Lessa’s stomach lurched as they plunged a thousand feet.
The scenery dissolved when a gust tilted the left wing, and her single-engine plane spun like a top. She adjusted the controls and the throttle, dipping the nose.
The rippled terrain of Denali’s mountain range loomed closer.
The passenger next to her shouted into his mic. “You’re gonna kill us all!”
Russell.
Lessa muted him. Russell was from Outside, unlike the other passengers, who were semi-regulars. He belonged in the cargo pod.
Even in free fall, she enjoyed the moment. Long, deep breaths helped her focus. In and out. In and out.
She’d been flying the Bush before she could drive, and her father’s caution had become her own. “Your problems aren’t out there,” he’d say, and then point to his head, “They’re in here.” But the unpredictable Alaskan winds had taken him last year.
The Bush was like that. It welcomed you. Then it tried to kill you.
The plane fell farther before it stopped spinning and leveled out.
She pressed two fingers to the tiny wolf statuette glued to the dashboard, a gesture of thanks. Her mother had carved it out of caribou antler as a protective charm.
She switched on the mics. “Just a bit of turbulence. Everyone ok?”
Russell vomited into an airsickness bag.
Lessa glanced back through the cabin. Siksrik, a representative of the Ambler community who often flew to Anchorage for official meetings, smiled at her. But Meghan, a frequent business traveler, was perspiring and breathing heavily.
“You ok, honey?” said Lessa.
Meghan nodded weakly, holding her pregnant belly.
Russell shoved the barf bag at Lessa.
Lessa pointed to the side pouch. He waved the bag at her like a petulant child, but she shook her head and pointed again. He huffed and made a big show of placing it in the pouch.
“First time?” she asked Russell.
“I fly all the time for work. Real planes, though.”
Lessa suppressed the notion of punching Russell in the face. “It’s always a little breezy near Kobuk Valley. Ever stayed in Alaska before?”
Russell wore rack-fresh clothes: a camouflage jacket over a flannel shirt and still-creased hunter’s pants. “Our cabin’s been there for generations.” He scowled at his watch. “Head’s up. Thirty-five minutes until lunchtime with Dad and my kid,” said Russell. He shoved a printed schedule in front of Lessa, pointing a stubby finger at the list.
She batted it away. “Stop distracting me and you’ll get there in one piece.”
“I expect to be in one piece and on time.” He looked at Lessa like her mother did when she reminded Lessa to do her chores. “Fishing at 1:30.”
She gazed at a picture of a twin-engine Otter taped to the dash. It was far more capable and luxurious than her beat-up, single-engine Beaver. A friend had traded up to an Otter and now flew sightseeing safaris. “Better money. Better clients.” But Otters were expensive. Fortunately, the cargo pod contained ten boxes. Ten valuable boxes.
#
They entered calmer air north of Denali, so she dropped to five hundred feet and let the plane fly itself, meandering around the foothills. The wind would tug gently at a wingtip as she made subtle adjustments with the foot and hand controls. Her father had joked about a wind spirit controlling the air columns. Sometimes, that’s what it felt like.
The sky was a bright, clear blue. Unspoiled land stretched in all directions.
“We’re approaching the Kobuk National Preserve.”
“I’m next, right?” said Russell.
“Yup,” said Lessa. She was excited about his departure, too.
Thin rivers appeared, carving sickles through the snow-powdered foothills. The land was pinched like crepe paper, a reminder of ancient tectonic plate collisions. Forests and grasslands attested to the vibrant life below.
The radio cut through the hum of the engine and interrupted her reverie.
“Niner Two Golf Lima. This is Dabaan. Respond. Over,” said a gravelly voice with a heavy Russian accent.
Lessa switched to a private channel. “I’m on schedule.”
“Need you to arrive one hour sooner.”
“Unable. Full itinerary today.”
Dabaan sighed over the radio. Which was unnecessary. “Maybe bonus for early arrival?” The radio crackled. “Small bonus. Out.”
