Midnight Sons Volume 3

by Debbie Macomber

  The words raced through Duke’s mind at laser speed. His first response was to take whatever measures were needed to restart the plane’s engine. From the way the oil pressure was falling, Duke guessed the line had ruptured. The engine sputtered to life once or twice, then died with a final spurt. Nothing he did could restart it, despite his continuous efforts.

  “What do you mean we’re going down?” Tracy sounded close to panic.

  “We’ll be making an off-field landing,” he shouted. And then, because he knew she was frightened, he added, “They happen all the time.”

  “Maybe they do for you. You have done this before, haven’t you?”

  “Plenty of times.” He hoped the lie would keep Tracy from panicking. The truth was, he’d made only one emergency landing, years earlier, in conditions a lot better than this.

  He reached for his headset and began talking, linking with the air-traffic controller in Fairbanks, communicating his coordinates. He sounded calm, but his heart was beating so loudly he was sure it could be heard over the microphone.

  As the plane descended through the clouds and snow, it became more and more difficult to make out the terrain below.

  “Duke…” Tracy grabbed his arm, her grip tight. He felt her terror, experienced his own.

  “Look around,” he ordered. “We need to find a clearing where we can land.”

  September and March. Every pilot in Alaska knew those were the most dangerous months in which to crash. Snow on the ground, and the rivers and lakes had yet to freeze over.

  In another week he could’ve settled this baby down on a frozen lake. If he tried that now, they’d both be dead in a matter of minutes.

  Fact was, he didn’t know what their chances were.

  Not good, he decided. Not even promising.

  Because of the snow and the wind, the plane glided. He worked the rudder, manipulating the aircraft any way he could, hoping to navigate it.

  “I…I can’t make out anything below,” Tracy said.

  Duke couldn’t, either.

  “What should I do?” she asked, and once more he heard the panic in her voice.

  “Hold on as best you can.”

  “I’m already doing that!”

  “You might pray,” he suggested next.

  “Pray? I don’t think I know how. It’s been a while.”

  He guessed they were both about to get a crash course in the art of prayer. Crash course. If it wasn’t so terrifying, he would’ve laughed.

  As they drifted down from the sky, Duke glanced at Tracy and winked. “Hold on tight, sweetheart.”

  He was beginning to make out the contours of the land, silently cursing when he saw trees. This was the worst possible scenario.

  “Right before we land,” he said, straining to sound cool and collected, “open your window and the door.”

  “I’ll fall out.”

  “No, you won’t.” Although controlling the plane required his complete concentration, he reached over and grabbed the end of her seat belt. He yanked hard, making sure it was as tight as possible.

  Then he did the same with his own.

  Out of the driving snow, a small clearing appeared. Working as fast as his hands would let him, Duke shut down the plane’s electrical system, including the rudders. The last thing they needed on impact was a spark to set off a fire.

  “Hold on,” he shouted as the aircraft slammed into the ground. A tree tore off the right wing, and Tracy screamed, covering her face with both hands.

  The plane spun out of control, cartwheeling like a broken toy over the harsh landscape. Duke was nearly wrenched from his seat. A piercing pain stabbed his left arm as he felt the bone snap, and then he felt nothing.

  Chapter

  3

  TRACY WAS VICIOUSLY jolted from side to side. The aircraft smashed against the side of a tree and spun around. The entire world became a blur, colors blending, lights blinking. The oxygen seemed to be sucked from the air.

  Tracy heard Duke cry out and at the same moment felt something hit her head. Warm liquid trickled down her face. Blood? A scream froze in her throat. That was when she knew. She was going to die.

  The incredible thing was that she felt no fear, no terror—nothing but a strange sense of peace.

  Abruptly the tumbling aircraft hit something solid. The jolt was strong enough to nearly rip her seat from its hinges. The seat-belt restraints were the only thing that kept Tracy from being hurled through the front window.

  Then there was silence. Absolute silence.

  It hurt to breathe, and she struggled for each lungful of air. Her chest felt as if a heavy weight was pressing against her. She managed a raspy breath and choked.

  The seat belt kept Tracy in an upright position. It was painfully tight, and she realized that was the cause of her distress. She needed every ounce of strength she had to release it.

  “Duke.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper as she turned her head to look at her companion. Her distress increased tenfold when she saw him. Blood flowed freely from a gash on the side of his head.

  Tentatively she reached out and touched his face, not knowing if he was dead or alive. “Please, oh, please don’t be dead. Duke, be alive. Please be alive.”

  Although she felt as if her arms and legs had been jerked from their sockets, her fear propelled her into action. She located the pulse in his neck and nearly sobbed with relief.

  Next she twisted around in her seat and applied pressure to Duke’s wound, which continued to bleed profusely. The cut was jagged and very deep. Even to her inexperienced eye, it was obvious that he needed stitches.

  Every time she moved, her body screamed with pain. But she maneuvered herself around so that she was kneeling on her seat. Then she pulled her scarf from her jacket and opened a package of tissues she found in her pocket; with these she constructed a makeshift bandage for Duke’s head.

  Judging by the odd position of his left arm, she assumed it was badly broken, perhaps a compound fracture. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder, struggling not to weep with frustration and fear.

