Thorpe's Candle

FLARE

“I don’t want to sound pessimistic,” Gates said as the echoes of the automatic weapons fire died at the bottom of the shaft, “but we’re in deep shit.”

“Deep water would be more like it.” Skyler swung his lantern in the direction of the tunnel.

“We’ve got to find a heat source,” Gates said.

Skyler thought for a moment. “The torch!”

“Exactly,” Gates said.

Skyler led the group down the tunnel toward the entrance to the plane’s cargo bay. The gas tanks and welding torch used to open the cargo door were still pushed into a corner out of the way. He held the light as Gates opened the valve and snapped the flint that ignited the flame.

“It’s not much, folks, but it’s all we got.” Gates turned the valve wide open, and the heat from the flame radiated out as the group circled around it.

Skyler’s mind raced, calculating all possible escape routes. The hoist was useless — he’d already tried the power switch and assumed the gunfire was Knebel blowing the control box to shreds. First priorities were to keep warm and dry, two things that were now next to impossible. The constant seepage of water was unstoppable. Without the pumps, it would turn to slush and then back to ice — layer after layer until the entire tunnel and plane filled and froze. He knew if he didn't do something fast, they were all destined to die of hypothermia long before they would be entombed in the glacier ice.

“I going to climb out,” he announced after considering all the other options.

“The rails only serve as guides for the hoist,” Peter Bjoernsson said, his words rattling like marbles in his mouth from the extreme cold. “They’re only lightweight tubing and won’t stand up to your weight.”

“Unless you’ve got a better idea, Peter,” Skyler said, “the only way out is up that shaft. We have no choice.”

“You’ll need something to use as a harness,” Gates said.

“We can use some of the scraps from the wreckage.” Skyler flipped the lantern on. While the rest of the group stayed huddled around the torch, the two men moved along the length of the plane’s interior picking up pieces of broken wood and metal. There were shards of glass, lengths of jagged conduit, huge knots of cables, wires, and hydraulics. They had to stoop in the area where the roof partially caved in.

Skyler kicked a splintered piece of crating out of his way, and then picked up a large mass of cable. “Looks like enough here to bind together and secure me to the hoist rail.”

Gates thought for a moment then bent over to examine the heavy-gage wire. “It just might work.” He yanked on it testing its strength.

The two men pulled and tugged at the mass of wire until they had separated enough pieces to assemble a makeshift harness. They took all the pieces back through the passage to the base of the shaft. Working quickly, they fashioned two harnesses — one to secure Skyler to the railing and a second to pull himself up the framework a foot or two at a time.

The tube frame secured the rails and chain drive — each horizontal tube was spaced about three feet apart. When he was ready, Skyler tied the end of the first wire harness to the frame over his head and stepped up on the thin tubing. Holding the rails, he bounced slightly and waited for the worst. But the tube held. He pulled himself up to the next tube easing his full weight down. There was a slight creaking sound and the aluminum bent in the middle, but held.

“So far so good,” he said and smiled down at Gates eight meters below.

Moving the second harness up and securing it, he unfastened the first and pulled himself to the next rung. Feeling confident, he let his weight down on the tube and was about to untie the lower harness when the fragile aluminum bent and snapped. Skyler tumbled down through the frame hitting with a thud on the ice floor. His heavy weather outfit protected him from serious injury but the wind was knocked out of his lungs as he lay in five inches of ice water.

Gates reached under Skyler’s arms and helped him to his feet. “Guess it’s time to go to plan B.”

“Which is?” Skyler stood.

“I have no idea.”

“Then we’ll have to try it again.” Skyler examined the remnants of his harness.

He had just removed the wires from around his waist when he hesitated and cocked his head. “Did you hear that?”

“I sure did.” Gates stared up the shaft.

Skyler ran back through the tunnel, his boots splashing in the freezing slush. With the beam of the lantern swinging haphazardly, he shot past the small group huddled around the torch and went straight to the small storage locker containing the pilot's carryall he had found earlier. Sifting through it, he grabbed the flare gun and cartridge, and headed back.

“What's wrong, Sky?” Billy Manners asked, his eyes wide.

“Have you found a way out?” Helen Bermannsson asked in a meek, high-pitched voice.

“Say a prayer this thing fires,” Skyler shouted over his shoulder as he held the flare gun up. Coming to a splashing halt beside his partner, he positioned himself in the middle of the shaft and planted his feet shoulder wide. He loaded the cartridge and gripped the flare gun with both hands, then raised his arms over his head. Aiming the barrel at a distant dot of blue sky barely visible through the mist of water seepage, he pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger.

Click.

“Damn!” He held the gun at arm’s length. “Shine the lantern on it.”

Gates aimed the beam on the gun as Skyler broke the barrel open and examined the cartridge. There was a thin coating of rust covering where the firing pin would strike. He pulled the cartridge out, wiping it on his coat — a brown smear marked the spot. Then he rammed the flare back in the chamber, slammed the gun shut, cocked the hammer, and again took aim.

Click.

“Let me see it.” Gates broke open the gun and pulled back the hammer. He quickly discovered a coating of rust covered it as well. Taking a small knife from his pocket, he cleaned the end of the pin. Leaving the hammer in the firing position, he closed the gun and handed it back.

Once again, Skyler aimed it over his head and squeezed the trigger.

BLAM!

With a deafening, throaty whoosh, the flare burst from the barrel like a Roman Candle. The flame lit the opaque ice walls with a surreal glow. For a moment, Skyler thought he had just released the ghost of Arctic Air Cargo 101.

A few seconds later, he heard the distant muffled boom as the flare ignited in the air over the mouth of the shaft. Then just as quickly, the shaft fell back into the monotonous patter of the dripping water.

“What's going on?” Peter Bjoernsson called as he led the others down the tunnel to join Skyler and Gates.

“We thought we heard the sound of a prop plane,” Skyler said.

“You mean there's someone up there?” Helen asked.

“Someone besides that son-of-a bitch, Knebel,” Billy Manners added.

“You guys get back to the torch,” Skyler said. “We’re going to try climbing out again.”

Peter Bjoernsson motioned for the group to return to the cargo bay.

Suddenly, the two-way radio attached to Skyler's belt crackled and hissed to life. A strange voice, distant and thin, said, “Hello? Anyone there?”

Skyler yanked the radio off his belt with such force that he broke the clasp. “Yes,” he yelled into the device. “We’re here! Who are you?”

There was a long pause as the group took in a collective breath and held it.

“I’m Chief Inspector Walter Smyth.” The words were half-buried in the static white noise from transmitting through the thick ceiling of ice. “Who's there?”

Surrounded by an immediate outburst of whoops and hollers, Skyler held the radio to his mouth, shouting, “It’s my turn to buy, Walter.”