All of the men saw the reflection again. “That’s it,” said Matt. “I can see the fuselage and the tail section.”
“We got one shot at making a good drop. Let’s make it count. Open the doors and ready the supplies. Secure the rip cord for the chute to open automatically. Take me down another two hundred feet, Matt.”
Matt was sweating bullets, but he knew better than to challenge the order.
“Drop the supplies,” the major ordered suddenly. There wasn’t that much surface for the drop to land on. If they overshot the site, the supplies would have plunged into oblivion.
The ship roared over the crash site with the tangled wreckage in full view. The tail marking, 15738, was obscured, but that had to be it.
The major instantly put the ship into a climb that bordered on a stall. Every man on board was happy he had clean underwear back home. They barely cleared the peak and headed back.
“Did anyone see any survivors?” Major Raegle knew he hadn’t and was hoping someone else had. No answer. “I’m asking again. Did anyone see any survivors?”
“That’s a negative,” Matt replied, answering for the team.
CHAPTER 48
Agent Andrey Sirak was furious when he was informed of the crash late Saturday night on the other side of the International Date Line. The Russian pilot flying the surviving P-38 was exhausted upon arrival at the airstrip in Anadyr. He had battled headwinds the entire trip that ate up his fuel and added an hour to the flight time. It was remarkable that he arrived at all. Regardless, Agent Sirak had left explicit instructions to be informed once the planes arrived. The pilot collapsed onto his cot once his report was written and radioed to Moscow.
Agent Sirak knew the discovery of this mission by the United States would have significant international consequences, so his deliberations needed to include a response so well designed that counterreaction would be diffused. Stalin needed to be briefed, of course, and that always contained an enormous element of risk in itself. Agent Sirak needed to consider the facts at hand. First, Russia had not been notified, as yet, of the C-47’s crash and Vladimir’s passage on the flight. That may take several days, even weeks, as the United States would investigate first before following protocol. Second, according to the surviving pilot, the other P-38 crashed in extremely inaccessible mountainous terrain. It was quite possible the plane would never be found. Third, while the evidence for testing the bomb in Alaska now could not be validated with actual plans, Russia’s knowledge of such plans was enough, in Agent Sirak’s mind, to force a stalemate over the incident. And fourth, radio contact to Alaska would be very difficult to establish quickly now that his NKVD agent and key GRU operatives were missing and likely dead.
After considerable thought, Agent Sirak reasoned that no action was necessary until news of survivors was confirmed. The good news was that, given the circumstances, the United States would be unlikely to move ahead with using Alaska as a test site. Success is not always neatly packaged, he thought. In this case the progress outweighed the setback.
“Agent Sirak, please come in,” the general secretary of the Communist Party said. While their loyalties to each other had survived for many years, Agent Sirak always took a deep breath before entering Stalin’s office to break the news.
CHAPTER 49
The weather forecast for the mountain range on Monday, March 20 called for clear skies with winds out of the northwest at eighteen to twenty-two mph. The Search and Rescue team planned to capitalize on this window of opportunity, as the forecast for Tuesday and Wednesday warned of a storm front.
Major Raegle assembled all Search and Rescue crews in the briefing room for a run-through of what was expected. “We’re going to need two flights to accomplish our objective. I’ll lead the first one with the same crew. Our objective will be to make the same entry into the range as yesterday but at about ninety-two hundred feet. This will alert any survivors that we know where they are. We’ll try to take close-up pictures of the wreckage, as well. The second flight will be piloted by Captain Baker, and he’s looking for a volunteer crew. Their objective will be to follow our butt ten minutes later at ninety-six hundred feet and to take as many photographs as possible; hopefully we’ll catch some survivors moving around. Questions?”
“What are our chances of parachuting a few men to administer first aid?”
“Unfortunately, the chances of parachuting aren’t very good. The winds can be violent and would be a bitch to negotiate. Also, we just don’t have a clue as to how we would get those men out. I say again: this is the roughest possible terrain you can imagine.” There were several nods to the affirmative by the crew from the first flyover.
