Jill Sorenson: Freefall

Night climbing was unusual, but not unheard of, in summer months. Visitors took advantage of the cooler temperatures and available moonlight. Illegal activities like BASE jumping were often done under the cloak of darkness, as well.

“What did you see?”

“Just lights. I think it was a single-engine plane, flying too low. It hit the top of Angel Wings and burst into flames.”

“Where were you?”

“On Valhalla. Near the summit.”

Valhalla was a steep rock face directly across from Angel Wings. She checked her watch, noting that it was eight-twenty. “You got from there to here in five hours?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I ran.”

Upon closer study, his shirt was damp with perspiration. The lightweight fabric clung to his broad shoulders and flat stomach. Maybe he’d been slow to stand because he was tired, not out of disrespect, but he didn’t appear fatigued. Despite the sweat, he was an endurance athlete and it showed. From the soles of his well-worn shoes to the top of his dark-haired head, he radiated strength and vitality.

She remembered how he looked naked, too: good. Very good.

“Have a seat,” she said, clearing her throat. She turned to Owen. “You’ve relayed this information to Dispatch?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She excused herself and stepped outside. Her mind raced with worst-case scenarios as she picked up her radio. The dispatcher answered her a few seconds later. “What can you tell me about the craft?”

“There’s been no emergency transmission or distress calls from the area. No flight plan was recorded.”

In uncontrolled airspace, a pilot could use visual flight rules, but it wasn’t recommended. The weather over the Sierras could be dangerous in the daytime. Flying close to the mountains at night without instruments looked suspicious.

This search-and-rescue might turn into a drug-smuggling bust. “Where’s Dixon?” she asked, naming the park manager.

“I haven’t been able to reach him.”

“What about Mark?”

“He’s at Moro Rock with the SAR team. Two hikers fell. One is unconscious and the other has a broken leg.”

Hope swore under her breath, rubbing a hand down her face. This was her worst nightmare. Of the twelve park rangers with law enforcement badges, only Hope and Mark Griffon were accomplished climbers. Mark wasn’t available. The SAR team wasn’t available. Her supervisor wasn’t available.

Heart racing, she weighed her options. The clock was already ticking. If she didn’t reach the crash site before sundown, she couldn’t call for a helicopter. Night rescues were too dangerous to attempt at a place like Angel Wings, where extreme wind conditions were common. And when the temperature dropped, crash victims often died of exposure.

Hope had responded to a similar call a few years ago. Before she became a permanent employee at Sierra National Park, she’d worked winters in Joshua Tree, one of Southern California’s desert parks. A family of four had gone down in a twin-engine plane near Jumbo Rocks. Two of the wounded were children, and there was nothing anyone on the SAR team could do to save them. Hope had been training for her EMT certificate at the time. The scene was so horrific she almost quit the next day.

She didn’t want to face another tragedy like that, especially on her own, but she couldn’t afford to wait for a backup team. Her window of opportunity was too narrow. She had to get to the crash site and assess the situation as quickly as possible. If she left now, she’d arrive in time to request air transport.

The fastest route to the top of Angel Wings was straight up the rock face. Hiking from the Kaweah trailhead on the east side of the mountain was easier, but it would take twice as long. The only problem with a direct ascent was that she couldn’t do it alone. She’d never solo-climbed Angel Wings. It was an expert-only wall, rated 5.10+ in difficulty. She needed to find a suitable partner. There were several skilled climbers in the area who volunteered for high-angle search-and-rescue.

Sam Rutherford was one of them.

At least, he used to be. These days he avoided crowds, and most people, but he’d worked more rescues than Hope. A few years ago he’d been part of the elite SAR site team at Yosemite National Park. The man also knew Angel Wings like the back of his hand, and he’d witnessed the crash. He might be able to pinpoint its exact location.

“Just a minute,” she said, signing off.

Hope clipped the radio to her waistband and went back inside the station, her blood pumping with adrenaline. Instead of scrambling for another volunteer, she faced her nemesis. “Can you take me to the crash site?”

His brows shot up. “Is there anyone else?”

She’d forgotten that he had run ten miles to get here. “Yes, of course. You must be exhausted.”

“No, I’m fine,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean...is there anyone besides you?”

“Besides me?”

“That I can climb with.”

Hope gaped at him in disbelief. She didn’t know if he assumed she couldn’t keep up with him because she was a woman, or if he objected to her company because they’d slept together. Both reasons offended her.

“I’ll go,” Owen offered.

“You’re not a ranger,” she said.

“Neither am I,” Sam pointed out.

“One of us has to be for this kind of mission. I’m the only qualified law enforcement ranger in the area, and I need a rescue climber to go with me. You’re a convenient choice, but I can find a replacement.”

He knew as well as she did that they had to start hiking now to reach the site before dark. “No. I’ll do it.”

Although his reluctance rankled, she told herself he was wise to be cautious. “I should warn you that this aircraft might have been flying at night to escape detection. There’s no recorded flight plan or distress call.”

This information didn’t seem to faze him. He skimmed her casual clothes. “Do you carry a firearm?”

She had a handgun in her vehicle. “I’ll get it.”

“I’m ready when you are.”

Owen seemed fascinated by their exchange. He leaned against the counter, studying Sam as if he’d grown two heads.

Hope didn’t have time to second-guess her decision. Dragging a hand through her hair, she walked out to her Jeep. Her service weapon was in the lockbox. Normally she wore it on a utility belt, but she didn’t have one with her. She shoved the gun into her day pack, along with extra clothes and some snacks.

Sam and Owen accompanied her to the SAR cache, where they housed rescue supplies.

“I need Dispatch to arrange for a helicopter and a backup rescue team on standby,” she said to Owen.

“Can they fly over the crash site to check it out?” Sam asked.

Hope shook her head. “I’m not supposed to call for a helicopter unless there are confirmed life-threatening injuries. Angel Wings is in a dangerous flight zone and the cost of an air rescue is astronomical.”

He made a noise of understanding. Ordering an expensive flyover when there might be no survivors wasn’t an efficient use of tax dollars. Budget cuts, otherwise known as “service adjustments,” had hit national parks, like everywhere else.

She didn’t want to bring the same items as Sam, so she glanced around for his gear. “Where’s your rack?”

“I don’t have it.”

Her eyes flew back to his, startled. “You were free-soloing at night?”

“There’s a full moon,” he said, as if that made it reasonable.

Hope sorted through the rescue supplies with a frown. Free-soloing was an extreme style of climbing without ropes or harnesses. The practice was outrageously risky in broad daylight. She’d never heard of anyone doing it at night. He was a maniac. And she had to depend on him to keep her safe?