John Nance - 16 Souls

Trying to get comfortable enough to die was more of a challenge than he’d expected — dammit! Even the spot he’d used during the afternoon felt like precisely what it was: a bed of rocks!

He stood unsteadily, aware of being at least intoxicated, but wondering why the barbiturates he’d finally received from an offshore pharmacy two weeks ago hadn’t kicked in yet. The thought that they might not be as potent as they were supposed to be had crossed his mind, but hey, he had all night.

What had really propelled him to his feet was a growing anger that had harpooned his idea of a peaceful departure — a deep sleep to oblivion. He had been a good captain, dammit! But wasn’t he a freaking human being? Weren’t humans supposed to be imperfect? Yes, he misunderstood a radio call and failed to question his bumbling copilot, but it seemed it was just diabolical chance that put that Beech 1900 in front of them! Chance or a higher power that hated him.

“GODDAMMIT!” He screamed into the wind, the effort making him dizzy. He braced himself on the edge of a huge boulder that had been his companion for hours and stood and railed again. “FUCKING GODDAMMIT TO HELL! WHY? WHY ME? YOU HEAR ME? WHY? THERE ARE WORSE BASTARDS OUT THERE TO TORTURE!”

Maybe it was the lack of oxygen, but screaming felt better than lying on rocks and wondering when it was all going to be over. He let go of the boulder and took an unsteady step forward, shaking his fist at the now starry sky. “YOU BASTARDS SET ME UP! YOU’RE THE ONES WHO SHOULD BE ON TRAIL… TRIAL… WHATEVER. I WAS A GOOD MAN! I WASN’T TED FUCKING BUNDY OR CHARLES MANSON OR SOME SCUMBAG WIFE BEATER!”

Somewhere in the corner of his mind was the question of precisely who he was railing at. Who were the stated bastards? But there was a therapeutic impetus to the screaming, and it was like a huge boulder that had started rolling downhill with too much momentum to stop.

More yelling now, shaking both fists, and turning toward where Denver ought to be before realizing he was too dizzy to know which direction to look.

I’d better sit down, he decided, but another idea slowly crawled into his frontal cortex and he summoned the energy and the anger to stand once more, middle finger offered to the skies as he screamed: YOU… YOU COWARDLY MOTHERFUCKERS! I CHALLENGE YOU! YOU HEAR ME? SHOW YOURSELVES AND FIGHT ME! COME ON, BASTARDS! I KNOW YOU”RE UP THERE… OR OUT THERE SOMEWHERE! COME ON! I DARE YOU!”

A slightly familiar, rhythmic sound reached his fuzzed up hearing and he steadied himself and turned in that direction, watching something descending toward him as a blinding light hit him like a million suns. He covered his eyes and screamed ineffectually against the oncoming Valkyrie or angry devils or whatever it was that was accepting his challenge. He felt like a mouse flipping off an eagle a microsecond before the talons closed, but that tiny rebellion felt good!

“YEAH! THAT’S RIGHT! YEAH, BABY! BRING IT ON, YOU BASTARDS!”

The light was blinding, the sound apparently the beating of huge wings. What the hell had he summoned, a pterodactyl?

So this is what dying is like! he thought

The breeze had risen to a hurricane and the merciless blazing light was even brighter as he kept his left arm and hand above him, middle finger defiantly thrust toward the invited intruder. He unshielded his eyes and screamed one last heartfelt epithet at the top of his lungs: “ FUCK… YOU!” as he slowly lost his tenuous hold on consciousness, his eyes rolling back in his head, the bulk of his body slowly oozing down among the boulders like an escaping octopus.

Present Day — August 14 th, 9:35 pm

Thanks to the “he’s with me” stewardship of Joe Johnson, the barrel chested chief park ranger now standing next to him in the trail head parking lot, Scott Bogosian had been spared the task of pushing through the normal official defenses thrown up against invading reporters.

Word had been radioed from the flight crew that they had the target on board and were electing to land back at the LZ and transfer the man to a waiting ambulance, a decision Scott interpreted as hopeful.

“Any idea where they’ll take him, Joe?” Scott asked.

“Don’t know. Usually our mountain rescues are all about broken bones and hypothermia, so helicoptering directly to a Denver trauma center is the best idea, but I don’t know what they’re dealing with. Could mean he can walk to the ambulance. Could mean they recovered a body.” Joe turned and regarded Scott for a few seconds. “So, what’s this all about, Scotty? Why are you out here in the cold tonight? I know it’s not a social visit because you didn’t bring any scotch.”

“A book I’m thinking of writing. Maybe.”

“Really? Well, that figures. In the old days you would have never shown up without a photographer rattling at least one bag full of Nikons. You aren’t acting like you’re under deadline pressure.”

Scott smiled, shaking his head. “How times change. The TV guys are doing it solo these days too, and so are reporters. At least we are Rocky Mountain News refugees.”

“Tell me about this book idea.”

“There’s a lot to this, Joe. You remember last January when a Regal Air jet hit a commuter?”

“Of course.”

“That’s the Regal Air captain they’re bringing off the mountain right now.”

“Really? What is he doing on my mountain at night?”

“That’s… one of the things I need to find out,” Scott replied. “Maybe he had an accident and couldn’t climb down. Maybe, I don’t know, maybe he was up there for the night communing with the universe. I imagine it’s an incredible view of the starfield.”

“You have no idea!”

“Joe, I’ve been studying the NTSB raw material, the reports from each of the investigatory groups, and there are a number of strange things I’m trying to understand. I’m sure the NTSB is working on the same puzzles, but they haven’t held the hearing yet or even gotten close to issuing their final report.”

“Seems diabolically simple. They had a midair, the little airplane’s stuck on their wing with live people, and the captain refuses to follow his company orders and as a result, lives were lost, and now he’s been charged with murder for insubordination. Right?”

“Well… somewhat. Those are the basics. But there’s so much more here. First, I can’t even imagine the pressure this guy was under to either sacrifice the people he’d rammed in that smaller plane in order to make a safe landing, or keep them safe and imperil the passengers on the big jet.”

“Have you talked to this fellow? The captain?”

“Only his lawyer… that woman right over there. She’s built a brick wall with concertina wire around him until the trial. And, of course, that’s the other thing. It’s unsettling when you try to crucify someone for a human mistake. You know, a professional makes a totally unintentional mistake and then tries his best to do his job and make decisions under pressure and some district attorney decides to convict him for it. That’s third world shit, it doesn’t belong in the U.S. But the public doesn’t seem the least upset about it, while to me it’s clearly malicious prosecution.”

A broad smile spread across the big ranger’s face as he regarded his friend of at least two decades.

“Scott, you remember that long-ago tv detective played by Peter Falk?”

“Columbo? Lord, that’s been off the air forever.”

“Well, you do know you’re a bit like Columbo when you latch onto something, right? I mean, you don’t have the seedy trench coat or the weird accent, but little things get your attention.”