Nethersole Airways eked out a living transporting people, packages and mail. Lessa couldn’t imagine doing anything else. But the business was losing money. Her father’s accident had reduced Nethersole Airways to one pilot.
And delivery fees didn’t help. Postal service price caps didn’t even cover fuel costs because the Postmaster General didn’t know how planes worked in Alaska. So she’d fudged the numbers to get out of the red. The IRS had caught the discrepancy and handed her such a huge fine that she would have to sell her only plane.
The deal with Dabaan had been a lifeline. Hauling his cargo over the past year had brought in a lot of money. Almost enough to complete her down payment on a twin-engine Otter. The loan was signed. While the Beaver was a reliable old friend, the Otter would help convert her failing company into “Nethersole Air Adventures,” a boutique airline. With boutique prices. She fantasized about flying to the farthest corners of Alaska, to see the land and feel the air.
She’d met Dabaan in a bar in Galena over a year ago. He smelled bad and looked worse. Not particularly tall, he compensated with girth and a bad temper. He’d offered a lot of money for regular deliveries. She’d countered with double the price.
“No questions,” he’d said about the cargo.
“Nothing dangerous, ok? No drugs?” She had standards.
Every week after that, eight to ten boxes would appear neatly stacked behind her hangar, covered in an old tarp. She arranged her flights to end up in a clearing along the Kobuk River, near Noorvik, where she unloaded the heavy boxes onto his sled and he gave her an envelope stuffed with bills.
She once asked, jokingly, if the boxes were filled with gold. He shot her a jagged smile. “No questions.”
Titanic mountains poked holes in the clouds far ahead. There was a rawness to the land. Lessa never got tired of looking at it from any altitude.
#
Siksrik tugged on Lessa’s sleeve. “She’s in labor,” she said in Iñupiaq.
Lessa’s mom had been raised by Siksrik’s family and had learned Iñupiaq, so Lessa was somewhat fluent.
Meghan’s eyes were fixed on her feet. Everyone except Russell was bound for Gates of the Arctic. It would be faster to go there than divert to Kobuk.
Meghan tried to stifle a cry.
“Hang on, honey, she’s a fast plane.”
Lessa banked right.
“But, we’re almost at my cabin!” whined Russell.
“Gates isn’t far. You’ll only be a few hours late.”
“Drop me off here. I’ll walk.”
“Ok. Which way is north?”
Russell pointed east.
Lessa shook her head.
He pointed south.
Lessa opened up the throttle, climbed to smoother air and accelerated to top speed. Russell sulked.
The treeless land leading to the Gates was a sharp contrast to the patchy forests of the Kobuk Valley. Snow and dark brown earth marbled the valleys and foothills. It reminded Lessa of the cake her mom had made for her tenth birthday, chocolate and vanilla ribbons in each slice.
Her dad had taken her into the Gates to teach her how to handle a strong updraft. A year ago, he’d flown here to save some hikers caught in a blizzard, but then the big sky swallowed him up.
#
When they entered the valley leading to Anaktuvuk Pass, Lessa radioed ahead with Meghan’s condition, then announced, “Landing in five. Meghan, someone’s waiting to take you to the clinic.”
Russell gripped the seat so hard that Lessa worried he’d rip the upholstery.
Although the gravel runway was obscured by March’s heavy snowfall, it was no problem for the Beaver with its skis, so Lessa taxied easily to the fueling station.
The local medic whisked Meghan away in a banged-up truck.
Siksrik also deplaned. Lessa told her in Iñupiaq, “Sorry about the bumpy ride.”
Siksrik glanced at Russell then smiled at Lessa. She said in Iñupiaq, “This man reminds me of Iriqtaq.”
“Iriqtaq? But he’s polite.”
“Now he is. After grandfather took him on a long journey across the valley.”
“Grandfather was a little scary.”
