Gold Miner's Daughter
An Alaska Railroad mystery series, where history, crime, and the Last Frontier collide.
The first book in the Chicken Dinner Mystery Series is coming soon!
Wyatt wondered how he survived the Korean War, failed as a police officer in Texas, and ended up in the Fortymile mining district in 1959, only the following spring, suspected of murdering his friend Tim Crocket and accused of claim jumping.
Wyatt, railroaded by his friend, the mayor, and the eccentric residents of Chicken, elects him as the part-time Sheriff. He investigates Tim’s demise while working for his dead friend’s sister Amy on the Crocket’s mine. The Alaska State Police and government are new and present challenges in communication and crime solving in the remote mining community.
Conspiracy seems farfetched to Wyatt, but growing evidence and three more murders force him to consider that gold and politics are at the core of the threat to the Chicken community. Attacks on Wyatt and the Crockets prompt him to reconsider his life as a broke miner and rekindle a reluctant interest in law enforcement.
Escape from Playa Del Carmen
CHAPTER 1
My bride, Vicki, came down with a stomach problem on the first vacation we took in years. I suspected she picked it up from one of our grandkids. We always visit them before a trip.
We landed at the Cancún airport from D.C. around noon, located our bags, and cleared customs. Finally, we navigated the chaos of tourists and caught a bus to our resort.
Surrounded by palm trees, the place resembled a Mayan village, with a straw-thatched pavilion in the center. Slate stone covered a floor grand enough to hold four volleyball courts. Impressive in scale and filled with arriving guests.
We waited for our turn at the desk.
My wife reached the counter and announced, “Jake and Vicki Aureola.”
I walked away because of all the hassle she endured on my behalf to decline the sales pitch they want you to attend every time we stay in a resort. After our check-in, the sun barely peeked over the horizon, and golden light flashed through the forest of waving palm fronds.
My wife believed motion sickness and exhaustion caused her stomach issues and some relaxation would help her feel better. After dropping our bags in the room, Vicki made a valiant effort to deny being ill by eating tacos and consuming only part of one margarita while sitting on submerged barstools at a swim-up tiki bar.
We ate in their giant infinity pool that visually blended into the Gulf of Mexico. It’s the resort’s hallmark, with the bar as its centerpiece. More extensive than a football field, the designers divided it into quarters.
On the stools in bath-warm water, we absorbed the tropical onshore sea breeze, enjoyed the swaying palm trees and the fragrance of salty air mixed with the flowering plants. It finally sunk in; there were no ringing phones, no complaints, and no estimates to do. We were on vacation.
By nine o’clock local time, she surrendered to being sick. We retired to our room to hang out near a toilet as her stomach threatened disaster. Our turquoise-painted room felt cramped by our American resort standards. The color blended with the combined odors of cleaning disinfectants and mildew expected in tropical accommodations. None of it helped her distress.
She sat on the queen-sized bed covered in a Caribbean-themed blanket with colorful birds, palm trees, and water. Vicki, grey around her mouth, held a paper towel balled up in her fist and kept a trash bucket next to her feet.
“Sorry, I’m not up for a hike or any trip on a bus without a bathroom a few steps away.”
She stared at me through teary, blue-gray eyes. Disappointed, I worried about medical services in Mexico. I sat a few feet away in a green wicker armchair near the mirrored closet door thinking about this whole ordeal, how I didn’t want to take this trip anyway. My better half came up with the entire idea, and now she might be sick through most of it.
“I’m sorry you feel like crap. I’ll call the desk and cancel our excursion.”
“No. It’s the one thing you wanted to do. I planned to come along for the ride.”
“And for company.” I liked spending time with her, although history wasn’t her thing.
“I’m not a good companion like this. Go do your old stuff tour, and I’ll hang by the pool, read a Kindle book, and soak my feet. Somewhere close to a bathroom.”
We talked it over while she lay back in the bed, and I held a damp rag on her forehead. I would make the trip on my own to Chichén Itzá.
At 6:00 a.m., our small group of half-asleep, well-to-do tourists trooped out of the lobby into thick, muggy morning air and climbed into our shuttle van. It looked like a repurposed, short school bus painted dark brown. It would take us north to downtown Playa del Carmen to join another group on a luxury tour coach. It’s all a little highfalutin, but Vicki went first class with points from our timeshare program to use up.
In some respects, her absence wasn’t so bad since she lacked any interest in geography and history. She only showed genuine interest in the Walter Reed Medical Museum because it appealed to her as a nurse—a place where I went along for the ride.
I might have piqued her interest by mentioning the ancient locals invented heart surgery. It might be stretching the term a little too far. I suppose human sacrifice, where your heart was cut out without painkillers and with no intention of the patient’s survival, qualified as an extreme definition of surgery.
My jittery stomach and doubts about leaving my bride alone while waiting for the driver to board put me in mind of my bus ride to Army basic training. From my early teens, I planned on joining the Army and becoming a cop through the military police. Dad served during the Korean War in the Navy, and the ideals of service to God, country, and community set in early. My parents instilled those values as far as community and country went. They took me to church, but service to God came from personal experience.
After the Army, back in the early ’80s, when I joined the Anchorage Police Department, they were short-handed on officers due to budget constraints. Anchorage sorely needed our academy graduates. The Alyeska Pipeline construction approached completion. Crews came to town for R&R, including drugs, prostitution, booze, and occasionally a donnybrook with a foot patrolman.
All the vices were readily available in our oil-rich boomtown. An affiliate of the Hells Angels found Alaska’s Last Frontier a place to do rousing business. Adding to them a couple of new upstart gangs out of California, the Crips and Bloods, kept us busy.
