Up Close and Dangerous Read online

  “No, it’s okay. I have two layers of clothes between me and it. You’re working your ass off, so the least I can do is serve as a snow-melter.”

  “That’s true.”

  This time the smile became a real one, showing a flash of teeth and a tiny dimple just above the left corner of his mouth. Only then did she realize how less than gracious her reply had been, and she gave her head a rueful shake. “Sorry. That was rude.”

  “But truthful.” He held his head very still, understandably, but his eyes were crinkled with amusement, and that little dimple flashed again. It was amazing how a smile changed him from Captain Sourpuss to a very attractive man, bandaged head, bruised face, and all.

  “Well…yes.”

  “Thank God you said yes. If you hadn’t, I’d have thought you’d completely lost touch with reality.”

  “I have a fairly firm grip on reality,” she said wryly, and sighed. “Unfortunately, reality is telling me I’d better get my butt in gear, or we’ll freeze to death tonight. The altitude is really getting to me, so I have to be slow and careful.”

  His gaze suddenly sharpened as he studied her face. “You have altitude sickness?”

  “Headache, dizziness—yeah, I’m pretty sure. The headache could partly be from banging my head, but overall I think it’s the altitude.”

  His expression turned grim. “And I can’t do anything to help you. Bailey, don’t push yourself. It’s dangerous if you do. Altitude sickness can kill you.”

  “So can hypothermia.”

  “We can get through the night. There are enough clothes here to cover ten people, and we can share our body heat.”

  They’d have to do that anyway; she had no illusions about her ability in the shelter-building department. She also had no illusions about how cold these mountains could get at night, or how precarious his condition was. Weighed objectively, hypothermia and altitude sickness weren’t equal dangers—not for her, and certainly not for him. Considering how much blood he’d lost, he was in far more danger of dying during the coming night than she was.

  “I’ll be careful,” she said, getting to her feet. She looked up at the plane, tilted almost on its side on the slope above her. Just thinking of climbing those few yards again made her feel exhausted, but she needed the cargo net, as well as the leather from the seats. Oh, yeah, and the wiring, too. She could see lots of wiring, hanging from the broken wing and the gaping hole where the left wing and part of the cabin had been.

  The enormity of the job she faced almost made her panic. She was hungry, she was thirsty, and she was cold. She ached all over. The puncture wound in her right arm, which she’d almost forgotten, was making its presence felt. Even if she’d had a decent meal in her, plenty of water, and the proper clothing—as well as a nice, toasty fire—she wouldn’t have liked knowing she was responsible for building them a shelter that would actually hold together. Architecture bored her. She’d never even built sand castles.

  All she had to rely on were some episodes on survival that she’d watched on the Discovery channel, the details of which hadn’t really stuck with her. She knew they’d be warmer with a layer of something between them and the ground; she knew she had to get a roof of some sort over their heads to protect them from possible rain or snow. Beyond that, all she could think of was that they had to be protected from the wind, too. All of this she was somehow supposed to accomplish with sticks and leaves.

  Worming her way into the wreckage, she finished unhooking the cargo net and let it drop through the door to the ground. That task wasn’t physically demanding, and neither was removing the leather from the seats. To keep the leather in the largest pieces possible, she painstakingly used the point of the knife to cut the stitches. The backseat was a single bench, with two individual seat backs and arms; the bench would provide the largest piece. Wind couldn’t get through leather; that’s why motorcyclists wore leather clothing.

  Cutting all those stitches took time, longer than she’d anticipated. Some of the leather she had to cut out anyway, because it wouldn’t pull free even after she’d sliced all the stitching. Removing the leather from the seats revealed the thick foam that provided cushioning; she could easily see a need for that, so the pads of foam followed the cargo net and the pieces of leather. The floorboard provided more vinyl. The bounty salvaged from the airplane that had almost killed them, she thought, might save them yet.

  11

  “GUESS WHAT?” BRET PRACTICALLY SANG EARLY THAT afternoon as he bounced into the J&L office with his jaunty stride. “Turns out Cam was right about the allergic reaction. It was—” He stopped in midsentence, the humor fading from his face, his sharp blue eyes locking on Karen’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  Karen stared wordlessly at him. Her face was paper white, her expression drawn and stark. She was holding the telephone receiver, and slowly she replaced it. “I was just about to call you,” she said. Her voice was thin, toneless.

  “What?”

  “It’s Cam.”

  Bret looked at his watch. “He called already? He’s made damn good time.”

  “No, he…hasn’t called.” Karen spoke as if she was barely able to move her lips. She swallowed. “He didn’t make the fuel stop at Salt Lake.”

  A tiny muscle in Bret’s jaw began to twitch. “He stopped somewhere else,” he said flatly, after a moment. “Before Salt Lake. If there was any trouble, he’d put down—”

  Slowly, wobbling a little, Karen shook her head.

  Bret hung there, staring at her while he absorbed what she was telling him. Then he bolted for his office, grabbed his trash can, and vomited into it. “God,” he said in a strained voice, when he could talk. He pressed both fists over his eyes. “God in heaven. I can’t—I can’t believe…”

  Karen hovered in the office door. “An alert has been issued.”

  “Fuck an alert,” he said savagely, swinging around. “A search—”

  “You know the protocol.”

  “They’re wasting time! They have to—”

  Her only answer was another agonizingly slow shake of her head.

  Furiously he kicked his chair, sent it slamming into the wall. “Shit!” he bellowed. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  Then he picked up the phone and began calling people, only to be told over and over that protocol would be followed, that if Cam hadn’t checked in somewhere within a couple of hours, a search would be initiated.

  Slamming down the phone for the last time, he went over to the map on his wall and traced a line from Seattle to Denver, marking the route Cam would have taken. “Over a thousand miles,” he muttered. “He could be anywhere. Anything could have gone wrong. Have you talked to Dennis? Did Mike write up the Skylane yesterday for anything?”

  The two questions were directed at Karen, who had been listening to his calls, hoping against hope that he could kick-start the search. “I’ve already checked,” she said. “There wasn’t anything. Dennis said there hasn’t been anything on the Skylane except normal maintenance.” She hesitated. “Whatever happened…didn’t have to be mechanical. A bird could have hit them, or he could have gotten sick and passed out…” Her voice trailed off.

  Bret was still staring at the map. Cam’s route had been over some of the most rugged, remote terrain in the country. “He could have set it down,” he insisted. “In a field, a canyon, on a dirt-bike trail—anywhere. If it can be done, Cam can do it.”

  “They’re doing a communications search,” she said. “If he could land it, he’ll radio in. An FSS will pick up his transmission.” Her voice wavered a little as she said, “All we can do is wait.”

  Flight Service Stations were air-traffic facilities that performed a lot of different functions; among them was the constant monitoring of the aircraft emergency frequency. Cam had filed a Visual Flight Rules flight plan, which placed him in the FSS system of graduating emergency levels. When Cam hadn’t arrived in Salt Lake at his estimated time, the system went into a distress phase. A commu