No Safe Haven

by Kimberley Woodhouse

  Jenna closed her eyes. Never mind about him. She had other, more amazing things to focus on. Namely, the news from Andie's neurosurgeon. The results were far beyond her expectations and, for the first time in many years, Jenna allowed herself to dream big for her precious child. Tragedy and hurt could now be replaced with hope. The future was, at long last, bright.

  She reached for the dog tags around her neck. If only Marc could be there. He'd been distraught when, as a toddler, their daughter was first diagnosed. As if that first news weren't bad enough, the additional diagnosis two years ago just about broke the man. He'd never quite recovered, and his demeanor forever changed. The once crazy adventurer—a man full of life and laughter—closed himself behind a stone wall of protection.

  She'd fought long and hard to penetrate his defenses, but taking care of Andie had become their focus, taken all their energy. When their daughter went in for brain surgery a year ago, the walls between them fell as they cried and held one another in the surgical waiting room. But Jenna never had the chance to discover what drove her husband to such emotional extremes. The accident took him before Andie was released from the hospital.

  Opening her eyes, she blinked back the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. Stop it! This is no time for tears. It's a happy day.

  They would move on from here.

  She turned to gaze out the window. How long had she been lost in her memories? And, for that matter . . . she leaned closer to the glass, searched for familiar landmarks . . .

  The scenery wasn't right.

  Jenna frowned. Where were they?

  She opened her mouth to ask Hank, but brisk movement in the cockpit drew her attention to the two men up front. All she saw was a sight that shoved her heart into her throat.

  Hank and the man beside him were fighting! The man grabbed Hank's arm and—

  A gun! Hank had a gun!

  Before she could move, Hank jerked his arm free, took aim, and shot the radio. Jenna glanced at Andie, then ripped open her seatbelt. Andie's mouth hung open, her eyes wide. Jenna yanked the belt off her and shoved her over the seat toward the rear of the plane. She climbed after her frightened child, signaled her to crouch in the floor, then hunched over Andie, hugging her tight, whispering calming words to shield her from the horror of the scene unfolding in front of them.

  The plane plunged and veered to the west.

  Heart thundering, Jenna monitored the scuffle through a crack between the seats and prayed for wisdom and safety. What was happening?

  Arms wrestled and tangled—the passenger pushed upward, almost hovering over Hank. What if he killed Hank?

  The thought of losing their pilot had her straightening, ready to clamber over the seats. Someone had to fly the plane or none of them would survive. The plane teetered and shuddered. Jenna felt the panic rise in her throat. God, no! You can't do this. You can't let Andie die! Not like this. Not when she's survived so much. She's all I've got left.

  The passenger rammed a fist into Hank's face. Though Hank fought back, he soon crumpled under the intense blows. But that wasn't what shocked Jenna. What sent a jolt of confused terror through her was the evil smirk on Hank's face as he croaked out five awful words: "You'll . . . never make . . . it . . . alive!"

  What did he mean? Was that a threat to the man hovering over him? Or . . . to them all?

  A sickening sound pulled her attention back to the men. Bone on bone. Apparently the passenger had delivered one last blow, rendering Hank unconscious. Determination stretched taut over the man's features as he shoved Hank to the floor behind him and climbed into the pilot's seat. He tossed a small cord to Jenna. "Tie his hands!"

  He fought to level off the plane, then glanced back in her direction. His breaths were ragged and his eyes bore a glassy sheen. He looked different . . . unfocused. Dare she depend on him? Jenna wasn't sure about anything. It was all happening too fast.

  Grabbing Andie, she hauled herself back over the seat and fumbled with the cording. It was a good thing Hank was unconscious, as her knots needed work. She darted a glance toward the cockpit, and decided to strap Hank back in. Their landing could be really rough if this guy didn't know what he was doing, and she wanted their former pilot to be in good enough condition to go to jail.

