Fatal Incident

by Jim Proebstle

  I am now the king and sole inhabitant of this mountaintop, as my Russian adversary just took his last breath. There were thoughts on his lips about someone named Okimi as he left. I hope they were pleasant enough to fill all eternity.

  I’ll write more later. It helps me focus and I don’t want this letter to end. I’m afraid that if it comes to an end, so may I. Sweet dreams until later.

  Nick flicked his Zippo and adjusted the flame to warm his hands for a few minutes. Vladimir was right, he thought, I will hope for fire before the night is over.

  CHAPTER 42

  When Sarge’s body temperature fell below eighty-five degrees, the constricted blood vessels just under his skin suddenly dilated and produced a sensation of extreme heat. In a state of delirium, all Sarge could feel was that he was burning up, a typical symptom in extreme hypothermia. He began frantically ripping off his clothes in anguish. He was helpless, lying alone in the snow on the floor of the main cabin in the bitter cold, naked from the waist up. He fell unconscious for the last time.

  Robert tossed and turned in his makeshift bed of parachute nylon. The jump seat had made an effective door for his snow cave. Without the effects of the cold temperature and howling wind from the outside, the small area he had excavated for himself had actually started to get relatively warm from his body heat. He breathed deeply to calm his feelings of claustrophobia and anxiety. He was comforted, however, knowing that he would survive the night if nothing happened to the shelter. His mind drifted in and out of sleep. Thoughts of his parents provided a tranquil sense of well-being, knowing that their love for him had been unconditional. These were contrasted with the troubling belief that the United States had made a great error in treating the peace-loving Japanese-Americans so disrespectfully. For this, he could not forgive his country.

  He rolled over in his makeshift bed nervously to double-check that the revolver was loaded and the safety was on. No change from the last time he checked an hour earlier. Robert was not confident about the coming day. How many people had survived? Were they armed? Would he be able to use his weapon against them? Was Cricket okay? He hadn’t seen any part of the cockpit section and thought remorsefully about Nick and Red. Both of them had treated him well, and he felt somewhat guilty for his actions and possible consequences. Self-doubt flooded his mind and ate away at his convictions. His mind went back and forth, preventing an easy transition into sleep.

  As night fell, the temperatures dropped even further, ushering in bitter cold winds that swept over the ridge and down the face of the sheer wall, drifting snow around Robert’s igloo. Not far from the igloo, darkness outlined the ominous crevasse he narrowly escaped earlier in the day. At this elevation the crash site was literally in the clouds. And unless things changed, the lack of visibility would increase his risks the next day and limit any immediate search and rescue efforts.

  Robert stirred and jumped from a convoluted dream involving a chase with himself and Cricket running through the streets of a large South American city. They were lost, trying to discover a safe escape from men with machetes. With every turn they made in the confusing, unknown city, they became more hopelessly lost. Escape seemed impossible. He gasped as he half sat up, bumping his head on the roof of his little igloo. “Whoa!” was all he said as he gasped in recognition of the morning’s reality—a seventy-five cubic foot room of snow and ice.

  He didn’t want to urinate inside, so he nudged the jump seat to get outside. It was stuck or jammed shut. Realizing that he was shut in by a large snowdrift, he began the task of tunneling out. He paced himself to avoid overheating and finally broke through. It seemed an eternity. The dawn’s light was challenging a still visible moon, which alerted him that he needed to ready himself for the day. He listened for some time for sounds of others but heard nothing. Edging outside he noticed that the wind had subsided. He peed, zipped up, and then carefully looked over the mound of snow in the direction of the crash in the light of dawn. No movement at all, but it is still early, he thought. He waited. Nothing.

  By 0900, the sun’s rays from the east had warmed the air a bit and helped with visibility by burning off some of the cloud cover still hanging onto the mountain rim. Robert could still see no sign of life at the fuselage wreck site. “Now or never,” he murmured and started out through the deep snow, very careful to test anything that looked even slightly suspicious. The huge crevasse off to the right was enough warning not to trust anything. The ship was further than he estimated, and it took over an hour as he picked his way across the snowfield.

