Arkin didn't see any signs of life. There were no lights on in the hangar. No parked cars. An idea took shape. He'd gotten his private pilot's license years earlier—at a small but excellent flight school out in the desert between the towns of Douglas and Bisbee, Arizona—in the summer between his first and second years of law school, as he indulged a tantalizing but short-lived dream of quitting the law to become an airline pilot. But he hadn’t trained in these specific models of airplane. He'd trained in the flight school's Piper Warriors and, very briefly, in a Piper Cub owned by a flying club in Tucson. But how different could it be? These were, like the Pipers, small, single-engine aircraft. Probably had service ceilings around 12,000 feet. Range of a few hundred miles. Top speed of around 100 or 120 miles per hour. And, most critically, a stall speed somewhere around 50 to 60 miles per hour.
But even if these planes had similar performance characteristics to the planes he'd trained on, there was also the problem of his lack of recent flight experience. He hadn't flown in many years. And he'd flown very little in tail-draggers. Was flying a plane like riding a bike? He doubted it. Still, he was desperate.
He walked into the forest near the end of the runway closest to the hangar and airplanes and took up a concealed position from which he could keep an eye on the entire airfield. There, he sat and watched until well into the night.
FORTY-TWO
Sometime after midnight, satisfied there was nobody in the area, Arkin broke cover and crept over to the airplane hangar, where he was elated to discover that the door was nothing more than a warped piece of plywood held fast by a padlock and chain running through a square hole in the board. He peeked through the hole to check, one last time, that nobody was inside. Then he broke the door down with three powerful flatfoot kicks.
What he found inside couldn't have been better. Three 5-gallon cans of avgas. A book of Chilean aeronautical charts. A radio headset. Two cans of Tomaticán—a Chilean tomato and corn stew that Arkin popped open and ate immediately. And keys. Two sets of keys—one for the crop duster, and one for the plane that looked like an Aeronca. Finally, something had gone his way.
Arkin figured the crop duster might have funny handling characteristics given that it carried a large tank and sprayer system for pesticides. He decided to try flying the taildragger. And sure enough, as he went back outside and approached the plane, he could see a faded but unmistakable Aeronca logo on the tail, practically glowing in the bright light of the moon. Apparently, Aeroncas were built to last.
It was a four-seater, and Arkin was thrilled to see that the cockpit had been updated somewhat since the 1950s. For one thing, it had a radio. That was critical. It also had an electric starter, which was surprising but nice. It meant he wouldn't have to prop-start the airplane, if and when the time came. No GPS, but that was hardly surprising. All things considered, he was very happy with what he found.
He dragged the tanks of avgas, one by one, out to the Aeronca, and gassed it up. Then he went back inside to study the aeronautical charts at a small wooden desk with a working lamp. He didn't yet know where he was, so he formed a plan to scan radio frequencies for the nearest navigational aids once he took off and climbed up to altitude. That way he'd be able to figure his location based on signals coming from the nearest VHF omni-directional radio installations—what pilots called VORs. More importantly, he'd be able to find an airfield close to the Isla de los Alemanes—the Island of the Germans—where he hoped to find Sheffield.
As far as he could tell, the closest airport to the Isla de los Alemanes that had a VOR was in the town of Chaitén. But there was also a small, 2,600-foot asphalt runway with no VOR or other navigational aid just outside the small town of Melinka on Isla Ascención, roughly 70 miles southwest of Chaitén. And the southern shore of Isla Ascención looked to be no more than 20 or 25 miles from the northernmost tip of Isla de los Alemanes. Arkin made a rough plan to fly south along the coast until he started receiving the VOR signal for Chaitén Airport. Then he'd follow the signal to Chaitén and, assuming the weather was clear, bear southwest until he spotted Isla Ascención and Melinka's runway from the air.
