According to what the Blacksand rep had told the eight of them before boarding in Anchorage, the plane was likely north of the tree line by now. Beyond the tree line was the tundra, a land of ice, snow and blizzards worse than any Saharan sandstorm.
Another gust howled around their puny craft. The plane lurched upward as metal groaned. It felt as if a giant twisted the fuselage, trying to pry it apart and spill them like ants onto the snow below. Just how far below the snow actually was, Paul had no idea, and that also troubled him.
A speaker crackled into life several feet away, and the pilot spoke. At least, Paul figured it was the pilot. The man was hidden behind a curtain up front, a curtain that swayed far too much. Paul heard garbled words from the speaker. He had no idea what the pilot was trying to tell them, and there was no way he was going to unbuckle to crawl closer to find out, either, so he was glad when the speaker quit broadcasting its gibberish.
A new wind shoved them sideways and the plane seemed to skip like a stone flung across a pond. Paul might have heard a moan. It was hard to hear anything but the roaring engines and wind. Then the man across the aisle was bent over, his forehead shoved against the back of the seat before him. The man spewed onto his black combat boots. The grim odor caused Paul’s own stomach to lurch.
As the man wiped his lips, he glanced over. Paul remembered that his name was Murphy. The man was squat, with dark, curly hair and the whitest face Paul had ever seen. There were beads of sweat on the man’s forehead. Murphy was an ex-Army Ranger and had bragged earlier about his sniper skills. He’d said something about hoping to bag seals. He said the Eskimos used to do it with harpoons. According to Murphy, now the Inuit used rifles to take headshots. They had to make sure they killed the seal with a single shot. The marine mammals slept by their air holes, and if you only wounded the beast, it slid into the hole and out of sight.
Paul wondered how many seals lived near the oil rig where they were headed. Were they like sea lions in Monterey, California, the kind that never stopped barking? He remembered his honeymoon in Monterey and eating out at night on the Old Fisherman’s Wharf. Cheri had commented several times on the barking sea lions.
The treacherous wind shifted yet again, shoving the plane down. Paul’s gut lurched as they dropped into a freefell. For a sickening instant, he couldn’t hear the engines. Is this what it felt like to space-walk, to float in zero gravity? Then the engines roared once more. It was a tortured sound, but welcome nonetheless. The plane quit falling, and it pitched forward, buffeted one way and then another.
In the plane’s flickering cabin light, Paul saw moisture in Murphy’s eyes.
“We’ll make it!” Paul shouted into Murphy’s ear. You could hardly call it an aisle between them. It had been hard for both of them squeezing into their seats. Paul could barely hear his own words and wondered if Murphy had heard him. He clapped Murphy on the shoulder, squeezing, trying to impart hope into the man. Paul felt iron-hard muscles. He wondered why Murphy had left the Army Rangers. Was he another hard case? Were they all losers in this plane, each in his separate way?
Shaking his head, Paul vowed that this time he was going to win. This time he’d keep his job. He’d excel and send Mikey—and Cheri—the money they needed.
The speaker crackled into life again, and the pilot spoke more of his gibberish. Paul would have liked to know what the man was saying.
Instead of unbuckling to find out, though, Paul hunched his head and watched the white particles appear out of the darkness and beat against the window. For all he could see, this might as well have been some alien planet. He hoped the pilot had radar and could talk to someone to guide them to a safe landing.
Two-and-a-quarter hours later, the plane skidded across a runway in Dead Horse. The place was the last inhabited spot before the vast ocean of ice. Most of Dead Horse had been constructed out of prefabricated buildings, an island of light in the Arctic darkness. It was the nearest “town” to Prudhoe Bay.
Several years ago, the Prudhoe Bay oilfields had been given a new lease on life. The science of extracting oil had continued to advance. New, deeper oilfields had been discovered here, dwarfing the existing fields and expanding Alaska’s importance. Combined with the recently built derricks in ANWR, this northern slope region had become one of the most concentrated oil-producing sites in the world.
The plane finally came to a stop and two snowmobiles raced to them. Soon, a hatch opened and the men scaled down the ladder to the snow. The storm had passed, although snow continued to fall. In the swirling flakes, there was shouting and pointing. Then two heavily-bundled men guided the spent Blacksand personnel to a nearby shed.
Paul was the last to get indoors. His cheeks and nose were cold. When the door slammed shut, he pulled off his gloves and wiped ice from his eyebrows.
Two heaters glowed beside snowmobiles and snow-blowing equipment. Folding chairs had been set up, with narrow pallets and sleeping bags beside them. Some of the new Blacksand personnel slumped like dead men on the sleeping bags.
Paul and several others moved to one of the heaters. A folding table had been set up with candy bars and hot chocolate.
The door opened, letting snow blow inside. A short man stepped in, shutting the door, and unwound a scarf from his face. He had leathery features, wore a woolen hat, and looked like an Indian—an unsmiling warrior with the darkest eyes Paul had ever seen. He told them his name was John Red Cloud.
“You men will sleep here,” Red Cloud said. He had an odd accent that Paul couldn’t place. He guessed the Indian to be another Blacksand agent.
Red Cloud pulled back the edge of his parka sleeve and glanced at a watch. “You’re leaving in five hours. Walk around in here if you feel like stretching, eat some bars, play cards, or sleep. I suggest you sleep.”
“How about some whiskey?” Murphy asked.
Paul thought he saw a speck of barf still around Murphy’s lips.
Red Cloud solemnly shook his head. “No alcohol.”
“Where’s the nearest bar?” Murphy asked.
Red Cloud frowned. He looked like a tough man, someone you wouldn’t want to make angry. “The ride out to the rig will be rough enough without drunks puking on the plane. You walk around in here, eat some candy, or sleep. You look like you need to sleep.”
Murphy was pale and his hands still shook as if from withdrawal. He glanced at the candy and snatched a chocolate bar, grumbling to himself as he tore it open.
“Stay put,” Red Cloud said.
“Where are you going?” Murphy asked.
“You’re in Blacksand now,” Red Cloud said, beginning to sound annoyed. “That means you obey orders. If you can’t do that, we’ll fine you and make you pay the bill for your plane ride out of here. Got it?”
“Yeah, sure,” Murphy muttered, taking another bite of his bar.
Red Cloud studied them coolly, and then he shook his head. He wound the scarf back around his face. He hurried out, slamming the door behind him.
“Little bastard,” Murphy muttered. “All I need is a couple of shots of whiskey and I’d feel fine.”
Paul grabbed a packet of chocolate-covered peanuts. He popped them into his mouth, one at a time. After he was finished, he was thirsty for something other than melted snow.