“You’ll see that your target area is extremely small, as well, with major cliffs and bottomless drop-offs on either side,” one of the men added.
“What’s our plan if we find survivors?”
“Right now, it’s to keep them alive with supplies and first aid. We’re in the process of contacting a few seasoned mountain climbers to develop scenarios to get them out.”
Nick had barely survived the cold weather and loss of blood on Sunday and knew he had to be ready for a possible rescue on Monday. He could tell by the red setting sunset that Monday’s weather would benefit a follow-up attempt. I need to somehow get their attention, he thought, knowing that the main wreckage down below would occupy their efforts. He considered two options that might work. First, he needed to find something in the cockpit that could be used to reflect the sun’s rays back to the aircraft’s crew. It would be a long shot, as the mountain weather patterns could quickly and unpredictably produce clouds that would block the sun. His second option was to build a fire so the smoke would be visible. He needed to be ready to go to make that option work. He had an idea. If there was any fuel remaining in the heater lines, he might be able to milk it out and use it as an accelerant.
He had much work to do to make his plan work. He dragged himself about like an amputee on a roller cart gathering anything extra that would burn—remaining clothes from Vladimir and Red, seat cushions, flight manuals, maps, anything—and moved it to the top of the ridge in a pile, dragging it over the ice and rocks. At times the rocks hit his exposed femur, setting off a firestorm of pain. The jacket covering his forearms and elbows was shredded from crawling arm over arm on multiple trips to the ridge top. At the end of the day, he used his good leg like a frog’s leg against the terrain as a last resort for propulsion. His crippled and tortured body fought through the circumstance. Considering the loss of blood alone, it was a miracle that Nick hung on. At 1900, exhausted and without anything to eat or drink other than snow in almost three days, his stamina left him. Barely making it back into the cockpit, Nick fell in and out of consciousness.
“Agh … agh!” he screamed, waking himself out of strange dreams involving ghost-like warriors stealing things from his pile of fire materials. He saw Anne’s face outlined by the stars in the night sky. He remembered her for a minute or two, and then lost all recognition as he slid back into his private netherworld. At 0400 he panicked and quickly jerked upright, remembering he had not found anything to reflect the sun’s rays. “They’re going to be here … they’re going to be here, and I’m not ready.” He rummaged around in the freezing temperature, finding nothing. He thought of Martha and wanted to write more in his letter, but it was too cold. He had one last cigarette he was saving but decided that it would help him focus. He fumbled for the crumpled package, retrieving the last Lucky Strike in the pack. After four tries with his lighter, it finally lit. And then it dawned on him: the stainless steel Zippo would act as a good reflector.
His determination to survive up until then had occupied his focus, and he felt any prayers for his survival would have signaled defeat to some unknown scorekeeper with a clock ticking down. He wasn’t quite sure how to pray for what he hoped for—getting off the mountain, Martha and the baby, Bud and Helen, Henry and Rose; it was all very confusing. He had been blessed; he reali
zed that, but now he was trying to “pray forward,” so to speak. Ultimately, he asked for God’s forgiveness and to somehow find a way off the mountain, only to realize this wasn’t really a prayer, but a request. He flicked an ash on the floor and recalled the early days with Martha. God, we were in love, he thought. His mind slowed as he exhaled a plume of smoke and recalled that flight up the St. Croix River to Grand Marais—that was the day he knew he wanted to marry her. At that moment, he knew his prayer should be one of thanks, not of requests, as the real truth of his existence pressed upon his prayer. He burned his finger slightly, getting the last hit from the cigarette, and crushed the butt into the ashtray that had somehow survived the crash. “I love you, Martha,” he whispered.
Dawn brought overcast skies—not quite what he expected. Regardless, his optimism of being found was enough to motivate his efforts to milk any fuel from the heater lines. It was a good idea, he thought, but everything hurt. Unfortunately, as it turned out, he was only able to salvage a few ounces. Enough to start a fire, just not enough for the dramatic effect he had hoped for. He found a small container for the fuel and began his crawl up to the ridge through the snow and rocks. His cuts and bruises from the crash and the previous night’s crawling hurt like hell, and his one kneecap was vulnerable to the granite rocks. He kept himself rolled to one side to avoid aggravating his stump, which had strangely grown almost numb and had turned gray above the tourniquet. This was different from the red, infectious pain from the previous night. By 0830 he was in place to see a few rays from the rising sun break through the clouds, which was a positive sign. He reasoned that Search and Rescue would probably come at approximately the same time as the day before—around 0915 to 0930. Good visibility was essential to his discovery.