  Duke groaned and rolled his head to one side.

  Tracy’s relief was so great she brought both hands to her mouth. “Duke! We’re alive. We’re alive!”

  He opened his eyes and smiled when he saw her kneeling next to him. “I told you this’d be a piece of cake,” he murmured.

  “Where’s the first-aid kit?” she asked. “Your arm’s—it looks like it’s broken.”

  He nodded. “Feels like it, too.” His face was deathly white. His eyes narrowed as he studied her. Raising his good arm, he touched her face, his hand gently caressing her cheek. “You’re hurt.”

  “No,” she countered, “I’m fine really. You’re the one who’s hurt.”

  His hand came away covered in blood. “You have a cut…” His voice started to fade. Tracy was afraid he might be going into shock.

  “Duke, where’s the first-aid kit?” she asked again. She tried to remember the emergency medical class she’d taken her first year in college, but worried she’d forgotten too much to be of any help to either of them.

  Duke told her, and she scrambled into the back, digging through the emergency equipment. She found two sleeping bags and several packets of brown plastic bags. These, she discovered, were something called Meals Ready to Eat. Or so the package claimed.

  The first-aid kit was the last item she pulled free. Tucking the plastic box under her arm, she squirmed forward. By the time she got back to her seat, she was breathless and weak.

  Duke’s face remained white with pain. She considered unwrapping one of the sleeping bags and covering him with that, but there was so little room. If only she could get to her suitcase.

  “I’ve got the kit,” she said, feeling triumphant for having accomplished this one small feat. Then she went about treating his injuries.

  She unwound her scarf and examined his cut, relieved to find the bleeding had slowed. She applied new tissues
and retied the scarf.

  Next she had to deal with his broken arm. She removed the inflatable splint from the first-aid kit, then shuffled through the box, looking for painkillers. She groaned in frustration. There didn’t seem to be any.

  Duke rested his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to sleep,” she whispered. Her fears were rampant. At least the bleeding from her own cut seemed to have stopped. Her injuries appeared minor compared to Duke’s.

  “I’m going to have to do something about your arm.”

  He offered her a lopsided smile. “Have at it, sweetheart. Anything you do can’t make it hurt any more than it already does.”

  Sweetheart. He’d called her that twice now, and with an unmistakable tone of affection. Always before, he’d said it in a caustic way, as if he meant to insult her.

  “It’d probably be best if I got out of the plane and came around and worked on it from your side.”

  “No!” He spit out the word. “Don’t leave the plane…If anything happened, I wouldn’t be able to help you.” His protest seemed to drain him of what little strength he had. His good hand clenched hers, cramping her fingers. “Promise me,” he whispered breathlessly. “Promise me that no matter what happens, you’ll stay right here.”

  “I promise,” she said.

  He closed his eyes again and sighed audibly.

  “Your arm…”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “No, let me do what I can. If I crawl behind your seat, I might be able to get the splint around it. Please, let me try.”

  “All right.”

  Tracy climbed into the narrow space behind him. In an effort to give herself more room, she climbed out his door and stood thigh-deep in the fallen snow. The cold and wind felt like tiny needles on her face and hands. She did the best she could to make Duke’s arm comfortable, attaching the splint and inflating it, praying all the while that she wasn’t hurting him more.

  He bit off a groan.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  “Get back inside. Hurry now,” he said. “It’s too cold out there for you.”

  “I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “I’ll feel a lot better when you’re right here beside me.”

  For the first time since the accident, Tracy smiled. Duke actually wanted her with him. From the very beginning, Duke had gone out of his way to challenge her, provoke her, tease her—and it had always worked. He irritated her faster than any man she’d ever known. But she realized now that she’d actually begun to look forward to their heated exchanges. Their arguments invigorated her. At the moment, though, an argument was the last thing she wanted.

  By the time she clambered back inside the plane, she was shivering. Her fingers felt numb; she clenched and unclenched them in an effort to bring back feeling.

  “I wish there was something I could give you for the pain.”

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered, dismissing her concern. “I’ll be all right.”

  But she knew from his pale drawn face and harsh uneven breaths that he was in a great deal of discomfort.

  “I have some pills—they’re like aspirin—in my purse. Would that help?” she asked. She didn’t mention that the medication was designed for menstrual cramps.

  Duke closed his eyes and nodded. “Couldn’t hurt.”

  After a few minutes of awkward searching, she located her purse. She dug around until she found the package, then fed him three tablets. He swallowed them without water.

  “Where are we?” she asked. Snow covered the windshield, making it impossible to see out.

  “Best I can figure, we’re close to Kunuti Flats.”

  Not close enough, otherwise they would’ve missed the trees, Tracy mused. Swallowing hard, she asked the question that concerned her most. “How long will it take for someone to find us?”

  “Don’t know. Not to worry…emergency locator beam goes off immediately—links with a satellite network. They know where we are. Someone’s on the way…Radio, need to contact them by radio…”

  Tracy could see that he was struggling to remain conscious. “Duke!” she cried, reaching for his hand, gripping it in both of hers. His eyes rolled and he slumped forward.