  "Leave him!" Even though the man's upper lip was sweaty and his skin's hue resembled mashed peas, his glare could burn a hole through steel. "You two buckle up!" He turned back to the controls.

  Jenna bowed her head. God . . . help us . . .

  "This may be bumpy, I don't know . . . what they did to . . . your plane . . ." The man's words grew alarmingly slurred. "I'm not feeling . . . so . . . hhhoo . . ."

  In a matter of seconds, he slid down his seat and slumped over the yoke, arms limp at his sides.

  Time stood still. Jenna could hear her lungs taking in air, could see Andie's eyes widen, could feel the plane dive forward—but she couldn't move. God, help me! Spare my daughter, please!

  Andie screamed.

  In that split second, Jenna's survival instinct kicked in full force. Bolting up, she grabbed Andie. "It's going to be okay, baby." She slid a hand down Andie's cheek, shooting a quick glance to the plane's air speed and altimeter. They'd dropped 3,000 feet since the last time she'd noticed. No time to panic. "I need you to help me move this guy, and then I want you to grab Hank's headset and buckle up in the copilot's seat. Can you do that?"

  Without waiting for an answer, she squeezed Andie's shoulder and climbed over seats into the cockpit. Adrenaline pumped pure strength through Jenna's veins as she moved the bulk that was the man who had tried to save them.

  Or kill them.

  She shoved his solid, muscled frame over the seat, then into the seat behind hers. She motioned for Andie to help strap him as she tugged on the yoke to lift the nose. Hank was sprawled, his legs at an odd angle, but she had bigger concerns at the moment.

  Like landing the plane.

  As soon as the man was strapped in, Andie grabbed Hank's headset, dashed back to the front, and climbed into the seat next to Jenna.

  Jenna took a deep breath and turned to the controls as Andie buckled in. Their brief nose dive had increased the air speed. She pulled back on the throttle, then looked through the windshield—and gasped.

  Denali, "the high one," the tallest mountain in North America, loomed before her. They shouldn't be anywhere near the Alaska Range, and yet here they were—flying straight into the South Face.

  "Your seatbelt, Mom!"

  Jenna's hands gripped the yoke tighter. No time for a seatbelt. She needed control of this plane.

  "Mom!"

  "It's okay, honey. Calm down."

  "But, Mom—" Andie gripped the headset—"can you save us?"

  "I'm gonna try, sweetie." For all the confidence she forced into those words, she knew all too well that two weeks of flight ground school and one lesson didn't quite give her the know-how to get out of this alive. Oh, God! Show me what to do!

  Pulling up on the yoke, she worked to level out the small aircraft. The Beaver's response didn't feel right. Her gut told her something was very wrong.

  Calm. She needed to stay calm. For Andie.

  A glance down at the gauges confirmed her suspicions. The fuel gauge was low. Too low. And still dropping. Lord! What do we do?

  Stay calm. Stay. Calm. "Honey, I need you to set those four dials on the radio controls to 1-2-1-5. That's the emergency frequency. 1-2-1-5. Okay?"

  Andie nodded and obeyed. The kid had been through brain surgery and a lifetime dealing with a rare physical condition. She knew when to do what she was told without asking questions. Her hands shook as she sucked in a deep breath and started turning the knobs. "Okay, Mom." Nervous blue eyes met hers as she handed over the headset. "It's set."

  Slamming the headset onto he
r head, Jenna winced. Careful. Breathe. Andie's relying on you. "Mayday! Mayday! Juliet Kilo 3-2-6 November needs emergency assistance. We have no pilot aboard capable of flying this plane. Mayday! Mayday!"

  Crackling, hissing, static, and then silence.

  "Mayday, mayday! Juliet Kilo 3-2-6 November requesting emergency assistance!"

  Nothing.

  "Mom, the radio's dead. Hank shot it. Why would he do that, Mom?"

  Andie's sweet voice filled the cabin as reality set in. Tears quietly streamed down her daughter's face.

