by E. R. Mason
Cassiopia climbed to Markman’s side and pulled off the piled up clothing. He was still unconscious; his head turned to one side. She brushed the debris off his legs and repositioned his arms. The pulse in his neck was strong and regular. He needed to be moved away from the front. She looked back at the last two seats. On the floor beside her, a section of wooden panel had broken free. She grabbed it and dragged it back. It fit well across the isle, joining the rear seats together. She returned and contemplated how best to move him. There had to be some impact damage to the knees or legs. She found a shirt in the pile of clothes and gently secured his legs together.
As tenderly as possible, she pulled him onto his side, carefully steadying his head. She reached out and pushed the adjoining seat forward to collapse it. With her hands under his arms, she worked him away from the side of the aircraft so that she could rest his upper body sideways on the flat seat back of the adjoining seat. She checked his pockets and cursed under her breath that his cell phone was not there.
Cassiopia rested and studied the remaining distance.
With the seat backs of the next row of seats in the flat position, she resumed her cautious pulling and twisting of Markman’s bulky form. Somehow, she dragged him back to the rear seat and wooden platform. Standing over him, she hoisted him sideways onto the wooden panel. From there it was easy to lift his legs and feet. He was so cold it frightened her. Hurriedly, she gathered up the jackets and clothes and covered him from head to foot.
Snowflakes began to drift into the cabin. Despite how hard she had been working, the air seemed to be getting colder. She looked at Markman’s wristwatch and had to wipe the frost from the lens to read it. Four o’clock. Fear surged through Cassiopia. Would they have to spend the night here? Why hadn’t a rescue already come? Cassiopia suddenly became even more frightened. She had not heard or seen any airplanes or helicopters! Why weren’t they searching? How could she possibly survive the night in the freezing snow, atop some mountain in the middle of nowhere? Cassiopia thought to cry but realized her mouth and eyes were so dry they were numb. It was the altitude. They must still be at a very high elevation. That was why she kept running out of breath.
She looked at Markman. Something was wrong. There was certainly injury to his legs, but he was not waking up. Concussion. She went to him, uncovered his face, and lifted one eyelid. The pupil was widely dilated. Severe concussion. She sat on the seat back in front of him and tried to collect herself. More snow flurries rushed in around them. She looked back at the front of the wreckage. It had to be closed off somehow. She climbed to the back, pulled out the canvas cover and brought it forward. There were torn wire bundles everywhere. Using the folding knife, she began to cut foot-long pieces. With the wind trying to blow the canvas away, she fastened it to the front of the wreckage using her homemade wire ties. Gathering junk from around her, she weighed down the bottom, leaving one side as a flap-entrance. Back inside, the cabin area was suddenly a shadowy escape from the harshness of the elements. She returned to Markman and sat. Conditions were greatly improved, but it was still freezing cold.
They needed fire. Certainly that was hopeless. There were no matches or lighters that she knew of, and no power within the aircraft. Wherever the batteries were, it was unlikely they were intact. There was no fuel to make a fire. Fuel? The left wing was still attached and intact. That was where they put the fuel. Would there still be some in that wing? This airplane had propellers, but it was a turbojet. Did that mean there was kerosene in those wings? She had a small auxiliary fuel tank outside that she had used to add weight to the spar-lever. It would hold kerosene. The seat belts would make wicks.
But there was no fire. Cassiopia thought of all the ways to make it. Rub sticks together, forget that. A magnifying glass. She did not have one, and there was nothing around from which a lens could be made. A small solar dish could be used to reflect sunlight to a single point and heat it to combustion. Not enough sunlight, no precision dishes available.