After graduation and probation, new officers received orders to work overtime to cover areas for those older cops who deserved a much-delayed vacation. Our first month out of probation, I referred to as “Felony July.” Working the midnight shift and ordered in on all my days off for four weeks straight, I averaged two felony arrests and six felony reports a night.
Our bus hummed with murmured conversations, mostly between aging couples, as if waiting for church services to begin. I watched the driver talking to a clerk inside, and he lifted his arm to check his watch. Not yet departure time as he returned to his conversation with the dark-haired young woman.
Thinking back on my early days at APD, when I was assigned to the quiet Eagle River area, those numbers for reports and arrests were monthly stats for local officers, and somehow, I managed to work them into a single night. Soon, only other department shit magnets wanted to be anywhere near me because they liked action too.
After five years of patrol service, my friend John and I were seasoned officers, more so than others with twice our short time in uniform. Our reputation for mayhem often preceded us.
The bus tipped, and I jerked my head up. Our driver boarded, snapped the door shut, and we began to roll. Glancing outside at the predawn darkness, the lack of streetlights made it difficult to take in the scenery as we drove north. There’s not a lot to see. Vegetation, in the headlights, looked green to greenish-gray. The whole area appeared as flat as Kansas from the air.
Coffee sipped from paper cups mixed with an array of cologne and perfume. Passengers chatted in low tones, barely audible over the noisy differential and humming tires. I’m officially an old geezer since it pleased me that no bratty kids rode along on this leg of our trip.
Counting the time to pass through our resort gate and to wait at a traffic light, it took about ten minutes to drive to Carmen. No vehicles came toward us, and none followed. We passed several sleepy tourist meccas hidden in the woods to our right as the Riviera Maya slowly came to life.
Our bus turned off the freeway to downtown and into a police roadblock. My first experience with one in Mexico, but I understood they happened. Local police tended to avoid offending tourists who spent their money, which funded the resorts.
Two marked, blue-and-white Federal Police cars turned in to funnel traffic to a single lane. Four heavily armed officers with automatic rifles reminded me we were not in Kansas. Due to 9-11, we endured heightened security back home at airports, but we were not yet in open warfare with drug cartels.
Streetlighting was poor, and parking areas separated the bus from buildings or residences nearby. Headlights from the two police cars and a military vehicle, maybe a Humvee, made it possible to see.
One man with a white hat and sports jacket stood silhouetted in front of the vehicles and appeared to be in charge.
I studied the situation and assessed my status, partly because instructors at APD stressed awareness. In addition, my life growing up in Alaska as a guide, a pilot, and a military policeman all served to train me to stay vigilant.
The sky lightened over the Gulf, but it remained dark around us. I watched one car the officers waved around the roadblock and listened to muted voices as several officers spoke among themselves outside. A loner stayed separate from the uniformed cops while they kicked an empty can around like a soccer ball.
Inside, we waited, resigned to a delay. Passengers chatted quietly and peered around. Someone outside indicated it was showtime as the cops came to attention.
Mom raised me to believe officers of the law were good guys. My life experience as an MP overseas, and with some corrupt stateside departments, taught me to be cautious. These cops were armed and posed a possible immediate threat. Mexican authorities were considered iffier than most, and I kept a close eye on them and considered options.
Roadblocks are designed to control stops, and in the drug wars here, officers position themselves with overlapping views, so if shooting starts, they don’t kill each other. It’s a safety practice, and the location looked appropriate, but it left an inevitable blind spot. In this case, the area directly behind our bus remained out of their view. My training kicked in, and I hunted for a way out and spotted the emergency back door exit. It is not difficult to spot with yellow and red stripes.
The White Hat guy boarded, and the sense of comfort inside shrank by half. In Spanish, he introduced himself to our driver as Inspector Morales.
I gathered the Federal Police were searching for a fugitive narco-terrorist. Morales peered with dark roving eyes over his shoulder while he spoke. Our driver listened intently and kept his hands in view on the wheel. He visibly paled in the weak light shining over his head.
The inspector promised to check everyone onboard, which should only take a moment. Morales eyed us again.
The hair on my neck and arms raised. Something in his tone or demeanor didn’t fit his body language. I didn’t understand every word, and my Spanish was poor. Other passengers who understood at least some Spanish stole furtive peeks towards their fellow travelers, wondering who might be a terrorist among them.
I sat in the back because I didn’t want anyone behind me. It’s a cop’s paranoia thing. Morales wore a small- brimmed hat, lightweight tan jacket, yellow polo shirt, khaki pants, and highly polished western-style boots. He was not tall, maybe five foot eight, and had a stocky build.
I estimated his weight at around 180 pounds or more, with a slight paunch. Morales had short black hair, brown eyes, copper skin tone, and some facial features suggesting Native heritage. An average Mexican male, in my view.
Morales started his search. He held a picture in his left hand and studied each male passenger.
My early warning radar went active. It is unlikely that anyone on this bus was a narco-terrorist. Drug running is a dangerous business, and a boss would never travel without security and avoid public transportation.
I survived my years on patrol by instinct and God’s good graces, as much as my formal training. A crawling in my gut wasn’t from missing breakfast. We were tourists, but this inspector seemed too sure his man rode on this bus. My police experience didn’t calm my nerves when I noted that what little traffic existed the officers outside detoured around us.
All appearances indicated they quit searching after stopping us. Whoever they wanted was onboard.