  "Baby, I don't know, but I have to try to land this plane. Put your head between your knees right now and cover your head with your arms."

  Her brave little trooper obeyed, and Jenna prayed for guidance. Taking a firm grip on the yoke, she tried to turn the plane. The rudder gave a brief response and then locked. Something was wrong with the ailerons. What had she forgotten? Why wasn't it responding?

  Okay, Jenna, think. Cut your descent. Flaps down. What else can I do? Oh, God, help me remember! Help me think. The fuel gauge flashed at her now, only fumes were left. There was no avoiding it: they were going to crash. She needed to strap herself in. Fumbling with one hand made it all the more difficult. "Andie, help me with the buckle."

  Taking in the treacherous view in front of her, she made a decision for their lives. She had to steer away from Denali. Sultana stood to her left, towering in all her glory. If she could just get close to Kahiltna glacier, she might be able to land there. Tourist planes did it all the time. Right?

  But they were too high. The controls were almost useless.

  She'd have to find a different place to land and soon. With all her might she worked the yoke to turn west, away from the 20,320-foot Denali, but the mountain face of Sultana rushed toward her at a terrifying pace. The yoke locked and the plane jolted on a pocket of air, engines sputtering with the last drops of fuel.

  Not much time left.

  No radio.

  No controls.

  No fuel.

  Nowhere to go.

  Bracing her feet in the floor, she pulled on the yoke with all her weight—hoping she could lift the nose even an inch or two— but the plane no longer responded. At all.

  As they raced toward the steep mountainside, Jenna did the only thing left to her: prayed for snow to be deep enough to cushion their landing.

  With one last cry for help, Jenna let go of the useless yoke and flung her arms over her daughter's body, inhaling Andie's scent: Citrus shampoo and a sweetness all her daughter. But she couldn't tear her eyes away from the scene.

  Metal crunched. Glass shattered and peppered her arms. The plane creaked and groaned as they slammed into Sultana's unyielding side. Metal screamed, and Jenna understood. The mountain had ripped the wings from the fuselage.

  Her breaths seemed hours apart as the plane pummeled the snow-packed earth underneath them. God—!

  But the desperate prayer was blotted out when everything went from the brilliant white of the snow to deep, deep black of unconsciousness.

  * * *

  ANDIE

  April 6

  Sultana, Denali National Park

  7:23 p.m.

  Air crossed my face.

  What's that? Was someone breathing beside me?

  Something rustled next to my hand.

  Wind . . . Is that the wind? As if a curtain lifted, my thoughts began to clear. Why would I feel the wind inside an airplane?

  Something wasn't right.

  Placing a hand on my head, I put slight pressure to it. Why—how—was my head hurting? I lifted my sore eyelids.

  Oh! Bright light.

  How long had I been unconscious? Where was I?

  Again I opened my eyes, this time with caution.

  Blurry images floated around me. A spinning sensation flip-flopped my stomach. Why am I spinning?

  Sunlight streamed through small, cracked windows and red polka dots spotted otherwise blank walls. Where am I?

  The spinning stopped.

  Weird.

  I wiggled within the tight confines of my seatbelt, trying to escape its grip, but conked my head on a lumpy thing hanging in the air above me. That's gonna leave a bruise.

  Why wouldn't these straps budge?

  I unlatched them—then fell.

  Ouch.

  I rubbed my shoulder where I'd landed. Was it bruised too? Perfect, just what I need right now.

  I looked up. I was on the ceiling of the plane? I'd been hanging . . . upside down? As if on cue, I could feel all the blood draining out of my head. Letting out a groan, I rubbed my cheeks and forehead. Why is my body aching so much?

  And where was Mom? She wasn't hurt, was she?

  I climbed out on my hands and knees through what must have been the windshield, but moving only made the dizziness worse.

  "Ouchy!" My head started to hurt. Really hurt. What was the weird, zinging pain?

  Pain? Emotions swirled through me, like a hurricane of confusion and fear. The last time I felt pain, they told me I needed brain surgery.

