Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

He began paralleling the coast, powering toward Anchorage but praying to find some sort of shelter long before that far-off city. There had been no sign of the other lifeboats from the Petromax Omega , but he kept a sharp eye out. To run into one of them now, with only a knife taken from the emergency stores to defend themselves, would mean his and Aggie’s recapture or, more likely, their death.

To his left, the coast scrolled by in a featureless panorama of rocky beach and towering forests beyond. After twenty minutes, Mercer began to think he’d made a serious mistake. Perhaps he should have gone south to the fishing communities on the Kenai Peninsula. The precious time he’d saved heading north was rapidly being whittled away as he searched for a fishing cabin. The coast gave way to a deep bay, the shoreline curving inward, carving deeply into the land. At the center of the wide-mouthed bay, a river disgorged the last of its summer runoff, white water cascading over rocks before reaching the ocean.

And on the bank of the river stood a cabin, the rough logs of its exterior weathered by decades of exposure. The cabin was one story with a native stone chimney rising from one side like a parapet and a low tumbling veranda leaning toward the river. It looked like an Appalachian homestead without the amenities, but to Mercer it was the most inviting building he had ever seen.

He guided the lifeboat shoreward, bucking through the swells that built against the coast, and as he neared the shack, he saw something that made his heart lift. Hidden behind a screen of dwarf spruce trees, a red seaplane was moored where the river met the Inlet, held fast against the swirling waters that licked at its torpedo-shaped pontoons by heavy manila lines.

If the cabin didn’t have a radio, which he suspected it didn’t, the plane surely would.

Beaching the lifeboat twenty feet south of the river, he drove it hard against the pebbly shore until it was firmly grounded, then cut the motor. His legs wanted to sway as if he were still on the water, but as he waited, the feeling left slowly, steadying him once again.

He jumped from the pod, his boots digging into the rocky beach. The morning air was sharp, scented with pine and the low fog that hung just above the treetops. He envied whoever owned the cabin for having such a remote and beautiful getaway.

Mercer paused to look through the cabin’s filthy windows and saw through the gloom that the cabin hadn’t been occupied for a while. Dust sheets covered the few pieces of furniture and cobwebs hung elegantly from the framed photographs on the stone mantel. From what he could see, the cabin was very primitive. The kitchen consisted of a small sink fed by an iron pump handle and a camping stove. He guessed that its communications would be equally crude. His best hope lay with the plane.

The airplane, an old Cessna, was in immaculate condition, its paintwork glossy, and when he opened the rear hatch, the interior cargo space was spotless. Mercer guessed that the single-engine plane was left here as a play toy while the cabin’s owner used a newer aircraft or perhaps a motor yacht to reach the camp from Anchorage. Mercer couldn’t believe that anyone would leave such a plane unprotected for the winter, but he was in no position to question the practices of others.

He ducked into the cockpit, checking for the radios as he settled himself into the pilot’s seat. He scanned the simple instrument package once quickly and then again with more concentration. The space where the radios should have been was an empty hole in the molded plastic dash. She carried no communications equipment.

In frustration, Mercer beat on the control wheel. He and Aggie were stuck until rescue workers, searching for survivors from the Omega , stumbled upon the cabin. That could take days, long after the Alaska Pipeline had been destroyed by Kerikov and his PEAL allies. Mercer had spent hundreds of hours being ferried to remote mining locations in small aircraft and he watched pilots intently, getting pointers, but he’d never had any formal flying lessons. It was one of those things he’d promised himself he’d do but never found the time for. He cursed himself now for procrastinating.

The controls before him seemed so familiar, and starting the plane would be a snap, but he wasn’t sure of the proper combination of rudder, yoke, throttle, trim, and fuel mixture that would make the plane fly. But he’d been through too much to give in now. If escaping the oil rig hadn’t killed him, then surely stealing a plane, flying it a hundred miles, and landing it again wouldn’t either, he thought insanely. And as soon as he realized he was going to do it, his stomach was cramped by fear, a paralyzing stab that almost coaxed him out of his decision.

He concentrated, relying on his near-photographic memory to replay exactly the motions he’d observed so many times before. Upwind, fuel mixture rich, throttle to full, ease back, and you were airborne. It was easy. But landing? The pilots just seem to do it, settle the plane, glide down, and the next thing you know, you’re on the ground.

Sitting there, he felt as lost as a teenager on the first day of driver’s education. Everything was so familiar, yet bewilderingly complex and frightening. Oh, Jesus.

And then a new thought struck him, and he smiled. He didn’t have to take off. He could use the floatplane like a boat, letting the Lycoming engine zip them across the waves rather than haul them through the sky. That was something he could handle.

His newfound self-satisfaction evaporated when he heard the hum of a marine diesel engine far out in the bay. Its distance was hard to judge because of the fog rising from the water, but it sounded like it was heading toward shore. He’d hoped to leave Aggie in front of a fire in the cabin before starting out on his suicidal mission, but that was no longer an option. The engine noises could only mean that Kerikov’s men who’d escaped the Omega were approaching.

“Mercer Airways flight 666 to Hell now boarding,” he joked as he leaped from the cockpit, running back down the beach to where he’d left Aggie in the escape pod.

Aggie was still sleeping as he scooped her up, keeping the blankets around her. Shimmying out of the pod, one item caught his eye and he grabbed it.

“Complimentary beverage service and everything.” He raced back to the Cessna, the bottle of whiskey clutched tightly.

Mercer laid Aggie in the open cargo section of the plane, securing her to the deck with tie-down straps, then stripped away the vinyl coverings over the pitot tubes. Rather than taking the time to untie the aircraft, he simply cut the ropes with the pilfered knife. He jumped back onto the Cessna as the swift flow of the river grabbed it, pushing it out into the bay. The sound of the approaching motor was much closer, seemingly right on top of them, but still lost in the fog.

Once seated and strapped in, the daunting task he’d set himself became all too apparent, especially after he turned the ignition key and got no response from the plane’s engine. “Come on, baby, don’t do this to me.”

He tried again and got nothing for the second time before remembering to throw the toggle marked Master Switch. Not knowing the exact purpose of the magnetos, he left them set at BOTH and tried the ignition again. The engine kicked over once, died, kicked again, then boomed loudly, a gray spout of exhaust jetting from the motor.

“All right,” he said aloud.

He looked at the quivering engine gauges and decided their order of importance quickly.

“Oil temperature, who cares?

“Manifold pressure, who cares?

“Carburetor heat, who cares?

“Airspeed indicator, too slow.” He opened up the throttles, wincing when one of the cylinders prefired and then settled again.