There was nothing else to do. He sat in the bitter cold, allowing the sun’s rays to warm his spirits. He scanned the wreckage some fifteen hundred feet below situated at the head of a formidable glacier. He figured that the wreckage and the bodies would be assimilated into the glacier in time, thus beginning a journey for the millennium. It was then that he noticed movement—a single man walking toward the fuselage. Nick felt like Robinson Crusoe. A companion, another human being had made it through the crash, he thought. He managed to stand on his remaining leg to wave his arms and call out in an attempt to be seen. “Hellooo … hellooo. I’m up here,” he shouted. He was so far above the man he wasn’t sure he could be heard, but he did see the man stop and turn around before continuing on. He continued yelling as best he could, but he was weak and finally gave up.
Nick’s despondency at not attracting the man’s attention below was overtaken by the distinct sound of twin Pratt & Whitney’s. Panic set in, as he knew his exposure to the flyover would be brief—less than fifteen minutes. He threw his gloves to the ground and poured the heater fuel on an undergarment from one of the men, held it on the leeward side of the pile to break the wind, and struck his Zippo. Nothing! He struck it again and again with the same result. “God dammit!” Frustrated, he hit the lighter in the butt of his hand to jolt any remaining fluid toward the wick. His hands were very cold. He struck the lighter again and got the tiniest of flames for just a few seconds. Not enough time to transfer it to the fuel. He desperately pulled the bottom portion of the lighter off and blew into the cotton base to force any remaining fluid toward the wick. Once again, a flicker and then gone. He was frantic. The Zippo slipped from his hand and dropped into the snow. He felt around until he found it. It was his last lifeline!
The ship was coming in low to attract the attention of any survivors below, not considering that a survivor may be on top as well. He found it odd to be looking down a thousand feet on the C-47. He knew the crew would be focused on the wreckage. He held the Zippo in his fingertips and thrust the flat side into the sun’s rays as if to physically direct the reflection straight into the cockpit. The Zippo was slick from the snow and his hands were numb from exposure. He gripped the lighter too tightly with his fingers, causing it to shoot from his hand like a watermelon seed and fall well below his position in a rock crag. Even with both legs it would take a very careful maneuver to retrieve the lighter; with one leg, it would be daunting.
Nick had flown Search and Rescue before, so he knew that procedure called for a second flight for airdrops and photographs, as needed. Absolutely sure of a second plane, Nick inched his way over the ridge and lowered himself with the strength of his arms carefully toward the Zippo. He could see it clearly. If it were a pet, he could whistle for it to come home. He lost his grip and slid a few feet, landing hard on a rock outcropping against the exposed femur. It set off such pain that he screamed. Reaching the Zippo was just not going to happen. As he lay there trapped between the rocks and gasping for breath, he heard the drone of the twin Pratt & Whitney’s of the second plane. That’s when he knew it was over. He knew this flight was his last chance. His body was completely ruined, probably beyond repair, his mental condition was deteriorating rapidly, and in all honesty, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to get himself back to the cockpit. That’s when he ironically remembered the thrill of being up on top and flying that first trip over the Aleutians and the Valley of 10,000 Smokes with Captain Marshall Smith. “Looks like I’ll be on top for a while, Captain. It’s a hellava view,” he said in quiet resignation.
He was never able to move from that spot, not sure he really wanted to. The warm sun heated the rocks somewhat, and the perfect view of this spectacular mountain helped ease any panic over dying. He had time to make peace with his Maker and found comfort in knowing he had loved and was loved in life.
The day went fast and by 2300 that night Nick Morgan was dead from hypothermia, exposure, and a heart that just couldn’t rally one more time.
