by Tom Hron
After an hour, Simon and he landed at Finger Lake and joined all the spectators, everyone stomping their feet and swinging their arms to fend off the cold. Two cabins, several tents, and a roaring campfire waited nearby. One by one, the dog teams trotted in, stopping, registering, then starting the steep climb over the Alaska Range to the Rohn Roadhouse checkpoint on the other side, 80 miles away.
Dangerous sledding lay ahead with Dalzell Gorge being the worst of it. Several mushers would wipe out before they steered through the sled-smashing descent into the icy ravine. They would face “The Burn” later, an endless nightmare of fire-killed forest that ran on and on, upsetting even the dogs with its ghostly sights and sounds.
Simon and he flew off once more, winding their way between the walls of Rainy Pass, and then they dropped into the long valley that ran toward McGrath, a frontier settlement beside an old military airport, two hundred miles west. Now they would stay with old friends, gold miners who worked small placer mines, sluicing for nuggets each summer. Life was hard for people who lived in the bush, and very different from Anchorage and Fairbanks. Moose meat, canned vegetables, homemade bread, and wild blueberries would be their meals from now on. Until they reached Nome, there would be nothing but the ghost towns of Ophir and Cripple, then the native villages of Ruby, Unalakleet, Koyuk, and Safety. Sometimes they would camp overnight, sleeping in their airplanes, and sometimes they would stay with friends in log cabins. Bush life was the norm when you flew the Iditarod.
On the seventh day, Jake saw the icepack of Norton Sound ahead, seemingly reaching to the moon. Only the Inuit people understood the anonymity of the ice, ocean currents, winds, and sub-zero temperatures of the Bering Sea. They still lived with the ever-present dangers of the pack ice and their make-believe foggymen and shape-shifters and zephyrs that forever haunted them.
Simon’s voice broke over the speaker. “Looks really scary, doesn’t it, Snowbird?”
“Roger that. Okay, punch in Nome on the GPS and fly direct, then hit the deck. We need the practice.”
He heard a couple clicks—the age-old radio signal the message had been understood—and then he saw Simon diving toward the pack ice. Pushing the stick forward, he dove as well to within a few feet of the surface and shot over the ice at one hundred miles an hour, buzzing across the open leads and pressure ridges crisscrossing his flight path.
White, white, everywhere. Watch the horizon—watch the GPS. Speed, time and distance—fly the fundamentals when you want to find your way. Compass heading—hold that compass heading. Remember, you’re the one who’s moving, not your destination, and discipline will always get you there.
He let his mind check off their planning so far. Molly had left for Moscow, and Sasha had e-mailed the map coordinates of a secluded dacha on Lake Baikal. Simon and he had stuffed Uzis and ammunition, cash, food, camp stoves, and winter gear into both airplanes, until each was completely full. They had tied snowshoes on the left wing struts and rifle scabbards on the right struts, ready with scoped Winchesters. Fuel and oil consumption had been measured along the way and they knew precisely how much each airplane used at normal cruise. Tools and screws, duct tape and safety wire, paint and glue, replacement fabric for the wings, they had brought along everything. Both airplanes had sat straddle-legged they were so heavily loaded, though that was commonplace for Alaskan planes. Bush pilots often joked about the loads of sled dogs, people, and fuel they had hauled in a Cub. A thousand pounds wasn’t unusual, and even a ton had been bragged about.
Molly’s diamond appraisal had shown Sasha’s four diamonds were worth a small fortune, and Simon and she had pulled off their money laundering in Las Vegas without a hitch. Sometimes he wondered if his friend hadn’t enjoyed the rendezvous in Nevada too much. Simon never called her Mrs. Faircloth anymore, only Molly . . . and often he just smiled.
Simon’s radio transmission broke his thoughts. “Nome’s at twelve o’clock.”
Staring ahead, he finally saw the black outline of town far across the sea ice. Damn, his friend had good eyes.
“Roger. Follow me and I’ll see if we can park near the airplanes we’re hoping to find.”