Everyone else acted blissfully unaware, chatting between couples, heedless of potential danger. Our white-hat- wearing cop continued towards me. There were operations where specific information existed, but Morales needed a picture for identification. Why? Obviously, he was hunting someone he did not know by sight.
Ten and a half years of my life was spent working for Anchorage. I moved up from patrol to uniformed investigator and Major Crimes Scene Team Investigator. I finished my career with a few years as a detective in the Crimes Against Children Unit and Robbery. None of my experiences jived with what I expected.
My gut said trouble, and it appeared I would be right in the middle of it—this time, without John for backup.
Passengers Morales bypassed acted relieved. One woman had dyed her hair to maintain a youthful appearance. She wore a purplish blouse, and as he passed by, her shoulders relaxed, tension drained from her face, and she exhaled a long-held breath.
Other riders tried to appear unconcerned, alternating between glancing at their significant other or their hands as they waited. Furtive peeks around, nervous whispers prevailed, and only a few of us remained to be scanned. I eased back in the seat, hands on my lap and feet under me.
Two rows up, Morales stopped and glanced from his photo to a man sitting by the window. An odd fellow who sat tall in his seat, thin with a beak-like nose, protruding front teeth, receding chin, and short haircut. A professor or academic sort of presence.
Putting his picture in a jacket pocket, speaking authoritatively in Spanish, Morales ordered the man to accompany him. Instead, the man replied in an accent and language I took to be German, protesting loudly and emphatically, no! His emphatic refusal brought everyone’s attention to him.
Apparently, it was not the response he expected. Morales grabbed him by his shirt collar and jerked him violently out of his seat. The cop summarily beat the man’s head with his pistol, knocking him to the floor.
Wiping blood from his gun barrel on the pant leg of his prisoner, Inspector Morales holstered his weapon and hiked his belt, pulling up his pants.
The unconscious man groaned and bled from several gashes near his left temple area. Morales dragged his captive out by his shirt collar, bouncing him down the steps, and dumped him on the pavement. Two officers cuffed the prisoner and tossed him in a Humvee like a sack of dirty clothes.
The violence happened fast with a very predictable effect on everyone, not to object and to be afraid. Several women cried, leaned against their partners, eyes closed, and suppressed screams. Their husbands tried to console them and appear brave. Pale faces, trembling lips, and shaking hands told a different story. I suspected the assault was more violent than they had ever witnessed in person.
Everyone understood to do what was asked, but this struck me all wrong. It stunk to high heaven. In Mexico, they must work with rules similar to German policemen. It was a little excessive, but their law read whatever force a cop used for an arrest was required. The arresting officers decided how much was necessary. It angered me then and still did.
What happened next caused my hand to reach for my gun, but it came up empty as my Glock 22 sat securely locked in my safe at home. Morales nodded to a tough-looking cop with dark skin and Native features who stood away from everyone else.
Something in the cop’s manner, cold and unmoved. A weathered, sunbaked face, emotionless with an aura of a slaughterhouse killer. He carried an automatic weapon, probably an UZI. I wasn’t sure because of poor lighting and distance. Not a weapon I associated with police work.
He checked and tapped his magazine, flipped off a safety switch with his thumb, and started for our bus. Other passengers talked nervously, some still in tears, and our driver tried to calm everyone. He realized the bloody apprehension wasn’t faring well for his business, let alone chances for tips.
Time for me to exit. I reached to my left and behind me, twisting the emergency door handle down. It opened with a loud pop as a plastic seal snapped away from the frame. I pushed it out, keeping an eye up front.
A buzzer sounded by the driver. Jumping from his seat, he turned to yell at me.
Rapid slaps of concussion banged against my body, and explosions filled the small space. Time slowed as a small row of red dots stitched up our driver’s side. Every round flowered into an eruption of splashing blood and doused a cringing couple seated behind him.
The man fell headlong down at the shooter’s feet and onto the steps. It caused the gunman to back away. The officer yanked the dead man’s arm like a bulldog pulling on a rope, backing up, and thrashing back and forth to clear a path inside.
The distraction provided my chance. I grabbed my day bag and darted out.
Between a door alarm going off and the panic in front, it focused everyone’s attention, cops and passengers, on the mayhem near the driver. No one saw me as I dove to the pavement.
I stumbled on my landing and came up into a crouch with one knee down. I recovered my footing, remained bent over, and ran for cover, angling to leave the death trap between me and any potential shooter. In the alley, I ducked behind a building and glanced back.
Gunshots continued as the wiry guy calmly annihilated everyone onboard. Unable to comprehend the sight, I stood transfixed as windows shattered and bullets pinged off cars and buildings. Blood splattered against unbroken panes and ran in rivulets. The woman in purple pressed her face against a window, mouth open, frozen in a silent scream.
Why, in Jesus’s name, were cops killing everyone? My earlier relief about no children turned to pure thanks to God.
It hurt physically to run away as years of experience taught me to advance towards trouble. However, unarmed, another lesson learned in the Army was to live and fight another day instead of senseless self-sacrifice. I took my only option, which would be hard to live with later.
As the sole survivor and witness, I needed to escape. Or was that true? The man dragged off was hurt but alive. Did they need him alive?
Turning away, a uniformed officer directing traffic spotted me and pointed. With a thirty-yard head start, I took off as fast as my feet allowed.
The backs of one- and two-story buildings joined or fitted close together lined both sides of a garbage-strewn alley. Suddenly, I found myself thankful that I lived a hard life.
Maybe I could count one or two guys my age who were fit enough to run and work as hard as some twenty- and thirty-year-olds. As an owner of a construction company, supervisor, and chief laborer, I worked as hard or harder than anyone on my small crew.