But all this would have to wait until tomorrow. He wasn't trained to fly at night. And though willing to take on significant risks at this point in his quest, the idea of attempting to fly in the dark was just too much. He set the makeshift plywood door back up in the doorframe, precariously leaning a couple of two-by-fours and a stack consisting of his two empty stew cans against the door so that if anyone tried to open it, the falling boards and cans would cause a racket that would wake him. Then he found a spot of bare floor to lie down on in a far corner of the hangar, behind a stack of boxes, and went to sleep.
FORTY-THREE
When the crystal-clear sky was just light enough for safe non-instrument flight, Arkin pulled the heavy wooden chocks from under the Aeronca's wheels, did a quick pre-flight walk-around, checked the oil, then got in the cockpit and did his best to remember the takeoff checklist he'd memorized in flight school many years earlier. Ok. Throttle full and free, set to ½ inch open. Mixture rich. Magnetos on. Master switch on. Fuel pump on. Flaps set to 25 degrees for short-field takeoff....
Arkin put on the radio headset, ran through the rest of what he could remember of the checklist, took a deep breath, then turned the key. The propeller began to rotate with a struggling, churning sound. Then the engine roared to life. Yes!
The first thing he checked was the fuel gauge. The tank was nearly full. That would certainly get him a good way along his route. Next, he checked the RPMs, oil pressure, and ammeter before turning on the radio, tuning it to 122.70 MHz, and switching up through the eight Universal Communication "UNICOM" frequencies he was taught—not even knowing whether Chile used the same frequencies as the United States—to take a quick listen for other air traffic in the area. Then, worried the engine noise might attract unwanted attention, such as from the plane's owner or an airport manager, he quickly taxied to the downwind end of the runway—testing the elevator, rudder, and ailerons along the way—and rolled into takeoff position. Here goes nothing. He listened carefully to the engine as he throttled up, took another deep breath, and released the brakes. The plane seemed to have good acceleration. But all Arkin could focus on was the trees that rose a few dozen yards beyond the end of the runway. He was closing on them at high speed. Come on now. Come on, let's fly. The tailwheel began to rise off the runway. He considered pulling back on the stick. But unsure of the plane's performance parameters, he decided to wait, despite his nerves, until he picked up a few more knots of airspeed. At last, as he could feel the plane wanting to take to the sky, he eased back on the stick and the plane rose into the air to Arkin's great exhale of relief. Looking down and back at the airfield, he could see that he'd still had a good third of the runway left to work with.
Doing his best to maintain an airspeed of around 65 knots as he climbed into the sky, Arkin looked around to see a long valley of small pastures and fruit tree orchards flanked by short green mountains. On the eastern horizon, beyond the end of the valley and backlit by bands of purple, pink and blue predawn sky, the snow-capped wall of the great Andes Mountains barely held back the sunrise. Among the mountains, several glaciated volcanic peaks rose yet higher into the sky. Despite his circumstances, Arkin couldn't help letting himself be awed by the view.
*****
Several minutes into his flight, he leveled off at roughly 8,000 feet and his airspeed rose to 95 knots. Good enough. Eyeballing his charts, then making a very rough guess at his location—anywhere in the 400-mile stretch of land between the cities of Concepción and Puerto Mont—Arkin began scanning radio frequencies for VORs in the area. He started with frequencies in the northern reaches of his search area, near Concepción, then began working his way south. After a couple of minutes, he had a good approximation of his location—about 20 miles northeast of Valdivia, maybe 230 miles north of Chaitén and the VOR he'd planned to head for. He set the radio to 112.30
MHz—the frequency for the Chaitén VOR—and turned south. Hopefully, within an hour or so, he'd start receiving its signal.
FORTY-FOUR
Just over three and a half hours later, having flown south to Chaitén before turning southwest, his fuel down to an eighth of a tank, Arkin was slowly descending toward what he hoped was Isla Ascención and the small town of Melinka. He was out over water now, the Gulf of Corcovado, its waters shining sapphire blue in the midmorning light. Off his left wing, to the southeast, he saw another gleaming white, heavily glaciated stratovolcano on the eastern horizon. It was the very same peak, with distinctive twin rock spires flanking its summit, that he'd seen on the internet back in Valparaiso, in photos taken by kayakers who were just off the northern end of Isla de los Alemanes. It was Volcán Melimoyu. He was nearly there. But was it the right there, or was it just another dead end?
