Killer Summer

63

Painfully aware that the Avicorps jet carrying his father was scheduled to touch down in fifteen minutes, Walt leaned over the Incident Command Center’s first row of tables and found Steven Garman’s cologne a little too much.

The pilot was stocky, with an Irishman’s florid cheeks and the kind of handsome that found its way onto the labels of soup cans. He had spent the last several minutes proposing to fly the portable transmitter on the same vector as Sumner’s jet. The plan included some sophisticated flying that would allow the wireless carrier to locate the phone, if Walt could win their cooperation. That seemed unlikely to Walt, but he wasn’t going to squash Garman’s optimism.

Walt moved another foot or two away. The cologne had to have a name like Brute Force or Demon’s Mist.

“I can tell you where I’d have aimed for,” Garman said.

“Please.”

“Some big guns have been buying up ranches along the Middle Fork. There are, what, maybe half a dozen grandfathered deeded properties up there, right in the middle of national forest? Those money guys love to have what no one else can have. They also love to break the rules. Any one of them could have made improvements to their strips-I mean, they’re not supposed to mess with the landscape but no one’s going to know whether they have or haven’t, right? And let me tell you something: if you’ve got one engine flamed out and another not producing power, you’re not going to be real picky about where you put it down.” He stood, moved over to Walt’s electronic map, and drew on a pad with a special pen, circling a shaded-out area. “Given the route you’ve predicted, that’s my bet: Mitchum’s Ranch.”

“That’s at least a mile or two past where the math puts them,” Walt said. A yellow circle had been drawn around a sizable area on the map. “The trajectory would put them here.” He indicated the center of the circle.

“And if they crashed, that’s probably right,” Garman said. “Listen, we’re always hearing about pilot error. What no one talks about is pilot terror. No one wants to crash. You’d be surprised what you can get out of a plane when it gets hairy up there. Given their rate of descent and the fact that Mountain Home’s radar lost track of them somewhere in here… If they had a bead on a private strip out here, they could have been skipping right along the treetops,” he said, his voice excited: he was enjoying this! “They bank it into the canyon”-his big hand, thumb and pinky extended, became the plane-“and now they’re off radar, keeping maybe a hundred feet off the water. Full power, because that engine’s down to thirty percent or less. All they have to do is squeak out another mile or mile and a half.” His finger now followed the river’s twists and turns. “They’re down inside the canyon, having executed this final turn and put it down hard. Hope for the best. Whether it’s in one piece, I don’t know. But I’d start my search somewhere here.”

“That’s miles off of where we’re planning,” Walt said.

“All I’m saying is, a pilot doesn’t follow math, he tries to stay alive. I’d have tried for Mitchum’s. Anything short of that, with a full load of fuel, you’re in a thousand pieces and burning. No thanks.” He added, “And that’s another thing: the national forest is full of people this time of year. If that Lear crashed, it would have produced a massive fireball. You’d have heard about it by now.”

“I’d like to take that to the bank.”

“Send up a chopper.”

“I’m trying to avoid that,” Walt said. “If this is a hostage situation, God forbid, the last thing we want is to broadcast that we know their location. We want this done as quietly as possible until we know what we’re dealing with. Keep that in mind when you’re up there.”

“Okay, but let me tell you something: we have to face facts that the odds of hitting a strip are not good. First and foremost, we need to search for the wreck and for survivors. Thinking we’ve got a hostage situation here, I’m afraid, is nothing short of optimistic.”

Walt anxiously checked the clock, dreading his father’s arrival.

“So if you were conducting a ground search ahead of first light…” Walt said.

Garman nodded thoughtfully. “Mitchum’s Creek was their best shot.”

“The wireless repeater will tell you if there’s a phone logged on?”

“It will. But I’ll need to be well past Stanley to eliminate any touristos who’ve left their phones on.”

“You can contact me on either of these numbers,” Walt said, scribbling them down and handing them over.

The room phone beeped, and a woman’s voice filled its speaker.

“Sheriff? I have Special Agent Barlow for you, line one.”

The news of a call from the FBI won the attention of everyone in the room. Walt’s office was to be gently pushed aside in the name of national security. All eyes turned to him. He hesitated before answering.

“Tell him I stepped out for a minute.”