It was still early morning and deeply shadowed between buildings. I kept running for blocks, relying on training and instinct to choose a path. An all-points bulletin will be broadcast soon. They wouldn’t have much description beyond what the ol’ White Hat in charge would remember. Since I wasn’t his target, I figured not much stood out beyond my gray hair or a blue floral shirt.
Cops would expect me to stay low, too old and too weak for climbing. My gray hair would indicate remaining at or near ground level and none too fast. I found a trellis made of patterned concrete blocks going up the side of a two- story building. Whatever grew there at one time was long gone. I climbed carefully.
The sharp edges of the blocks scraped at my hands. Years of accumulated dust and dead bug bodies crushed under my fingers as I climbed. I used it like a ladder, up one story to the roof next door. I crawled over onto stone pavers covering a black rubber roofing. With a yowl, a couple of stray cats dashed for cover. I turned west because I didn’t want to be trapped against the ocean.
My previous experience as a fugitive amounted to Army escape and evasion training, with some practice as a runner for our SWAT team and K9 units. It gave me some idea of what I faced. Part of finding a wanted man is understanding who he is and how he thinks and avoiding assumptions.
An average American tourist is not in shape, and I admit a decade or more passed since I trained for a marathon, but I ran some all my life until a hip replacement stopped me. No matter. I work outdoors, climbing up and down ladders, in and out of ditches, and shoveling yards of dirt. Despite complaining about letting my younger men do the work, I was proud that their boss, Jake Aureola, stayed in fair shape.
Climbing down the front of the building on a bundle of cables and wires, I crossed another paved street pocked with potholes. I glanced at small closed-up shops on either side and cut across at an angle to another alleyway.
Sucking in the air like a man about to drown, I climbed one more building hugging a painted tin gutter. I used it like a climbing rope, inch-worming my way.
Crossing a roof with a black plastic water tank and a clothesline on top, I hopped onto a tin shed roof over the other side, then dropped to a sidewalk.
A lot of men in Mexico wore white “wife beater” tank-top shirts. I had one under my Jimmy Buffet concert shirt. I slowed to a jog. My lungs were searing like I inhaled fire. With trembling fingers, I unbuttoned and pulled off my shirt, hoping to blend in better in the non-tourist portion of town.
A good farmer’s tan from working outside in the Virginia sun helped. Although I wouldn’t be mistaken for Mexican, I might pass a cursory glance. I stuffed my sweaty shirt into my day bag and kept moving west.
Based on manhunts I remembered as a cop, the best chance of escape came from moving outside any perimeter net before it formed. I wanted half a mile more behind me ASAP.
Whoever directed the search would want a perimeter established far enough out to have me still inside. A stopped UPS truck sat idling at the curb ahead, and the driver jumped in and started rolling off in my direction. Lunging up on his back bumper, I grabbed a door handle. Catching my breath, I scanned parked cars, and otherwise empty, dirty streets went past.
A police car zoomed by the truck slammed on its brakes, and made a squealing sharp left turn. Holding my breath, I peeked over my shoulder, expecting him to complete a U-turn, but he continued and disappeared behind a corner shoe store.
We went a quick four blocks before the truck stopped again. Jumping down, I ran and barely missed colliding with the driver as he popped out his door. Dodging right, I set out at a fast jog.
A street sign read AV Benito Juárez. Early morning sunlight shone on my back, so I continued directly west. It was the quickest and safest way to distance myself from the town. My heading would cross two major highways. Roads made mental barriers for both bad guys and cops. I wanted beyond them and into an area with fewer eyes to spot me.
An old red Chevy pickup with one black fender and a homemade stake bed belched smoke and turned in front of me, struggling to accelerate. I jumped on a rusty back bumper, grabbing a rickety side rail. We crossed the highways. One of them, our bus took to come to town.
The truck traveled west into an industrial area. Over the rattling of the stake bed walls, I listened as many police sirens converged on the bloody massacre scene. Watching over my shoulder, I didn’t spot any. No one paid attention that I hitched a ride, so I turned around and sat on the cobbled-together bed. Other men in Mexico rode to work that way. I kept my head down, trying to appear sleepy while struggling to catch my breath.
Sweat ran from my head and trickled down my back. The tank-top stuck to me as I fought to control my panic.
Chapter Two...
Interested in reading more?
Getting Home
Chapter 1
Life as a designated shit magnet rarely stays dull for any extended period of time. That little thought came to mind between sudden drops as my stomach lodged somewhere near my throat, as if my plane lurched off the edge of the world. Dirt and leaves floated up off the floor of the Piper Cub weightless magically suspend in midair. Then the body slam into the seat, crush my spine like the collapsing towers of the World Trade Center.
The blinding rain pounded the windshield and skylight overhead, producing a deafening noise and mixing with the smells of dust from the floor and hot air coming from the cabin heater. The strain of the seat belt straps jerked at my shoulders and across my waist to hold me, at least, somewhere near my seat. All part of the storm gripping my plane as tightly as my white-knuckled fingers gripped the control stick.
At sixty-six years old what purpose did I, Jake Aureola, serve in this life? A fleeting thought passed through my brain presumably to get a jump on what flashes before your eyes in the moment of death. I tried to wrestle the airplane into something close to level flight. Not knowing my purpose didn’t help much, and it only occurred to me as I contemplated a sudden and destructive end.
I glanced at the electrical panel again, located above my head and to the left, wondering if I dared to reach up to check the fuses and deciding once more, control of the airplane took priority. It could wait.