There was one other way. A Native American had taught her. It was called a fire piston. Put the right kind of tinder-particle in a cylinder, instantaneously super-compress it and create an ember. Use the ember to make a flame in larger pile of tinder. Cassiopia remembered the broken landing gear she had seen. There had been some a small cylinder on it. She forced herself up, went outside and searched. The wheel was easy to find. She dragged her heavy treasure back down and inside, brushed it off, and inspected it. Yes, the small cylinder was there. It was some kind of dampening mechanism. She retrieved her tool kit and began working at it. The pliers and adjustable wrench worked nicely. A few minutes of work and she held the detached piston-cylinder in her hand. The barrel was about six inches long, just right. Using the pliers and the wrench, she was able to unscrew the top of the cylinder and remove the piston. It was a hardened chrome shaft, a dry dampening mechanism, and perfect for what she needed. The O-rings on the shaft were in place and looked healthy. With a few modifications, there was a good chance it would work. She looked out the window at the partially exposed wing. Unless there was fuel to burn, it was all for nothing. She placed it on the seat next to her and stood.
Outside the wind had not let up. She went to the front of the snow-covered wing and began brushing it off in search of a fuel cap. Three-quarters of the way to the wing tip, she found it. She twisted it off and peered down in. It smelled like there was fuel in there. She stuck the finger of one glove down in and pulled it back out to find it wet.
How to get it out? She replaced the cap and began digging snow out from beneath the wing, looking for anything that might be a drain valve. After fifteen minutes of searching, she found something where the wing joined the fuselage. It was a valve with a small hole in it. She retrieved a small piece of wire and poked into the valve hole. To her delight, fuel began spraying out. She retrieved the gallon jug and held it under the wing. Pushing her wire into the valve, she filled the gallon jug, then went to look for the tank. It was lying on its side in the snow. Most of the water had run out of it, but icicles protruded from the ragged holes in the top. She broke them off and shook the tank. There was more ice inside. Perhaps a fourth of the tank still contained ice, but that would not matter. Water was heavier than fuel. She could add fuel and if the ice melted, the water would separate and simply sink to the bottom of the tank.
Inside, she used the hammer and screwdriver to pound three slots in the top of the beat-up tank. Pieces of seat belt fit through the slots and coiled at the bottom. Using her gallon of fuel, and a metal dish from the sink, she soaked the sections of belt, and inserted them in the slots. The rest of the fuel was careful poured into the tank. Two more trips outside brought two more gallons, also carefully poured into the tank. Now if she could only make fire.
Tinder and kindling had to be ready in case the fire piston worked. Using the hammer and the inside of the landing gear wheel, she hammered pieces of wood and paper and pulverized them, nearly to dust. She gathered a small amount in a pile in the cap of the thermos. The fire piston needed a little more work. She pulled the piston back out of the shaft and looked at the end piece. There was a plastic tip with a small piece of rubber on the end of it. With the knife, she cut a small slit in it to hold her tinder. Finding just the right piece, she dabbed it in kerosene and wedged it in place, then reassembled the piston. She tried to push the piston with her hand, but the pressure was too great. It needed a controlled leak. She unscrewed the piston just enough to let a small amount of pressure escape. Bracing the cylinder against the floor, she hit the piston as hard as she could with the hammer. Quickly she opened the assembly, pulled out the piston shaft, and shrieked with delight when a bright red ember smoked on the end of the piston shaft. Lurching for the thermos cap, still shrieking, she nearly dropped it. Catching herself, she lowered the dying ember into the pile of tinder and kindling. Smoke quickly burst into flame.
Breathlessly, she rolled up a piece of paper and wet it with fuel. She held her kerosene pape
r over the flame and watched it light into a larger flame. Carefully, she nursed it over to the stove and was overjoyed when the first wick lit easily. When all three were alight, she crumpled her paper out and sat hugging herself, staring at the three flames in her kerosene stove. It needed some sort of backing to help reflect the heat forward, but that could be done later. A thin film of black smoke ran up to the ceiling and followed it out. Gathering all the remaining loose clothing, she piled it up on top of Markman and squeezed in alongside him. Holding him, she stared at the fire and realized night had fallen.
Chapter 3