  As he approached he noticed the parachute draped in an odd configuration in order to close off the gaping hole in the side of the fuselage. There are survivors! he thought as adrenaline pumped through his body. Regardless, he was within fifteen feet, and he still heard nothing. Approaching cautiously and with his gun drawn, he quietly pulled back the parachute and peeked in. It was like a meat locker. He scanned the plane and saw a negro lying on the snow-covered floor of the main cabin. He was stripped to his waist—dead, most likely frozen to death. When Robert saw the second body at the front of the plane, he had a sense of relief. The major was arrogant and condescending and had insulted Robert from their first meeting. Robert was thankful that he wouldn’t have to deal with the major under the circumstances. Plus, the courier bag was still cuffed to his wrist. With the relief of having the major out of the way also came a sudden rush of sadness as Robert realized that Cricket was likely gone too. He quickly looked everywhere, but only found the common grave and no Cricket. He returned to the cabin and sat down. He put his hands to his face and cried. He had such hopes for the two of them. The image of a life in South America had so completely captured his imagination that it had become the one goal he had held on to for life after the war.

  Robert sat for a few more minutes, considering how he would remove the courier bag from the major. Keys would make things easy, but if he couldn’t find them, he had only two options: shoot the lock off the cuffs with his revolver, which might trigger another avalanche, or cut the hand off at the wrist—not something he was anxious to do. Between the rigor and the extreme temperature, the major’s body was pretty stiff, so much so that he fell forward like a department store dummy with a simple push after releasing the shoulder harness. Robert struggled for a few minutes, checking each pocket on the major’s uniform. They were very stiff and hard to reach into. Finally, he felt the cold steel from a set of two keys in the major’s inside breast pocket. Unfortunately, neither fit the cuffs nor the courier bag lock. It actually made sense after he considered it. Why would the major carry the keys to the very bag he was protecting? He wouldn’t, Robert thought. He would have to find something sharp, a knife or a saw, something to aid him in his grisly task.

  He began to search the ship’s remains when he heard the sound of twin engines in the distance. The cloud cover was breaking up, and Robert caught a fleeting glimpse of the sun’s reflection off the wing of a C-47. The search had begun. He hadn’t actually considered his actions up until that point. Do I find a way to get off this mountain myself with the classified documents? Robert wondered. Or do I signal the Search and Rescue planes in order to guarantee my safety? Since the C-47 was actually some distance away, and had millions of acres to search, signaling the rescue planes wasn’t a viable option yet. It may be days or even weeks before they locate the site.

  CHAPTER 43

  Shortly after takeoff on Friday, March 17, Nick routinely reported by radio that he was over Talkeetna, a well-known emergency landing field on the regular route to Fairbanks. Within fifteen minutes the radio operator in Anchorage received a request to increase his altitude to nine thousand feet due to extensive fog and mist.

  “Permission granted. Over,” Nick heard the operator reply.

  “Our flight is on course to pass over Summit as scheduled. Over,” Nick added as he radioed back to Anchorage, indicating that the next emergency landing field was coming up as expected.

  This was the
last radio message from their flight and within two hours Ladd airfield reported Nick’s flight overdue.

  “Give me everything you know about this flight,” demanded Commanding General Dale Gaffney at the Edmonton Airfield. General Gaffney was in charge of all army air force activities that included Alaska, Western Canada, and the Northwest Territories.

  “The flight was wheels up at 1145. The captain is Nick Morgan, on loan from Northwest—one of the best, sir,” replied Major Dick Raegle, Commanding Officer Search and Rescue, 11th Army Air Force in Fairbanks. “Co-captain Robert ‘Red’ Johnson and PFC Robert Endo complete the crew. Twelve servicemen headed to Minneapolis on leave and four members of a Los Alamos research team headed by Major James Gordon and Dr. J. Robert Oppenheimer are the remaining scheduled passengers. Warrant Officer Martin Mason and Vladimir Dubisskiy, Russian liaison for P-38 pilot training, jumped on board at the last minute to be shuttled to Ladd for a training exercise. Dr. Oppenheimer was pulled off for medical reasons with a mild heart attack and was moved to the hospital on base at Elmendorf. Total on board, sir, is three crew and seventeen passengers.”