Thinking back on my life, I felt the closest to content or being in the right place while working for the Anchorage, Police Department years ago. Long before then, and many times since, I understood God had something for me to do. At the moment, he kept me busy trying to remain alive.
As the plane rolled to the right, I watched the Alaskan tundra pass by below my wing tip. Keeping the wings parallel to the ground I struggled against the storm something akin to maintaining balance standing in the center of a teeter-totter in a hurricane.
Just a few hours ago, I thought I was where I was supposed to be. I had plans of my own and God never made me privy to his. Being back in Alaska the fall of 2016 and flying with my buddy John was comforting thing, a feeling I was where I needed to be, and should have served as a warning.
I flew in the rain before, but rarely like this. The winds and turbulence in the clouds were familiar. The sound of the deluge pounding, smashed into the plane by the wind, and the crashing thunder drowned out the comforting drone of the engine. Lightning, God’s fireworks, an awesome wonder at a distance, is a frightening menace up close. Storms are a part of nature and, Mother Nature was one mean old . . ., well, not a lady.
When flying in a storm, it’s a very personal experience. A friend of mine, who had graduated with me from the academy in early 1983, flew 747s now for an air freight company, and he flew those giants around storms like this.
I was not flying in the coach seats of a 747 or even in the much smaller 737, the workhorse of the passenger airline industry, in Alaska. No, I sat in the pilot’s seat of what Alaskan bush pilots referred to as a “rag and tube” airplane, but legendary one, the Piper Super Cub. A two-seater, weighing less than eighteen hundred pounds, legally fully loaded. I was flying at less than fourteen hundred, and in this storm, it felt no more significant than a sparrow.
The plane lurched left like a car skidding out of control on an icy road. I stomped on the rudder peddle to bring back straight. And, like over-controlling a car, it skidded to the right. The plane moved helpless as insect trapped in a bottle floating over Niagara Falls. No control, I held on leaning and bracing against the forces of nature.
My gut rolled like a snake in my stomach, my body hinting this might be my last flight. The greasy sweat on my face wasn’t from the heat and not exactly fear either. I didn’t have much time for being scared, but from knowledge gained from National Transportation and Safety Bureau reports of pilots who met their end in such circumstances. Seems it’s never one thing that kills you.
How I came to be in this storm resulted from a combination of necessity and misjudgments. I camped with friends, moose hunting near Fourth of July Creek on the upper Yentna River ten miles north-northwest of Skwentna, Alaska. The weather was fine when we arrived and landed on a dried-up slough that served as our runway—a path through a sea of golden fall leaves hanging by threads from the willows, birch, and aspen trees carpeting the riverbanks in the area. We erected our camp above the flood line in what a couple of hundred years ago amounted to a sandbar in the river before it changed course. We pulled our three Cubs up close to camp.
Winds coming off Alaska’s highest peak were common. The mountain referred to locally as Denali, even though it was named Mount McKinley on all the maps. A recent presidential edict renamed it back to Denali. It had been a bit conflicting as an Alaskan-raised kid. I always thought of it by the Native name, translated roughly as The Great One and much more appropriate than McKinley, who, as president, never set foot in Alaska. A vocal critic of most everything the president did, as many fellow Alaskans were, the idea he could, on his whim, change the name infuriated people.
A wind-driven cloud blocked my view ahead and brought me back to the job at hand, forcing me farther west and closer to Mount Susitna. Desperately, I tried to stay nearer to Cook Inlet, to my left or east of me. There were stretches of beach and sandbars at the mouths of several rivers I could land on if I got any break in the storm. For now, I found myself many miles off course. Herded by forces of nature ever farther south and west.
The Denali winds come up fast and, at times, can last for days, sometimes a week or more, gusting over seventy miles an hour. I had been shown this spot thirty years before by my ex-wife’s dad and one of our better friends, and infamous Cub driver, known as Gator. On that trip, between six hunters, we had gotten three moose and plenty of meat for four families to last the winter.
On this trip, we landed at camp four days ago and no sooner settled than the wind began to pick up. By morning, it was blowing fifty to sixty miles per hour as registered on the plane’s airspeed indicator. As a precaution, we dug holes in the sandy soil and parked the big tundra tires in the holes facing into the wind, then covered the tires with sand. The wings were roped to drift logs left on the old riverbank. John and I propped the tail wheels up on a sawed-off tree trunk about eighteen inches high. By trimming the controls, nose down slightly, the force of the wind helped to hold the aircraft on the ground. If parked normally, the wind would have been forcing the wings up and causing tremendous strain on the tie-down ropes. Possibly damaging them.
In the storm, my eyes caught a glimpse of something I believed at first to be a hallucination but turned out to be a flight of Canadian geese also seeking some safety from the storm. The normal V-shaped pattern broke into every goose for themselves formation with patches of gray and white feathers. For a moment, I felt sorry for them and then realized they were more likely to survive than this Cub pilot. I pulled away giving them room to maneuver and avoiding a collision with what amounted to a sixteen-pound bowling ball with feathers.
For the last three days, we kept busy tying and retying the tent ropes to the five-man military surplus tent the wind loosened every few hours. Venturing out into the wind resulted in the sand blown off the slough dragged across your exposed skin like a sandblaster. My skin burned from thousands of tiny cuts leaving my hands and face raw.
We brought a heat stove for the tent, but the wind made it too dangerous to use. So, we were generally cold as temperatures hovered above freezing at night and climbed into the 50s in the daytime, which was pretty good for late September.