He heard three long clicks—Simon’s secret way of answering yes. Climbing to traffic pattern altitude, he called the FAA Flight Service Station. “Nome, Super Cub four-zero-five-seven Yankee, flight of two, six miles east, landing downtown.”
He listened to the FSS briefer rattle off the altimeter setting, wind, and location of the other aircraft flying nearby. Turning left, he lined up on the pack ice alongside town. The airplanes and helicopters following the Iditarod usually landed on the ice beside Nome, then everyone simply walked to their hotel. At times life was easy for bush pilots, albeit always unconventional.
After landing, he taxied off the runway and shut down. Simon taxied alongside, stopped, and jumped out of his Cub, pointing.
“Guess whose airplanes I see parked over there, all with their orange stripes and tracking antennas.”
“Hopefully, they will stay put for a few days. Let’s unload, walk downtown, and lock up our stuff.”
Both looked forward to staying. Nome celebrated the Iditarod by holding basketball games, art and craft shows, award banquets, and dart throwing contests. The potluck dinners and partying would go on for days, and the town’s frontier saloons would feature music and dancing until dawn. Fun would be had by all . . . even if they both would stay sober for what lay ahead.
They wanted to see the finish of the Iditarod race as well. A half million dollars would be passed out to the top dog teams, with fifty thousand going to the first musher to pass under the wooden arch over Front Street. The famous arch also had a hanging red lantern, waiting for the slowest musher in the race, the last to make it all the way. That musher’s reward was the sad duty of blowing out the flame, thus ending the race.
A few days passed, and they hung around with friends who had also come to see the end of the race. Finally, the best teams crossed the finish line and the partying began in earnest. Almost 3,500 people lived year-round in the Golden City, so-named for its history as the Old West’s very last boomtown. Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, Calamity Jane, and many other famous frontiersmen had ended their careers in Nome in 1901. The residents believed they had a rich heritage to uphold, and the winter had been too long and lonely, besides. The sounds of the wild frontier would ring once again before the night was over. Gunfire, screaming, fighting . . . the whole night would rock and roll.
Jake eyed the raucous crowd in the restaurant where Simon and he had stopped for dinner. There was little chance anyone would overhear him with all the noise.
“Tonight we’ll switch the satellite beepers back to the feds, then tomorrow we’ll take off before there’s any light. I doubt anyone will hear us the way everyone is drinking.” He cut off a piece of steak and forked it into his mouth. Enjoy, he thought, because this might be the last of it.
“Do you realize we will miss tomorrow?” Simon smiled wryly. “It will be Sunday here, but Monday there when we cross the International Date Line, half way across the Bering Straits.”
Jake remembered the jump in time, though it really meant nothing. There would be the same challenges. After pausing, he asked, “You still want to go? We can back out and Molly and Sasha won’t blame us.”
“I’m in this all the way, and we’re just two losers if we stay home.”
He stared at Simon, who always cut to the heart of things. Why rot away waiting for nothing? They would have to find their destiny elsewhere.
“We’ll get our money out of the hotel safe after we get done eating, and you carry everything up to our room and wait for me,” he said. “I’ll switch the beepers, then we will be all set for the morning.”
Simon smiled excitedly this time. Their fate was sealed.
An hour later, he stepped into the nighttime shadows behind the buildings on Front Street and snuck down to the airplanes parked on the sea ice beside town. Seeing the town cast ve
ry little light over the parking area, he walked straight to the first Super Cub belonging to Simon and him, opened the fasteners on its battery cover, lifted it off, and searched for the hidden beeper. Finally, he found a tiny transmitter stuck to a metal tube of the airframe and he pulled it free. One more to go . . .
He found another on the second Cub, walked to the Fish and Wildlife planes they had spotted earlier, and slipped the minuscule beepers inside two separate tail assemblies. No one would find them, not unless they searched with a flashlight and signal interceptor. He snuck back the same way he’d come, staying in the darkness.
Simon was waiting for him when he returned to their room. “Any trouble?” he asked. “Anybody see you?”
“There wasn’t a soul within blocks, and no one will see my tracks because the snow is so packed down by everyone tromping back and forth to their planes.