  Tears slid down my icy cold cheeks.

  God, what's happening?

  I shook my head and continued crawling out of the broken-down airplane. Do not let it irritate you, Andie. As I wiped at the tiny droplets, a gritty, dirty feeling coated my fingers. I looked down at my upturned palms. They were smothered in dirt. And blood.

  Lots of blood.

  Oh, great.

  Spots danced in front of me like Mexican jumping beans . . .

  Then there was nothing.

  ———

  My eyes popped open. The clear blue sky loomed above and blurry, lazy white clouds floated by.

  It took a second to remember where I was . . . what had happened? I glanced around. How am I all the way outside? How long was I unconscious? Pain still shot throughout my body, unfamiliar electrical waves.

  Okay . . . Deep breath. Andrea Tikaani-Gray, do something. I grunted and pushed myself to a sitting position. Why did it take so much effort just to sit up?

  One more deep breath.

  Reaching my left hand underneath my long, black hair, I gently touched the scar on the back of my neck. The familiar bumpy groove greeted my fingers—it was intact. The sticky feeling of blood didn't cling to my fingers . . . on that hand. So there was no blood or wounds on my scar, right?

  My surroundings came into focus. Snow, more snow, boulders, more snow, glass, more snow, the airplane . . .

  Uh-oh. The airplane. Hadn't I been in the airplane? Or did I dream that?

  I glanced around, then wished I hadn't.

  Some sort of big, metal, whatchamacallit was smashed against a rock and the tail-rudder-thingamabob had fallen off and lay on the other side of the crash. There was no sign of the wings, and the windshield lay shattered in a million pieces sparkling on the snow as they reflected the sun's light. Lying in the middle was a lump.

  Mom?

  My body protested as I jumped up and ran over to her. Blood covered her pale body. Blood . . . Pulling in air, I jerked away before my stomach decided to rebel again.

  "Mom! Wake up!" I shook her shoulder, but it didn't help. I looked around for somebody . . . anybody . . .

  Another figure lay on the ground.

  I clenched my eyes. This couldn't really be happening.

  I trudged through the snow and fell on the ground. Tears spilled down my face turning into ice as a scratchy voice inside my head stated the most awful truth:

  They're all dead. You're alone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ANDIE

  April 6

  Sultana, Denali National Park

  8:13 p.m.

  Alone.

  The
word slammed into me, like a brick smashing into my noggin. But even as I felt panic starting to crawl through me, another voice whispered . . .

  God wouldn't leave me alone.

  I closed my eyes. I wasn't alone. God was there. Think about it, Andie. If I was going to die, wouldn't He have made me die in the crash?

  Okay, maybe not, but still.

  Words flowed through my mind. Words I knew and loved.

  The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the defense of my life; whom shall I dread? When evildoers came upon me to devour my flesh, my adversaries and my enemies, they stumbled and fell. Though a host encamp against me, my heart will not fear; Though war arise against me, in spite of this I shall be confident.

  I released my breath in a long sigh. Okay, I'm not alone. Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions. Just because they're not moving doesn't mean they're. . . . But even if they are—

  I didn't even want to think about that it hurt so bad. But I had to think about it. What would happen if nobody did wake up? Even if they are—I straightened my back and clenched my fists—with God, I don't need to be afraid.

  I wiped my tears, sniffed, then nodded.

  I will be strong!

  I took a deep breath and hiccupped. Searing pain shot through my chest as the cold air rushed in. I remembered where we were.

  Crashed on the side of a mountain.

  Wonderful.

  It was cold outside. I need to be careful. All those years of Mom reminding me to wear a coat and warning me about frostbite, yet I still sat there ignoring the fact that I was surrounded, sitting, and covered in snow.

  Brave, brave, I have to be brave.

  A drop of blood made its way down my hand and onto the pure white, sinking into snowflakes and reminding me that my hand needed to be cleaned up. And fast.