Earlier, before these storms came in, the wind had died down to thirty or forty miles per hour. We had been eating candy bars, energy bars, and cold Vienna sausages straight from the can. We started out with some jerky, but the first day cooped up in the tent we ate it all.
A break in the clouds, probably created between thunder cells, gave a quick view to the east, and I saw an oil platform breaking the waves out in Cook Inlet. I wasn’t sure which one, but I estimated it put me south of Drift River and Tyonek airstrips somewhere behind me in the middle of the last storm and would soon fall under this new one.
Sitting in the tent and listening to the wind, I considered the flight I needed to catch back to Virginia the next day. I arrived back in Alaska for a three week visit my daughter and her husband in Seward. Later, I met with John and an Alaska State Trooper friend of his up at John’s home near Willow. John retired from APD and rebuilt airplanes in his hangar during the long winter months. His hanger sat next to the house he owned in an airstrip community fittingly called Rustic Wilderness.
After my adventures in Mexico, I decided to get back into flying and found a guy with a Cub out near Culpepper, Virginia, who ran a tourist trap flying circus off his private airfield, and he gave lessons. With my license current, I passed my flight medical, and was legal to fly when I landed in Alaska. I spent a day or two making sandbar landings with John in the backseat on the Susitna and Yentna Rivers getting back some of the skills I possessed 20 years ago.
I believe flying is about as much fun as a guy can with clothes on. When I sold my Super Cub before leaving Alaska, it felt like losing a good friend to cancer. You eventually learn to get along, but the pain never goes away. My ex always believed I gave more thought and comfort to my plane than I did to her. If true, I am seriously sorry, but I think she exaggerated, a little.
The gap between storms passed, and the adrenaline rush began wearing off at a bad time. My shoulder ached, butt numb, and there was an aggravating little cramp in the back of my leg, but no way to stretch or rest. If the storm didn’t get me, exhaustion might. Feeling like a punch-drunk boxer eleven rounds into a twelve-round fight and I realized I’m going to lose.
John and his Trooper friend planned a hunting trip, bought me an out of state hunting license, and insisted I come along. John recently finished a rebuild on a Cub, and by coming along, we could fly in enough supplies in one trip to make the stay comfortable. Besides, if we did shoot a moose, it would make for fewer trips coming back. The flying was a great way to bribe me into going along.
In the fading light I moved ever closer to Sleeping Lady, the name locals called Mount Susitna, and could no longer see over or around her, as my visibility was limited to what I could make out through the right-side window and straight down. A view the ground often came as the swirling winds coming out of the storms tried to roll the plane onto its back. Several times I thought the storm would tear the wings off, but Mr. Piper designed an incredibly strong plane. I began to appreciate how it gained such a well-deserved reputation.
I once believed my moose hunting days were far behind me, so I had been as excited as a kid on Christmas Eve at John’s invitation. Most hunting trips turn out to be camping trips, and there was little expectation of getting a moose. John and Dan, his Trooper pal, set up the tent, cut firewood, and stashed extra fuel while I visited in Seward, so our personal gear and food were most of what we hauled in with us.
We spent three days of forced captivity filled with complaints about the weather and war stories going over our exploits as the department shit magnets. I left APD after ten and a half years, but John had stayed on retiring as a Lieutenant ten years later. Dan was still active with the Troopers and twenty years younger than us. He was a big, strapping, blond-haired kid standing well over six feet and easily tipped the scales at 225 pounds, with no fat on him I could detect. We took a vote and decided two to one Dan would be the packer if we got a moose.
My eyes were straining and watering, trying to see through the rain, and my ears ached from the constant roar as the storm assaulted the body of the small craft. The incessant jerking motion was like being beaten by Mike Tyson. I began to look forward to the crash.
We had run out of stories and jokes, and I started getting worried about catching my flight out of Anchorage. When I noticed the wind died down some, I thought it was possible to fly to John’s house, pick up the rental car, and get to Anchorage. Thinking about getting home turned out to be my first mistake. We all carried cell phones but no service from where we were. With no way to let anyone know I intended to head back until I was airborne.
Dan and John helped get the plane loaded with gear, holding out on most of the food because they were uncertain how long they expected to stay. We dug out the tires, then they held on to the tie-down ropes to help hold the wings down in the gusty wind as I taxied to the slough. The wind down the slough wasn’t too bad, but you could see the bending tree tops 40 feet above us. When the wind started, there was a blizzard of golden leaves, but after three days, we figured most of them were nearing Seattle by now.
After John secured the rifle I borrowed in the scabbard on the right-wing strut, I firewalled the engine. I felt the tail wheel liftoff, and the Cub rolled about fifty feet when a sharp gust of wind popped me off the ground. As I cleared the treetops, I turned slightly left into the wind with a head-on view of the south slope of Denali in front of me. The wind blew long wisps of white powder streaming off the snow-covered pink granite cliffs. I climbed like an elevator for about a thousand feet without moving forward at all. The spot I took off from was still directly below me. As I dropped off the flaps and trimmed up the plane, I reduced power to cruise speed. I was indicating about seventy-five miles per hour, and the camp remained below me. I banked to the right, towards Willow, and shot away like a feather in the wind.
My old instructors told me to keep my head facing forward, hands on the controls because turning your head and becoming disoriented or losing control of the airplane could kill you in seconds. Judging my height above ground in the rolling terrain would have been easy in clear, calm weather. Since I was catching glimpses of the ground from the corner of my right eye, I was guessing it to be about eight hundred feet down. For a Cub caught in a spin that was less than two turns, you needed one and a half to recover. The harness jammed my aching shoulders as the plane dipped, cutting that distance in half, and then in only a few seconds, as I resisted pulling back on the stick, I awaited the elevator ride back to the top.
