“You sure you’re not tired?” Dog asked Jeff.
“Of course I’m tired,” said Zen. “But I’m not going to fall asleep now anyway.”
“Go for it.”
Sierra Nevada Mountains
19 February, 1934
POWDER SLOGGED HIS SODDEN BOOT UP AND OVER THE rock outcropping, forcing his foot into the small crevice. Then he boosted himself over the razor-sharp diagonal, finally onto solid and relatively flat ground. The CIV and its helmet were heavy, but they did at least give him a pretty clear picture, even in these conditions—the helicopter sat on its side about a hundred yards away, its nose pointed down the opposite slope. One of its blades pointed into the air like a giant middle finger raised against the storm. The rain and sleet had turned back into snow, which had already piled about an inch high against the fuselage.
“Shit,” Powder told Liu, who was just clearing the ravine behind him. He pointed the flashlight attached to his wrist, showing Nurse the way.
“Light a flare,” suggested Liu, pointing left. “We’ll stage off those rocks if anything goes wrong.”
The night turned crimson-gray, the flare burning fitfully in the wet snow. They walked gingerly, unsure of their footing. The crash had forced the front of the helicopter’s fuselage together; Powder prepared himself for a gruesome sight.
He couldn’t see much at first. Liu climbed onto the chin of the helicopter, draping himself over it and then smashing at the side glass with his heavy flashlight and elbow. Powder took out another flashlight from his kit and clambered up.
Someone groaned inside.
“We’re here, buddy,” shouted Talcom. Adrenaline shot through him; he reached his fingers into the door frame and somehow managed to pry it open, the metal twisting as he did so. He got to his knees and then his feet, pushing the bent panel away with all of his weight. The mangled hinges gave way and the door flew through the air and into the snow.
The pilot and copilot were still strapped into their seats. Liu leaned in, slinking over the men to check on them.
“Pulses strong,” said Nurse. “Let’s take this slow in case they injured their backs.”
“Hey!” yelled a voice in the back. “Hey!”
Powder clicked the visor from starlight to infrared mode and scanned the dim interior. Fingers fluttered in front of a wall; the viewer made them look like worms in a lake, unattached to anything human.
The sergeant slipped the helmet back and yelled into the helicopter. “Yo!”
“Hello,” yelled Brautman. “Leg’s broke,” he added, his voice almost cheerful. “Otherwise, I’m cool except for whatever the hell is holding me down.”
It looked like a good hunk of the helicopter wall.
“You say the F word yet?” asked the flight engineer as Powder tried to push his way toward him.
“No way,” answered Powder. “You owe me ten.”
“Mission’s not done yet.”
“Need a pneumatic jack to get him out.” said Liu from somewhere outside the helicopter.
“Screw that.” Powder straightened in a small spot between the forward area and what was left of the rear compartment. He had enough clearance to sit upright, but still couldn’t see Brautman’s head. “I said ‘screw,’ not the F word,” he yelled back to the trapped crewman.
“I heard ya. You will.”
Powder backed out, gingerly climbing atop the wrecked helicopter. Liu stood on the ground near the door—the chopper body had been squeezed so tight it barely came to his shoulders. Moving forward on his knees, Powder looked for something to use to help lever the rear door off its rail. When he couldn’t see anything, he set himself at a forty-five-degree angle and managed to jerk the metal out in two loud rips, producing a two-foot-wide opening.
“I ate my Wheaties this morning,” he told Liu as he leaned back to rest. His arm felt like he’d pulled it out of its socket.
The helicopter creaked as he spoke. He straightened, then realized they were moving—not far, not fast, but definitely moving.
“We may slide down the slope,” said Liu.
“Shit,” answered Powder.
“Get the pilots out one at a time, ASAP.”
As Liu said that, he was already clambering back to the cockpit. He leaned in, trying to release the pilot from his restraints.
The helicopter slid some more, then stopped. Powder thought of trying to find something to prop it in place, but quickly dismissed the idea. He swung down and took the pilot’s body from Liu.
The pilot was heavier than he thought, and Talcom’s legs buckled as he carried the man toward the rocks they had pointed out before. The rocks didn’t offer much shelter, but they were easy to find in the swirling snow and sat on the other side of a large crack, which might—might—mean they were safe from the slide. Powder laid the pilot as flat as possible, then lifted the crash shield on his helmet to make sure he was still breathing. When the man opened his eyes, Powder nudged his cheek with his thick thumb, then closed the shield. He took off the CIV and smart helmet, placing them next to the pilot, and ran back to the Pave Low. Liu was just lifting the copilot out.
“You’re strong for a little guy, Liu.”
“He’s conscious,” said Liu, holding the man in front of him as if he were displaying a piece of meat.
Powder clambered up onto the helicopter. The aircraft slid a lot this time. “Damn,” he said, grabbing the copilot.
“I’m okay,” grumbled the man. “I can walk myself.”
“Yeah, okay,” said Powder, ignoring him. He turned to get off the helicopter, then noticed something peculiar—though the Pave Low had moved several times, it hadn’t pushed up any snow in front of it as it slid.
“That’s because the whole sheet of ice is moving,” explained Liu before ducking back inside the craft.
“Damn,” said Powder. “Damn, damn, damn.”
He helped the copilot back to the rock, then ran to Liu. The wind rattled the helicopter propeller back and forth. Powder heard a low rumble, as if a train were approaching from the distance.
“Liu! What the hell are you doing in there?”
“If we use this spar as a lever,” Liu answered from inside the cockpit, “maybe we can move the wall away.”
“The whole thing is moving,” said Powder. “Feel it?”
“Quickly then.”
“Shit.” Talcom squeezed around Liu to push his legs into the small opening to the rear of the helo. There was a loud groan from outside as he did.
“Hope that was the Abominable Snowman,” he said.
“Ice is giving way,” said Brautman.
Powder wedged his foot against the metal side of the helicopter and tried levering the piece of spar in the opposite direction. As he did, Liu dropped the flashlight.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Brautman told them. “Go.”
“Now who’s using bad words?” said Powder. The helicopter or the ice it was on slid downward, and he felt an empty impotence in his stomach.
“Screw this horseshit!” Talcom yelled, jamming his boots against the metal.
It snapped away, springing back as the door released from its latch. Snow and sleet and ice and rain fell through, twinkling artistically in the dim flare-light. None of them stopped to admire it—Brautman pulled himself upward through the hole, helped by Liu, who was outside. The flight engineer’s leg trailed behind him at an odd angle, and Powder felt a twinge in his stomach, thinking of how the damn thing must feel.
The twinge was replaced by full-scale nausea as the helicopter jerked hard to his left, starting to ride down the incline. It had finally slipped on the ice—which also shifted in its own direction.
“Get the hell out of here! Go!” Powder shouted. He’d started to push himself upward when he saw something moving beneath the twisted metal where the snow was falling.
Dalton, still strapped to the stretcher.
Aboard Raven
19 February, 2010