CHAPTER 50
That drop of supplies on Sunday was like manna from heaven for Robert. While he had been excited at the opportunity of cashing in on the documents, he really had no idea how he was going to get off the mountain. He was physically fit and wiry, and his Alaskan experience in the military had prepared him for wilderness survival challenges, but getting off this mountain required more than just will. He needed the right tools—snowshoes, ropes, climbing gear, and the like. He was delighted when he unwrapped the airdrop.
Everything he could possible ask for was included: food, a small stove with fuel, arctic sleeping bags, kerosene lamps, a sled, and a vast array of mountaineering gear. He was impressed with Search and Rescue’s forethought, as he had quickly come to the conclusion that getting airlifted out was highly unlikely. “This is perfect,” he said excitedly as he started organizing what he needed. Getting the snowshoes on was the first order of business, as the effort required to move around in the deep snow was very challenging. Once he was more mobile the rest of the organizing and packing for his exit was simplified. He cautioned himself not to overpack the sled, knowing that he was sure to face narrow and steep avenues in his escape route.
Robert knew that unexpected Search and Rescue activity could get in his way. It’s best if they conclude that nobody survived, he thought. That way, the focus will go from rescue to recovery—a much less intense sense of urgency. Robert’s training in search and rescue had taught him that photographs were very important. They would compare photographs taken on different days to judge activity at the site. With this in mind he took only what he needed from the airdrop and returned everything to its original condition, and that meant covering his snowshoe tracks to avoid the markings of a trail. He stored the sled, packed with provisions for his departure, inside the fuselage to avoid detection. He did his cooking there, also.
He spent the rest of the day using the clear visibility to decide upon his exit path. In the back of his mind, he was still looking for the cockpit, as well. Robert’s original conclusion was that it was buried in one of the avalanches triggered by the crash, but he kept looking all the same.
Throughout the day he ruled out one option after another as a safe route out. Ultimately, he went back
to one of his first choices. The angle to the slope was less severe, but if he made one mistake, it was a deathtrap. After studying it from all viewpoints, he believed he could make it, but there would be no return. The only noncontrollable would be an avalanche. It was apparent that they were common to the slope by the way fifteen- to twenty-foot snowfields were visible next to absolutely barren rock slides. The avalanches were almost like calving on an iceberg wall leaving steep embankments of packed snow, just on a smaller scale. He would traverse back and forth across the most difficult portion of the incline in a switchback fashion, much the way an expert skier handles the deep powder. About a mile or so down the canyon the slope was less severe and emptied into a rock field with narrow passages—obviously the remains of previous avalanches. What came after that, he didn’t know.
On Monday morning, Robert wanted to get an early start since he was quite sure the Search and Rescue C-47s would return at about the same time, weather permitting. He was almost at the wreck site when he heard something. He was so engrossed in wiping out his tracks that the sound surprised him. It was almost like a person’s voice—like someone drawing out the word “hello” to create an echo. He turned around to evaluate the source, but before he could do so he heard the drone of twin Pratt & Whitney’s coming up the gorge. He moved quickly into the fuselage, out of sight. After the planes passed there was silence. He concluded that the voice he thought he heard a few minutes earlier was simply his mind playing tricks on him. Stories of mirages and images of people in the desert were common. It must have been a like an audible mirage, he thought. And to support his conclusion he heard nothing the rest of the day.
With his cooking stove and food now located in the fuselage, the bodies of the sergeant and Major Gordon bothered him immensely. Moving them to the mass grave became a priority. They were stiff from rigor mortis and subfreezing temperatures, making them hard to manage. Once accomplished, however, the interior fuselage looked almost livable. Last on the list prior to departure was the need to consolidate the classified documents into a backpack for ease of transport. He absolutely needed two free hands to contend with his climb out. Looking at the empty courier bag triggered one last hateful reaction to his short relationship with the major. “If this bag was so dammed important to you, you can have it back,” he announced in a mock sense of victory, and slid the handcuffs back on the major’s wrist. “Take good care of it, asshole.”
Fatal Incident Page 27