That takeoff from camp should have been a warning because, as I lined up on a Willow heading, I could see a storm building, and it was moving from Willow northwest towards Talkeetna. I had turned on the radio before taking off, and I went to call in a pop-up flight plan and decided to change my destination to Birchwood Airport. A place where I could get someone to pick me up and where I could leave John’s plane, but the radio didn’t respond. Checking, I saw the radio and the panel were dark. The breakers and fuses were up in the wing root on the left, above my head.
With the turbulence of the wind, I could not take my thoughts away from driving the airplane. I decided the radio was no big deal. As soon as I got some smoother air I could study the panel with the breakers and get it started, or I would dig out the cell phone in my backpack in the back seat. My second mistake.
Not making any difference now as those were in the past and at the moment, I strained my eyes trying to see past the rain but judged my ground clearance by my view out of the right side of the plane. To my left, the clouds and rain were a solid wall all the way to the ground. I was flying almost entirely by reaction. The storm turned me right, I turned back left. A downdraft would take me down, and I would climb back up and so on. I kept returning to how I got into this mess.
Unable to get in at Rustic Wilderness, I adjusted my flight path to due east by the magnetic compass and, watching the landmarks I recently become reacquainted with. I saw the big bend in the Yentna River, on course for Birchwood. I knew a low-pressure area wouldn’t be far behind a squall line moving along the west side of the Chugach Range, and one thunderstorm seemed to be starting after another, extremely unusual this time of year. They popped up and trained to the northwest, cutting me off from the east side of Knik Arm and Cook Inlet. I decided to turn south and try and reach an airstrip at Drift River run by the oil companies supporting operations on the oil platforms in Cook Inlet, or maybe I might make Tyonek Village airstrip. It was a Native village west of Anchorage with a good airstrip. Both airports are closed to private planes, but in an emergency, you could land anywhere with enough room to pull it off, and this qualified as an emergency.
I planned to wait out the weather there and make a quick trip to Lake Hood and still make my flight. My third mistake. Looking back, I should have found the first sand bar and grounded me and the airplane where cell phone service existed. Instead, I figured to land at Lake Hood and have friends or family to return the rental car, and John could pick up his airplane in Anchorage when he got a chance.
Turning further south and drifting west, I saw the Alaska Range to the west and north socked in with clouds. The storms moved in on both sides of me blocking out the sunlight and getting darker fast. I hoped to find an airstrip, but the turbulence made it difficult to keep control of the plane. I sensed the wings bending and heard, at times, the tubing groan as the airframe flexed with the sudden change from downdrafts to updrafts. The clouds built up over Mount Susitna, and the line of storms were across Cook Inlet.
As the storms surrounded me, I aimed the plane down to a lower altitude hoping to find a sandbar when thunderclouds blocked the remaining light and night came in seconds, and even more rain. I wondered if it were possible to drown in midair.
The dark made seeing the ground, well anything, impossible. It kept me fighting to keep the plane level and maintain airspeed. The only question remaining, where I would crash. Looking around for any path not as bad as where I was, I pushed west and flew along the eastern slope of Sleeping Lady occasionally visible in the frequent flashes of lightning. I learned, in this kind of storm, there is a spot near the base of the mountain where the air is pushed upslope and gave a little visibility and some calmer air. Not sure of the truth of that information, but if true over to my left a little it had to be hell squared.
I took off with full tanks of fuel, and it equates to about six hours of flying at cruise speed. I expected a forty-minute flight. I now well into two hours and well south and west of where I wanted to be. Due to many direction changes, dodging around thunderheads fuel would be an issue soon. In the darkness, I lost sight of the mountain. I concentrated on needle and ball, and airspeed: basic instrument flying. I held a course on the compass I hoped would keep me east of the mountain and tried to use the lessons I learned nearly thirty years ago to keep the plane airborne.
The average pilot lasts only minutes after losing bearings and not trusting the gauges. With no artificial horizon because I lost electrical power to the panel. John, an Air Force vet, installed a battery-powered red light I reached with my left hand and turn on, so I could see my instruments. In this storm, it took all my efforts to keep them in range, but flying blind, I also kept an eye on the altimeter. I calculated my position somewhere south of Mount Susitna, with no idea exactly where, but I knew the area started to gain elevation. Climbing remained out of the question, but at this low altitude, it was only a matter of time before I found solid ground.
“Flying is easy and never kills anyone,” the instructors said. “It’s the sudden stop that kills you.” I prayed and explained to God I needed to tell my wife goodbye. Yes, you pulled my butt out of the fire in Mexico, but please don’t make this my last flight. The cabin shrank to an eighteen-inch circle of red light on the control panel.
I saw a flash of something pass the corner of my eye, but I couldn’t look for fear I would lose control. Then, ahead and to my right, a distant flash of lightning revealed weird-shaped clouds whipping around my Cub. Too late I realized they weren’t clouds but instead trees!
My right wing stopped as if grabbed by a giant hand as my head and body shifted violently to the left side of the cabin, but she fought loose. I regained level flight only to slam the left wing hard into a tree. The plane swung hard that way and the sensation reminded me of the Batman ride at Six Flags being jerked from one side to the other as you suddenly change directions, and momentum drove my head into the door-side window.
Chapter Two...
Interested in reading more?
Patent for Death
Chapter 1
Frustrated, a bit frightened, Jessica left her office, upset at her boss. She left with him standing with a dumb look on his face, fading from view in the mirror, and squealed out of the lot with her bright red Mini Cooper. Usually, in bed and up early but put her training schedule and career concerns aside for a girl's night with a friend and graduate student at Georgetown University.