“Both transmitters were the same kind they use on collars fastened to caribou and wolves, though these had magnets on them. There’s a computer in Fairbanks interfaced with GPS satellites, and it follows the movements each one makes. Not long ago a public television program explained how everything works.”
“Damn, can you imagine the look on their faces if they had seen us flying over to Siberia,” answered Simon. “They might have called Moscow and told Vladimir Putin to shoot us down.”
He glanced at Simon and wondered. Sadly, that might have come true, and suddenly he felt thankful for his suspicions back in Anchorage. Otherwise, they might have gotten a nasty surprise once they had reached the other side of the Bering Sea.
“Let’s get some sleep,” he said. “Come morning, we’re out of here.”
Later, he lay awake thinking about everything. Would they ever see Alaska again?. . .
The last sounds he heard were Simon mumbling in his sleep and some distant gunfire. Which one was the bad omen, or did both mean the same?
CHAPTER SIX
THE FAR EAST
In the darkness before daybreak they warmed both airplane engines with propane heaters and pulled off the frost covers protecting the wings and tails. They worked thirty minutes checking the flight controls and spinning the propellers to loosen the frozen motor oil. Finally, their planes were ready and they stood silently. Stillness hung all around them . . . but the stars seemed to be hissing in the inky sky overhead.
“It will get warmer later on today, because I hear ice crystals freezing at altitude. Must be moist air coming in.” Simon stood a few feet away but was barely visible. Years ago, both had learned the Yupik people of the High Arctic called the odd weather phenomena whispers of the stars.
“Let’s wear our night goggles and get out of here before there’s any daylight,” said Jake. “Stay ten or twenty feet off the ice and steer two-seven-zero with your GPS. That will take us between the villages of Gambell on St. Lawrence Island and Provideniya on the Siberian side. Three hours after takeoff we should see a high cape called Nawarin. We’ll land twenty miles offshore and wait. The Russian military will fly out to identify us if their radar has seen us.”
“Won’t happen,” said Simon. “Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage can’t even see a fabric airplane twenty feet off the deck, let alone the Russians.”
“We need to paint our fake licenses on the Cubs regardless, so I hope it warms enough so the paint sticks. Otherwise, we’ll have to find a way to heat the fabric.”
“No problem. We’ll put heaters in the fuselages, then both will warm up like tents.”
Simon was always the perfect partner, and he’d just suggested a way to overcome the bitter cold. Now the time had come to leave Alaska. “Are you ready?” asked Jake, looking into the empty black of the Bering Sea.
“Yes, I’ll be right behind you,” answered Simon.
Now both knew there was no turning back. They walked to their airplanes, started them, and warmed the engines at idle. The low sound cut into the ghostly darkness.
Jake pulled on the night goggles they’d ordered from a spy equipment distributor on the internet. Ironically, they were Russian made, but first-class, nevertheless, he thought. Lithium batteries for freezing temperatures, shared aperture filters for flight use, and automatic brightness controls made up only part of the excellent vision the glasses provided at night. Simon and he’d found the magical devices ideal for flying in small airplanes and helicopters.
He throttled up, kicked the rudders back and forth, broke the Super Cub’s skis free of the frozen snow, and sledded forward. When he saw the airplane’s nose swing along the open pack ice, he eased on full power, felt the landing gear start bouncing, then break away from the surface. The airplane shot ahead into an ungodly, gray world of night vision and propeller buzz and smells of cabin heat, motor oil, and aviation fuel. They were on their way. The weeks of careful preparation had lasted too long. He smiled and flew his airplane five feet above the ice. Let the Russians try finding me down here. Snowmobiles couldn’t run much closer to the snow.
An hour later he pulled off his goggles, blinked to clear his eyes, and looked around. He saw Simon out his right window, flying formation one hundred feet back, and he watched him give the thumbsup signal that all was well. Looking farther back, he saw the color of the coming morning, or yesterday, as Simon would say. Soon, they would pass to a new time and place. Pressing his airplane nearer the ice, he skipped over the pressure ridges, missing by a foot or two. Stay low and keep out of sight . . .