  Gently she eased him away from the plane’s steering device. Never had Tracy felt so alone—so helpless and afraid. These were unfamiliar emotions for her, and she fought to regain a sense of control.

  The radio. Before he passed out, Duke had said something about the radio. She didn’t know how to use it. But she had to contact Fairbanks. When they took off, she’d watched Duke speak into the microphone attached to the headset. She could do that, couldn’t she?

  Careful not to disturb him, she removed the headset from him and placed it over her own head.

  “Hello,” she said, trying to control her voice. “Hello. Anyone there?”

  Nothing.

  In desperation she stared at the instrument panel. No lights showed, although she was sure they had earlier, before the crash. Obviously, damage to the plane had been severe. Now what?

  Despite everything, she felt surprisingly calm. She knew there had to be a way to reach help and forced herself to think clearly. She studied the panel with all its gauges and instruments; they meant nothing to her.

  A two-position switch caught her eye. Battery. Stretching forward, she flipped it up. Lights flashed across the panel and a sense of exhilaration filled her. Static popped in her ears.

  “Mayday. Mayday. SOS. SOS!” she shouted into the tiny microphone.

  The static cleared and a voice returned, “Fairbanks radio, Baron two, two, niner five hotel. I’m approximately five zero miles south-southwest of reported position of distressed aircraft.”

  The man didn’t seem to be speaking the same English as Tracy. “This is Tracy Santiago. I’m a passenger with Duke Porter out of Hard Luck. Our plane is down—we crashed. Duke thinks we’re near Kunuti Flats.”

  Tracy heard another voice respond and realized this man was talking to the one who’d spoken first. She was listening in on their conversation. The second man was on the radio in Fairbanks. But he didn’t seem to want to talk to her. Once more, she started pushing buttons.

  “Hello, hello. Help!”

  A click sounded in her headset. She waited, suddenly remembering the old Sky King television reruns she’d watched as a child. She needed to press down and speak, then release the button for a reply.

  She’d figured it out. A sense of jubilation shot through her. “Hello, someone answer me, please. Over.” Sky King had always said “over.”

  “Radio calling, this is Fairbanks radio. You are on the emergency frequency.”

  She had the right place.

  “Do you have an emergency?” the same voice asked.

  “Do I ever! I’m with Duke Porter.”

  “Is your aircraft Cessna seven two eight bravo gulf?”

  “How would I know?” she demanded impatiently. “How many planes do you people have that’ve crashed?”

  “What’s your status? Do you have injured?”

  “Yes. The pilot’s unconscious. Just get someone here, fast. I don’t know how badly Duke’s hurt.”

  “What are his injuries?”

  She told him what she could, and then answered what seemed to be an endless list of irrelevant questions, about supplies and what they were wearing and how she felt. Not once did he answer her one major question—When would help arrive?

  “We have your ELT signal. Suggest you turn off battery to conserve power,” he instructed. “We had you on radar all the way down. Help will be dispatched, weather permitting.”

  “How long? Can’t you at least tell me how long that’ll be?” She prayed it would be soon, but she hadn’t liked the gist of his questions, nor the suggestion that she turn off the battery to save power. His tone indicated she and Duke might be here for more than a few hours.

  “Air F
orce Rescue copter will be dispatched as soon as weather permits,” the man on the radio repeated.

  “When will that be?” she cried, growing more frantic.

  “Meteorological forecasts call for clearing in six to twelve hours. Conserve your warmth and battery power. This frequency will be monitored continuously should you require further assistance.”

  “Thank you—but please do what you can to get here soon,” she pleaded, her heart sinking. Then she flipped the switch and severed her contact with the outside world.

  The silence was intense.

  A thousand questions bombarded her all at once. She could survive another six to twelve hours, but she didn’t know about Duke. He was in terrible pain and she could do nothing to help.

  Fear and loneliness returned full force. Soon she was shaking with cold. She reached for a sleeping bag and wrapped it around Duke and herself, then sat back, closed her eyes and tried to think positively.

  Six to twelve hours. That wasn’t so long—not really. They’d be fine for a few more hours, wouldn’t they? Sure, it was cold and scary, but together they’d make it. Perhaps if she said it often enough, she’d come to believe it.

  Tracy felt herself growing tired. Duke weaved in and out of consciousness; she knew that by the way he breathed and sometimes groaned. She wanted to stay awake for him, watch his vital signs, but the lure of sleep tugged at her.

  If she was to die, she’d be with Duke.

  Strangely the thought comforted her.

  SAWYER DIDN’T THINK he’d ever experienced such frustration. Duke was down, and what information he’d received so far was sketchy at best. For hours now, he’d been sitting by the radio, waiting.

  Despite the storm, every one of his available pilots was in the air. He hadn’t asked them to track the emergency locator beam; they’d volunteered.

  Sawyer knew that John, Ted, Ralph and the others felt as if they were searching for family. His pilots were a close-knit group, and Sawyer was fiercely proud of each and every man.

  Duke was popular with the others, a natural leader. They looked up to him and often sought his advice. He’d been with Midnight Sons longer than almost anyone. Sawyer valued him as a colleague—and as a friend.