Pam worked full-time on weekends and part-time around her studies but free on Thursday night.
Her townhouse located near 35th Ave on O, an easy walk from her place to the action on M Street.
Jess navigated through rush hour, made two trips around the block to find an open space for her little Cooper, and managed to make Pam’s door before six.
Pam met her with a glass of red wine. “Something to start the night off right.”
“After my day, give me booze.” Jess chugged two big swallows.
“Slow down, girl, it might be five-dollar wine, but it’s all my budget can stand.”
Jess tossed her head, took a deep breath, and blew it out. “Damn, I’m sorry, a crappy time I-- and Jack, ooow.” She shed her coat and scarf.
“Your boss hit on you, and you are pissed.”
“No.”
“He didn’t hit on you, and you are mad.”
“No, no, Jack is a really good guy, but he is a guy and doesn’t listen. Besides, he is too prudish to hit on anyone. I’m surprised Amy married him.”
“Come sit by the fire.” They walked to the tiny living room, and a gas log fireplace took up seats on the carpet and set their glasses on the hearth. “So, how’s he making you crazy?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Psyc Major, my job is going to be listening and pretending I care, it’s great practice.”
Pam crossed her legs and leaned back on her arms to listen.
“I found something on the computer, an invention of some kind, but it intrigued me. I was researching on a government website for something else, so I saved and printed a couple of screenshots for later and put it on a USB drive.
“That was yesterday, and last night someone broke into our office, took my printouts, and wiped my computer history and backups. Only mine. Jack thought he left the door unlocked and didn’t know what happened when he got called in to lock the door by the cops.”
“Way weird. What did you do?”
“I had a break and went to look it up from the info I saved on the USB, and it was gone, not rejected but gone. I didn’t think it could be done. I Googled the inventor and found he died in a house fire on Tuesday, and I totally freaked. When Jack came in from court, I gave him the USB and tried to tell him something bad was going on, and it was no coincidence those people died, the data was erased and me, my computer targeted. He was so worried about sex harassment rules he wouldn’t even listen and I was too spooked to say anything in the open. Who knew I printed anything out about it, but the people in our office? I’m scared.”
Pam scanned the ceiling a moment. “Let me guess he thought you were overreacting.”
Jess polished off the last of her wine. “Yep, he wants me fitted for a straight jacket and a padded room.”
“Can I say you are overreacting and not ruin the rest of the night?”
“Look, I came here to enjoy time with my friend; I will hate you for it later. For now, I am not saying another word to non-believers. I will cover my bed in foil when I get home to feel better.”
“Fabulous idea lets go.”
“Where?”
Pam helped her up from the floor. “I know a place you will love.”
After wine in the apartment, Jessica, a thin, taller, dark-haired woman and her friend a petite blonde, bundled up against fall cold, strolled to a new Afghan Kabob place. The aroma of spices and food on the grill watered her mouth before they entered the door.
With dinner over, they returned to the crowded sidewalks, bumped and jostled by people. Georgetown established in 1751 lots of old architecture but Jess remembered better for where they filmed the movie the Exorcist and scared her as a child. Pam and Jess, when not engrossed in the pre-holiday scenery, gabbed about school and work. Well, after ten, they arrived back at Pam's. An intended short goodbye chat turned into a marathon conversation. After one in the morning, they said goodnight.
Pam said, “Shall I walk with you to your car?”
“No, I will be fine.” She chose to walk alone, not so certain about her choice once the door closed behind her.
Chilled deserted streets, shadowed walkways under bare limbed trees trembling in the wind. Not one soul on the sidewalk and Jess’s shoe heels clicked rhythmically off the concrete and echoed off the buildings. A plastic bag blew across the walk and hung up in a hedge. Her keys gripped tight in one hand and pepper spray in the other and made it safely to her tiny car.
The cedar smell from a blue-green cardboard tree deodorizer and sound of a smooth running engine helped her relax. She drove to M and decided to hit Rock Creek Park Way, navigate DC to I-395, and to her apartment in Alexandria.
M Street, a virtual parking lot earlier, nearly empty when she turned left and pulled out from 33rd. A set of headlights in her mirror and two cars in front of her one, a red, white, and blue DC Police car, turned at the next light toward the waterfront. Lights from the skyline and bridges reflected in the distant Potomac River when Jess turned on 30th to K Street. Tuned in to WMZQ, the country music station played Jesus Take the Wheel, and she hummed along. She waited for a green arrow, swung under the freeway, and on the Parkway.
A truck or SUV fell in behind her. A newer model with the bright blueish lights lit up the inside of her car. She cruised at the speed limit; after a few glasses of wine, she didn't want to talk to any DC officers. The route wound out of the creek bottom to Massachusetts Avenue. The bigger car started to pass in a no-passing zone. It concerned Jess but pleased her to be rid of the glaring lights. Glanced in her mirror, the SUV lurched into the side of her car. A horrendous crunch, a screech of tires, the giant white bumper glimpsed in the side-mirror. Her little car swayed and slid to the right and off the pavement.
Jess snapped her head to the right. "Oh my God!" The guardrail hurled toward her like a spear, the impact threw her against the shoulder harness, pain stabbed her side, twisted metal screeched, a boom as the car flipped and landed roof down, window glass exploded, and shards sliced her face—a flash from the dome light, then darkness. The world spun and jolted around her, unable to hold on she bounced her head off an airbag.
Chapter Two...
Interested in reading more?