He saw St. Lawrence Island on the skyline just ahead of his left wing, a massive, gray mound sitting on a white seascape. Quickly, he searched for Siberia. Where was it? It must be off his right wing somewhere. . . . He felt his hair stand up on the back of his neck. What would the forbidden land look like? Moments later, he watched a sooty smudge on the far horizon turn blacker, then to a dark headland in the distance. Cape Tschukotski, south of Provideniya . . . and now they’d indisputably crossed to the Russian side.
He had cautiously gotten a friend to shoptalk about the little town of Provideniya before Simon and he’d left Anchorage. The woman had flown there on a sightseeing trip with three passengers in the past summer, using a Cessna on amphibious seaplane floats. She had described the place as ramshackle and desolate, with mostly native residents. A small military detachment had guarded the town, such as it was in its forsaken state. She’d also said the army, wearing ragged old uniforms and carrying AK-47 rifles with live ammunition clips, had stared angrily at her, seemingly furious about her owning her own airplane. Her customers had been happy to leave.
Another friend, who sold Siberian hunting and fishing trips for Russian partners, had described Siberia as actually three regions—the Far East, which included Provideniya, the Maritime Province with Vladivostok being its principal city, and Siberia proper, the great expanse lying north of Mongolia and east of the Urals. He had also said the land was like Alaska and Canada—rugged, wooded with tamarack, and filled with animals common to the Arctic, such as the moose, brown bear, wolf, and reindeer. Wilderness tracts were leased by the government to market hunters who harvested the wildlife for meat and furs, in turn selling their raw products to the nearest town, supplying the local population with much needed food and clothing. Subsist or starve was the choice for most Siberians.
The man had also said Russia commonly used turbine helicopters for travel in the bush, and little regular gasoline was available for reciprocating engines. All gas was strictly rationed for snow tractors and motorboats, which meant Simon and he would have to raid hunting camps and isolated airports if they wanted to reach Lake Baikal.
Speeding over the pack ice, he began laughing at the arctic foxes and seals that lay in front of him, resting themselves in the morning sunshine. They seemed mesmerized by the oncoming airplanes, flying so low. At the last moment, the bug-eyed seals flipped down their blow holes and the little foxes streaked for cover, corkscrewing their white tails in terror. Had their mortal enemy, the polar bear, gone through metamorphosis? Hadn’t Mother Nature made t
heir archenemy dangerous enough, without letting him fly?
Suddenly, he saw a real polar bear ahead, stalking along a narrow open lead in the pack ice, which always shifted with the winds and tides. He buzzed past, straight-on, watching the bear stand, more curious than afraid.
He had first learned about polar bears along Hudson Bay in his bright-eyed days as a professional bush pilot. One could count over one hundred white bears wandering up and down its lonely, windswept seashore at any given time, greatly endangering any human who happened to run into one. The villagers in Churchill, a frontier settlement halfway up the west side of the bay, had often warned him, watch out or you’ll be eaten alive.
They had told him polar bears didn’t fear humans and preferred fresh kills, and that everyone should remember they stalked their prey with deadly precision. They could swim under the ice long distances, holding their breath, and burst through its frozen surface and grab their victims like crocodiles coming out of swampy water. They could belly-crawl over the snow, blending in, and snatch seals off their beds like leopards jumping out of tall grass. They could lay motionless all day, let the snow drift over them, and cunningly wait for their quarry to walk by, just like lions waiting at a waterhole. The Churchill villagers had insisted no other animal was so fearsome, and like all big carnivores the devil bears started eating their kill before death even had the chance to end the horror of the attack.
At last Cape Nawarin loomed in the distance, black cliffs beaten back by the sea and darkened by time. Again, he looked out his righthand window at Simon, then waggled his wings, signaling he wanted to land on the first smooth ice he saw. He found a flat place, throttled back, pulled on full flaps, and felt the skis bounce along the snow. Slowing up, he taxied behind a pressure ridge, stopped the engine, and watched Simon park nearby. The sun had warmed the air and a light wind blew back and forth, promising more good weather to come.
