade fudge. The fudge, he ate immediately. The cap usually went to the first kid he saw in the next village he flew into. The card lasted longer than either of them.

“What’s up?” George said. “Somebody get uppity enough to require the personal attention of the law?”

Jim gave a noncommittal grunt. George had heard that grunt before, and he changed the subject. “See you at Bernie’s later?”

“I don’t know. Depends on if I have to make a run.”

“Try.” George grinned. “I hear somebody made a successful winter assault on Big Bump.”

“Ah. It’s Middle Finger time.”

“You got it.”

“George?”

“What?”

“Tell me about weather in the Park.”

George cocked a quizzical eyebrow.

“Pilot to pilot,” Jim said.

George’s take was that it was typical Interior weather-a lot of cold, clear days in the winter and a lot of hot, clear days in the summer, if you didn’t count the blizzards and the forest fires, respectively. “We’re in between the Alaska Range and the Chugach Range,” George told him, “with the Quilaks at our backs, and we’re far enough away from all of them to keep us CAVU more often than not. So what’s all this about?”

“Something in the wind,” Jim said. “I’ll let you know.”

“Will it be good for the air taxi business?”

“Yes. In fact, start figuring out how much you’d charge to haul prisoners to Ahtna, Tok, or Anchorage. And try to keep it below highway robbery.”