  “What’s the status of the flight now?”

  “Officially, it’s still overdue, sir. But with complete loss of communication contact, we have to assume they’re without instruments and lost. With the cloud cover as it is, they’re also devoid of celestial navigation abilities. Unofficially, we have to assume they’re down.”

  “Was there a Mayday issued?”

  “No. That’s what doesn’t add up. The pilot just stopped communications. And, if it is a complete instrument failure, I believe that Captain Morgan is capable enough to establish a visual route by lowering his altitude. I know this guy, General; he’s good.”

  “What’s your next plan of action, Major?

  “The weather is closing down quickly, and we’re going to lose all visuals within the hour. Our plan is to have the five C-47s we have available out at first light, flying a grid covering the eastern area where they were last heard from. All flights are canceled to free up the ships. This represents thousands of square miles, though.”

  “What about other planes?”

  “We have a few, but they’re hard to use in searches like this where they will be in the air for a long time. It could be hours and unnecessary refueling confuses the start and stop points of the search grid patterns. The small planes just don’t have the range. Even with the C-47s, the fifteen hundred miles will be chewed up pretty fast. In the meantime, I’ve assigned our best radio operators on a round-the-clock basis to try and establish contact.”

  “Do you need more C-47s?”

  “Three more would help. Any more and we’ll be running into each other, sir.”

  “We’ll have them to you by first light. Until then, I want to be briefed every hour. Is that clear, Major?”

  “Yes, sir. One more thing, General.”

  “What?”

  “That mountain is going to be very cold tonight. We may only have until tomorrow.”

  By Saturday morning, the eighteenth, Search and Rescue still had not made radio contact with the flight crew. Major Raegle had assembled his five flight crews from Ladd and Elmendorf and the three additional promised by the general in a command center for an early briefing. The room was silent, except for the major’s voice retelling what Search and Rescue knew, which wasn’t much other than that there were twenty men on board and where they were at their last radio contact. He asked for speculation among those who knew the route. Some suggested the best place for a forced landing would be east of the McKinley range where a half dozen rivers offered several relatively flat valleys. At least they would be somewhat accessible. The men agreed. The consensus was that support would be limited to a supply drop only in the McKinley Range itself, with the hope that survivors could find their way out on their own. Major Raegle led the discussion while sucking thoughtfully on his pipe from time to time.

  Each crew was given maps of the area to mark up as they devised a grid and assigned positions. It required careful planning so that their rotation through the grid didn’t cause an additional crash, but these were experienced pilots. The biggest problem was that the area west of the Summit and Talkeetna emergency landing sites, including many of the peaks in the McKinley range, was mostly uncharted. Without celestial navigation, visual flying conditions would be the only alternative.

  The “search and rescue gods,” as Major Raegle often referred to, were with the team as the cloud cover started to break up shortly after sunup. Each plane had a full tank of fuel and was packed with first-aid supplies to be dropped when they found the crash site. Four C-47s were to fly in formation, covering the land to the south of the Summit emergency landing site, and four others were to fly to the north.

  Within hours the planes were spread across the sky, capitalizing on the good visibility, yet in reality they were covering only about three miles for each pass on the grid. They started as close to the McKinley Range as possible, at about six thousand feet, taking advantage of the relatively calm flying conditions. Major Raegle flew closest to the peaks and shuddered to think of the difficulties a pilot would encounter if somehow his ship got sucked into the range. The crews of all four ships in formation communicated easily by radio, making their turns efficiently and safely throughout the day. They listened carefully in the hopes of even the faintest radio signal while flying at a snail’s pace in order to examine every suspicious configuration on the ground. “Hear anything?” “See anything?” were the calls heard all day and “Negative” became the familiar answer. Their imaginations played games with them as the snow cover made it almost impossible to distinguish the difference in shapes of the sightings on the ground. Still, they pressed forward for hours, scanning the vast area of glacial wilderness. Nothing. Desperation set in as their fuel gauges became low and the day’s light began to recede.