Looking out over the nose of the airplane, he spotted an island that appeared to be the rough shape of Isla de los Alemanes as he recalled it from studying Google Earth. More importantly, as he drew closer, he could see an organized collection of objects floating in the water off the leeward shore of the island's northernmost point. He knew just what the objects were. He'd seen the same thing before, in the sheltered waters just off Port Hardy, British Columbia, where Father Bryant had, at least in theory, lived after fleeing Royburg, Kentucky. They were salmon aquaculture pens. This was it. If his instincts were legitimate, if his journey hadn't been founded on phantoms or red herrings from the get-go, then this was his destination. He was sure of it. But now came the tricky part.
He spotted Melinka's runway and began a wide turn to line up with it as he continued descending through 2,000 feet. Once lined up, he set his flaps and brought back the RPMs. Within a minute, he reckoned he was below a safe glide slope and ran the RPMs back up to maintain altitude. Then, when his approach once again looked okay, he brought the RPMs back down. He did this song and dance three more times as he neared the runway. The tarmac began at the water's edge. His altitude was down to 150 feet as he crossed over the shore and then the northern end of the runway. He was high. But he didn't want to go around and start all over again. So he made the somewhat aggressive move of pushing the plane's nose down more than was normal, dropped his altitude, then quickly pulled back to flare for landing. The plane hit hard—left wheel first—and bounced high in the air. Shit! With a frantic effort, he stabilized, then settled back down on the runway. Using the wheel brakes, he brought the plane down to a regular taxiing speed, spotted a large, open aircraft parking ramp, and taxied to it before shutting down. There was no terminal. No hangars even. Nobody around.
He sighed with relief, took off the headset, grabbed his things and quickly abandoned the airplane, heading off on foot down a road that led into the small town of Melinka.
*****
There wasn't much to the sleepy little town. It was maybe ten blocks long by three blocks wide, largely comprised of multicolored wooden houses built on stilts along the shoreline of a small, rocky hill. A mermaid statue occupied the town square, and a couple of L-shaped piers jutted out from the waterfront. He went into the alleyway behind a tiny grocery store and did a quick dive into their miniature dumpster, coming up with an armload of discarded, stale, but clean loaves of bread that he quickly tucked into his jacket. Moving on, he found a small harbor on the far edge of town that sheltered a handful of fishing boats—several of them beached on the tide flat, resting at an angle off their keels.
The last thing Arkin wanted to do was get on another damned boat. But he could think of no other way to get to Isla de los Alemanes short of crash landing his stolen airplane.
As he neared the end of town, he spotted three fiberglass sea kayaks pulled up onto the shore in front of a small house that didn't look occupied. Figuring that a missing kayak would cause a lot less of a hubbub than a missing fishing boat, he scouted the area to make sure nobody was around. There were several sets of kayak paddles on a crude rack built onto the side of the house. He grabbed one, scrambled down to the shore, dragged the cleanest of the three kayaks down into the water, and hopped in. As quickly as he thought he could paddle without drawing unwanted attention, Arkin made his way out of the tiny harbor and around the point, out of sight of the town.
FORTY-FIVE
When he was barely five miles from Melinka, Arkin found himself paddling alongside a pod of fast-moving austral dolphins. There were at least a dozen of them, their dorsal fins arcing up and down, in and out of the water as they made their way along. There were also several sea lions sunning themselves on the island's rocky shore. But what really took his breath away was when he spotted a group of three blue whales—the largest living animals on Earth. They surfaced no more than 50 yards from his kayak. They seemed to be moving slowly toward the open Pacific with the grace of creatures that know exactly where they belong. They spouted from their blowholes and lingered on the surface for a few moments, breathing, utterly dwarfing an awed Arkin and his kayak. Then, as quickly as they appeared, they were gone again, taking shelter in the cold deep.
