Jack Du Brul - Pandora's curse

The dial on the radiation monitor hadn’t twitched since he’d turned it on but Mercer was still concerned that the old plane was contaminated. He’d earlier instructed the pilot that if they did find the aircraft to land no closer than three miles from it. He looked at his watch again. Two minutes remained on his search timetable, which gave them only twelve minutes to land and get clear of the DC-3.

He tapped the pilot, pointed to the ground, and went to the rear to strap in. “We found it,” he announced as he reached his seat. “We’re landing now. Everyone, tighten your seat belts.”

He sat next to Anika in the last row of seats, accepting a bundle of clothes to use as a cushion when they assumed the head-down crash position. “I’m scared,” she said as the pitch of the engines changed.

“You shouldn’t be. What are the chances that you survive a helicopter crash only to die in a plane crash?”

“How can you be so calm?”

“I’m faking it. Don’t forget, this plane is designed to land on ice and snow, and the pilots know what they’re doing. We’ll be fine.”

A moment before the landing, the copilot ordered the passengers to brace themselves. Mercer tucked his head into his lap, grabbing the back of his thighs as tightly as he could. He knew the landing would be rough and he thought he was prepared.

He wasn’t. None of them were.

Flared nose up, the DC-3 skimmed the ground for a moment, its skis hissing and banging across the uneven surface. Then one of them hooked into a hardened piece of ice. The plane slammed hard, a jarring impact that nearly tore the fuselage apart. No longer moving in a straight line, the aircraft skipped and skidded, scrubbing off airspeed in a rapid deceleration that pitched the tail high. Amid the screams of the passengers was the explosive sound of the windscreens imploding. A solid wall of snow filled the cockpit and erupted through the connecting door. The two seats behind the bathroom tore free from the floor and launched themselves into a bulkhead. Wilhelm Treitschke and his companion, Gert Kreigsburg, were crushed against the metal wall, their necks snapping in identical pops.

As its momentum expended, the tail of the DC-3 dropped to the ground in a wrenching crash that bent the airframe and blew open the rear hatchway. The plane finally came to an uneven stop. The lash of cold air whipping into the cabin revived Mercer. He looked behind him. Ira had done a remarkable job securing the cargo. Despite the violence of the crash, the stack of crates hadn’t shifted under the netting and pulled the trip wire.

Mercer unbuckled his lap belt and stood, swaying against a wave of nausea. The sounds assaulting his ears were pitiable. Several people were still screaming in pain and fear while others sobbed uncontrollably. Worse was the silence from the front of the plane. The wall of snow filled the door leading to the cockpit. Buried somewhere inside were the pilots.

“We’ve got two minutes,” Mercer bellowed, hoping to galvanize the survivors with his voice. Each word felt like a hammer pounding against his temples. He ached everywhere. “Anyone who can move grab a bundle of supplies and get the hell away.”

Ira Lasko was the first to find his feet. He had to lift Erwin Puhl from his seat and hold him steady for a moment before they each took handfuls of gear and disappeared outside.

“Come on, Anika. You’re next.” Mercer tugged at her seat belt, freeing her.

“I’m okay,” she said groggily, a trickle of blood escaping from her hairline, where she’d hit her head against the seat back in front of her.

“We’ve got to add ‘lucky’ to your list of attributes. We made it,” Mercer said before turning serious. “Can you get out on your own?”

“I think so.”

It was clear that she couldn’t. “Ira,” Mercer yelled out, “I need a hand in here.”

Ira dashed back to the plane to help Anika and unload more gear while Mercer went forward to check on Marty, Ingrid, and Hilda. He didn’t need to check the two meteorologists or pilots. Their fate was all too apparent.

“Let’s go, Marty,” Mercer shouted when he reached his seat and then fell silent. Marty had pushed Ingrid back in her seat and was trying to get her head to remain erect. He couldn’t. The delicate bones in her neck were as pliable as rubber. She was dead. He looked up at Mercer blankly.

Mercer’s voice dropped. “We can’t help her, Marty. I’m sorry.”

“I think she looked up just as the plane hit.” He spoke with an unsettling monotone. “I even think I heard her neck break.”

The clock was ticking. “Can you get out by yourself?”

“Yes, I, ah, yes.” He stood and walked toward the rear exit as calmly as a seasoned passenger coming off a regular flight. He was in shock.

The heavyset Hilda, who Mercer recalled could move fifty-pound bags of potatoes with one beefy arm, was still folded over in the crash position, her arms dangling to the floor. He suspected she was dead until he saw that her shoulders were shaking. There were only a few seconds left.

He roughly pushed her back in her seat and unhooked her belt. The woman neither helped nor hindered his efforts. She was unconscious. And she weighed about two hundred pounds. Bending so he could dig a shoulder into her ample belly, Mercer heaved her limp body into a modified fireman’s carry and strained to straighten again. His body had been pummeled by the accident and it protested every inch he rose but he managed to stand, staggering to find his balance.

“Oh Jesus,” he groaned, moving down the aisle in a faltering lurch. “Did you have to sample every dish you prepared?”

On the way out the door he grabbed his leather sample bag by its strap. Ira had returned to the plane once again and helped Mercer jump to the snow. Together they hefted the inert chef away. They made it fifteen yards before the beeper on Ira’s watch went off.

“Down!” he shouted and fell flat, collapsing the woman and Mercer.

The explosion was muffled by the cargo stacked around it, and its detonative energy was concentrated on the far side of the aircraft. Still the concussion hit with enough force to suck the air out of Mercer’s lungs. Bits of debris and a hail of snow pelted him as he lay over Hilda to protect her from the worst of the blast. The bomb was far enough from the fuel tanks that there were no secondary detonations, which had been Mercer’s biggest fear. He looked over his shoulder as the rumble died away.

The entire tail assembly was twisted away from the remainder of the fuselage and the roof above the bomb had vanished. Such a blast during the flight would have dropped the DC-3 out of the sky like a brick. Thankfully, the explosion wasn’t powerful enough to completely destroy the aircraft. Enough remained to provide shelter until they were rescued. If they were rescued.

Mercer felt something warm and wet on his cheek, and he turned his head quickly. The chef lying beneath him was awake and her mouth was pressed to him in a grateful kiss. Her voice was muffled but he could hear her muttering, “Danke, danke.”

The harder Mercer tried to lift himself from her, the tighter she held him in an embrace. She had a pleasant face, he noticed, and tears made her soft eyes look liquid, but her mustache was thicker than his if he skipped a day of shaving. She planted a long kiss on his mouth, easily smothering his struggles to free himself.

“Taking advantage of a woman in such a vulnerable state,” Ira teased when Mercer finally regained his feet. “I expected more from you.”

Mercer smiled, relieved at being alive despite the awful deaths of the pilots and the three others. He would not give in to survivor’s guilt. “You okay?”