by Todd Borg
The little plane dropped its nose and plunged toward the earth. I checked the instruments. Everything seemed normal. I tried the starter. The prop, already doing a feeble rotation from the effect of the airspeed on the blades, didn’t change its motion. We were fifty feet above the highway. An eighteen-wheeler was in front of us, heading the same direction as we were. We came down above it, overtaking it. If we landed in front of it, it would smash us into pieces. But it was going too slow for us to land behind it without crashing into it. If I turned off to the side of the highway, we’d hit the trees. Again I tried the starter as I checked the instruments. Then I saw the gas gauges.
Left tank empty. Right tank full. I grabbed the fuel selector and switched to the right tank. Tried the starter. The prop was still turning in a slow circle. We were directly above the truck. The driver had no idea an airplane was about to drop out of the sky in front of him. I kept trying the starter. We were twenty-five feet above the ground. Twelve feet above the semi-trailer. The starter motor made a grinding noise. The plane was buffeted by the airstream thrown up by the truck.
The plane’s engine sputtered. We glided over the truck, then came down directly in front of the truck’s cab. We settled into the snowy swath of the truck’s headlight beams. Light washed over our plane. An air horn blasted.
The plane vibrated under its assault. The truck’s headlights veered away from us and then came back as it swerved behind us. We slammed onto the roadway in front of the truck’s bumper. The wheel struts flexed and we bounced. Alicia stifled a scream. The engine fired. I pushed the throttle all the way forward. The prop spun into a blur. I pulled back on the yoke and we roared back into the snowy sky.
Alicia remained silent for a long time. I was aware of her shaking. I wanted to say something that might calm both of us, but no words came. Snow pummeled the windshield and the vents blew a weak stream of warm air.
I stayed close to the road as it crested several passes. Eventually, I recognized the Carson Valley in the distance.
The safest way into the Lake Tahoe basin in a snow storm would be to fly north to Carson City, then go over the broad saddle of Spooner Summit and backtrack south over the lake to the South Lake Tahoe airport. A shorter, more dangerous route was to come in directly from the south. I was convinced that time was everything.
There were few cars as I turned off of 395 and headed up Highway 89 toward Woodfords, but I knew the road well and thought I could fly it in the dark. I flipped on the landing light and stayed close enough to the pavement that the landing light would shine through the snow and show me the way. I didn’t think there were any high tension power lines in my path, so I reasoned that we’d be okay if I stayed one hundred feet above the ground, high enough to go over standard utility poles.
Woodfords is a single intersection just up from the desert valley. I flew over it and went like an aerobatic flyer into the canyon that twisted and turned as it climbed up to Hope Valley. When the canyon opened up I banked to the right and powered up over Luther Pass. From there it was a long glide down Christmas Valley to Tahoe and the airport.
My radios were still off and I guessed that other air traffic would be non-existent in the storm. The airport control tower would pick me up on the radar and try to contact me as I came in on my glide path. My intention was to ignore them, land and find Street and Spot as quickly as possible.
The blue runway lights were invisible in the snow storm, no doubt buried. I brought the plane down where I thought the landing strip might be. It was impossible to tell if the runway was covered with two inches or two feet of snow. Wind buffeted the plane. I saw in my peripheral vision Alicia’s hand going to the instrument panel. Her legs stiffened. I backed off on our speed. When we were ten feet above the snow, I throttled back to idle. The plane rocked left and right in the wind. Then the wheels plowed into the snow.
The plane slowed. We started to skid. The wheels caught on heavy snow and we flipped over.
My head hit the top of the canopy as the plane slid upside down. The shoulder belts dug into my neck and chest. Alicia made no sound. The plane jerked to a stop. The engine died and the only sound was the wind. I unlocked and pushed open the doors. Then I unlatched my belt and fell in an upside down heap, half in the plane, half outside in the snow. I pulled myself out, ran through deep snow around a broken wing that was dribbling gasoline, unclipped Alicia’s seatbelt and dragged her out into the storm. When we were a safe distance from the wreckage I paused and hauled Alicia to her feet. The wind was icy and the snow stung. I held Alicia with my back to the wind and looked across the airport.
There, at the edge of the access road, was Street’s little VW bug. Street was near the car, struggling toward us through drifts. Spot was running across the snow-covered tarmac.
He met us halfway, jumped around and sniffed Alicia as I ran with her toward Street.
“Oh, my God!” Street cried when we met. She put her arms around both me and Alicia. “When the plane flipped I thought you...” She stopped. We three hugged, all of us shaking.
Then, calmer, Street said, “You must be Alicia. I’m Street. Good to meet you.” It was, perhaps, the strangest meeting two people could have, me carrying the half-dressed Alicia in a snow storm, yet Street handled it as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
When we reached the car, I set Alicia down. She shivered violently.
“God, you poor thing,” Street said. “You must be freezing. Here, you and I will get into the back seat.” She opened the door and helped Alicia into the tiny car.
Spot got in the front passenger side and I drove off immediately.
“I take it we’re in a hurry,” Street said.
“Very,” I said. I popped her cell phone out of its holder and dialed Diamond’s pager. “Diamond, please give a call immediately.” I recited Street’s number and replaced the phone, noticing that its time feature said 5:00 a.m. I’d been up for nearly 48 hours. I was exhausted but not sleepy, the benefit of adrenaline.
We turned out of the airport and drove toward town on Highway 50. I pushed the VW to its limit in the snow. The car only had two-wheel drive, but it went through the snow well. In the rearview mirror, I saw Street attending to Alicia. “She’s a tough one, Street,” I said. “Crash a plane and she doesn’t make a peep.” Street pulled off her coat and wrapped it around the woman. Spot stretched his head back between the front seats, investigating Alicia’s shop coat and packing tape slippers.
“Thanks for being here, Street,” I said.
Before she could say anything, the phone warbled.
“Yes, Diamond,” I said, appreciating his promptness. “Do you know where Jennifer Salazar is?”
“Actually, I do,” Diamond said. “She is at the Salazar mansion. The girl was hysterical so we kept an officer there throughout most of the night. He only left just now.”
“Do you know who is with Jennifer?”
“Sure,” Diamond said. “Her grandmother. The housekeeper.”
“Could there be anyone else?”
“Not that I know of. But I wasn’t there. We still have a man at the front gate, though.”
“He won’t let anyone in?”
“Not without my permission or the grandmother’s permission.”
“So if the girl leaves the house, no one would see her, correct?” I said. We were almost through town. The early morning streets were bare of traffic. Snow blew horizontally under the streetlights.
“Not unless she went by the front gate. Oh, by the way, Owen,” Diamond said. “You might not want to show your face around just yet. There is an arrest warrant out on you. They are considering charges against Street also.”
“Thanks, Diamond.” I hung up.
“Where are we going?” Street asked as we raced past the casinos and headed north through blowing snow toward the Salazar mansion.
“If my guess is correct, we’re going for a very cold boat ride,” I said.
THIRTY-FOUR