*****
Hours later, having passed two other rocky, seemingly uninhabited islands, and as the sun began to sink into the west, Arkin was approaching the barren, windswept north shore of what he was 90 percent certain was Isla de los Alemanes. In the interest of stealth, he decided to paddle down the western, windward face of the island, knowing that the only significant settlement was on the leeward shore. He doubted it was that unusual for a kayak to be spotted in these waters, and he wasn't particularly worried that someone would take notice of his presence and sound the alarm. But he also didn't think paddling right up to their docks would be the best approach. He didn't know what he was going to find.
The western shore was rocky, offering no apparent soft places to land. Paddling along, he found a cove that was at least somewhat sheltered by a narrow, rocky islet, maybe 100 yards long. Seeking out the lowest saddle in the bare stone of the shore, he attempted to land, riding a surging wave up into the low point. But before he could grab for a handhold, the receding wave began to sweep him back out, turning the kayak sideways and capsizing it. He fell into the frigid water. The shocking cold made his chest tighten, made it harder for him to breathe. He struggled out of the kayak and swam for shore. After two failed attempts, he emerged on all-fours from a breaking 2-foot wave and half tumbled his way up onto a low stone shelf, his knees and one elbow scraped from struggling up and over the barnacles and mussels that seemed to coat everything below the high-tide line.
He got to his feet and took a few wobbly steps to get up away from the surf, then, losing his balance, fell onto his back on the dry grass and soft earth of a flat patch of land above the shore. His equilibrium thoroughly warped from riding the swells in his stolen kayak, he felt the sway of the waves as though he were still at sea. It hardly mattered. He planned to lie there for a good long while, waiting to catch his breath, waiting for his body to dry, and waiting for darkness to fall before setting off to scout the island.
*****
A few hours later he was relatively dry and, though still wobbly, on the move. He could see very little in the darkness—only what the dim starlight revealed. The nearby terrain was comprised of open, rolling grassland, possibly cleared at one time for livestock pasturing, with small stands of wind-bent evergreen trees here and there.
For the first mile, he saw no lights. No signs of civilization aside from rows of ancient, crumbling cypress posts of long-vanished fences. However, as he crested one particularly high knoll, he spotted a cluster of sodium vapor lights in the distance, across a low flatland below him to the east. A settlement. Surely the one he saw from the airplane. He turned toward the settlement, moving more cautiously, pausing every 30 or 40 steps to listen and study his surroundings.
It was at one such pause that he first heard the dog. A big dog—maybe a German shepherd—barking the bark of a hunter in pursuit. It was behind him. It was coming closer. Damn.
He turned and made for the nearest clump of trees. As he set off, he tried to maintain a certain level of stealth in his movement, crouching, doing his best to tread quietly. But as the barking came nearer, he broke into a full run, fighting to maintain his balance against the rolling swells still in motion in his inner ears. He ran straight into the trees, a branch whipping his face as he entered the stand. There, he crouched and looked back. There were three flashlights trained on the ground precisely where he'd turned for the trees. In moments, they were moving toward him, the dog still barking.
Winded and suddenly out of ideas, Arkin resorted to climbing a tree, knowing as he did so that it was a fool move. In the first one he tried, he ran out of climbable branches a few feet off the ground. He descended and tried another, straining to see up into the blackness as he began. But he ran into the same problem. By the time he was 10 feet up into his third tree, they were on him. The dog stood at the base of the trunk, barking up at him and jumping, futilely, for his feet. A moment later, the three flashlights arrived and were turned up at him. Arkin heard a muttered comment in a language he didn't recognize. Something European. The next thing he knew, he was in the grips of a stun gun electrocution, white light exploding from the back of his skull. His muscles clenched involuntarily. In his agony, he was only barely aware of falling, hitting his head, legs, and left arm on at least two different branches as he dropped. But when the current released him, he found himself lying face-down on the earth at the base of the tree, his left wrist in considerable pain. Before he could move, the white light struck again, blasting across his brain and, no doubt with the help of the bump to his head, knocking him into shadow.
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