  “Let’s head for the barn,” Major Raegle broadcast to both crews. “We’ll find them tomorrow for sure,” he said with an empty heart and a lump in the pit of his stomach.

  CHAPTER 44

  Nick survived the night. He had managed to remove Red’s coat and wool shirt. The added warmth was enough to permit a few hours of sleep. Waking up to the shock of Red’s body with only long underwear from the waist up, however, ushered in the horror of the previous day’s catastrophe and the grave danger of his current situation. His own body was stiff from being pinned down in such an awkward position all night. He tried rubbing some life into his good leg with his hands and succeeded, somewhat. He felt searing pain whenever he touched his bad leg, from any movement of the femur above the break. The lower part of the leg was less sensitive, almost numb, likely from extensive nerve damage and lack of blood circulation. The skin had a corpse-like appearance.

  “Today’s going to have to be the day,” Nick said, reflecting on the need for the leg to come off. The weather had calmed, making the morning more tolerable. Without the extra clothes, Nick thought, I’d have been a goner last night. After several strikes on the Zippo, he was able to light a cigarette, which helped him focus. The first drag was reassuring. He held up a pocketknife he found in Red’s flight jacket, eyeing it skeptically as if it were a sacred medieval surgical instrument. “Something a Boy Scout would carry, not a surgeon,” he uttered in disdain. Unsure of where his self-operation would take him, he decided to finish his cigarette and record what might be his last thoughts to Martha.

  I’m afraid my predicament has worsened with the left leg. The good news is that if I can sever it with the knife I found in Red’s jacket, I can get free of the cockpit. I’ll at least have a chance at signaling for help somehow. But, if we ever are together again, you’ll have to be happy with a one-legged husband. It would mean the end of my flying days and back to the “U” for more education to get a real job.

  At that moment Nick heard the faint sound of two Pratt & Whitney radial piston engines unique to C-47s. It was some distance off, but the sound was an enc
ouragement, and it bolstered his nerve.

  I need to get to work. Just heard a Search and Rescue ship … C-47 for sure. When they come back I need to be ready for them. Maybe that’s why God gave us two legs, so you could say good-bye to one of them. Wish me luck! If it doesn’t turn out well, I want you to know that I love you with my whole heart. I cherish every moment we’ve had together and, God willing, smile in anticipation of us being together again.

  Yours,

  Nick

  Lucky for Nick, Red kept a good edge on his pocketknife. Before beginning, Nick packed his upper leg in snow to help stop any bleeding and numb the pain. After applying Red’s belt as a tourniquet, he began the grisly task. He had read stories of animals chewing their leg off to escape a trap, but the sensation he experienced was not that of panic. Nick was a precise man by nature, and he found his hand to be pretty steady, despite the occasional flashes of panic that he was cutting off his own leg. The blade traveled through the flesh with relative ease—simple if it weren’t for the nerves being cut. The pain they triggered was off the chart, but he kept at it for over a half hour. With the last cut, he felt his body go free. Moving quickly, Nick loosened the tourniquet to cover the stump and jagged bone with two layers of Red’s folded shirt and just as quickly retightened the belt to avoid excessive blood loss. He just stared at his work, speechless, and then passed out.

  CHAPTER 45

  Robert gave considerable thought as to how to remove the courier bag from the major’s wrist while searching the plane for food. He hadn’t eaten since the previous morning and hoped he could find the cabinet where he had stored sodas and snacks. Not much to live on, but better than nothing. The real question he kept mulling over was whether to signal the rescue ship and forgo the classified documents or to take the documents and try to make it off the mountain on his own. As he considered his options, he felt his dilemma wasn’t so much the mountain, as he naïvely believed he could negotiate its descent if he were careful, it was how to use the documents to safely bargain for a secure passage to a new country—a new life. Going AWOL certainly wasn’t an issue. He was way beyond that point. Finding the right contacts was everything. He found some nuts and crackers while crawling through the wreckage, which bolstered his spirits. The sodas had all exploded from pressure. He ate while sitting on a snow bank considering his next steps.