“Oh, he liked you more than most.” Siksrik hugged Lessa, then handed her a ball of bright blue yarn. “For your mother. She’s making something for you. Tell her I’ll visit soon.” And she walked off towards town.
“We’re late,” said Russell.
“Plane needs fuel. Maybe you want a pitstop or a bite to eat?”
“There’s no inflight service?”
She pointed to a small metal-sided building with “Kitchen” hand-painted on the side in bright yellow paint. “Don’t get the chili.”
Their chili was amazing.
Russell dashed off, snowflakes stirring in his wake.
While the plane was refueling, Lessa pulled the lever between the seats to unlatch the cargo pod beneath the plane. Before securing the pod, she double-checked the ten heavily-wrapped cargo boxes. Together, they weren’t much larger than a suitcase, but they weighed five-hundred pounds. If it wasn’t gold, what was it?
A woman in heavy furs approached the plane on a snowmobile. Lessa opened the tail door and handed her packages and bundled mail. For some villages, air deliveries were the only reliable way to get supplies. “It’s getting cold,” said Lessa, in Iñupiaq.
The woman peered at the sky as if she saw more than just a few flakes in a field of blue. “Looks like a big storm,” she replied.
Weather reports hadn’t mentioned a storm, but local accounts were usually more accurate.
When Lessa got back in, Russell was already in his seat, devouring a sandwich.
He pointed to his printed schedule. “Step on it. Can’t miss the hunt.”
#
After takeoff, the radio crackled. Dabaan sounded impatient. “Lessa? Expecting you in one hour.”
Lessa switched the radio to private.
“Had a delay. Medical emergency.”
“Am very disappointed. Ten percent discount for me, every half hour late. Dabaan out.” There was a menace to his tone that she didn’t like.
Lessa increased speed even though it wasted fuel and made the ride choppy. Without Dabaan’s money she’d never get the Otter. But she didn’t trust him. He always met her alone, never let her see where he unloaded the boxes and never bothered to conceal the bulky handgun at his waist.
#
On the way to Russell’s cabin on Narvak Lake, dark clouds began to gather across their path. This was the kind of storm her dad had told her to avoid.
She climbed to eight thousand feet and altered course to skirt the edges of the storm. The clouds had already engulfed low peaks that should have been visible.
Halfway to Narvak Lake, a torrent blasted the left side of the plane. Ice crystals spread across the glass like spider webs. Lessa struggled to maintain course.
“Can’t you, like, climb higher?”
“You like oxygen?” said Lessa.
Another blast of wind shoved the right wing down hard, and the plane rolled. Lessa tugged back, only to be hit by a strong updraft which whipped the tail up, inverting the plane and stalling the engine.
The plane entered free fall. The sense of jumping off a ledge into nothing.
Lessa restarted the engine as she fought to level out.
“Pull up!” said Russell.
When she was training for her license, her dad had taken her up to ten thousand feet, nose-dived the plane, then let go and told her to take control. In panic, she’d pulled back too hard. Her dad had said, “Gently. What do your instruments say?” By focusing on the dash and not the swirling sky, she’d recovered.
The spinning altimeter showed they had dropped below one thousand feet. The Kobuk’s rocky foothills seemed to reach for them.
“Pull up pull up pull up,” Russell chanted.
Lessa was focused on the instruments so she didn’t notice Russell’s hand move to the slender, white lever between them.
After a few adjustments, the plane leveled out less than a hundred feet off the ground.
And then Russell pulled the lever.
“Idiot!” she screamed.
The cargo pod door released and caught the wind, dragging the plane towards the ground.
She was going to die. Like her father.
Her eyes darted to the little wolf figurine. Back to the horizon. She saw a small, flat patch of snow. It could work.
Her dad had made her practice quick landings over and over. “Breathe. Focus on where you want to stop,” he’d advised her.
One slow breath. In and out. She reduced power and slowed down. The cabin shuddered when the plane slammed into the snow, but the skis held as they skidded towards a frozen lake.
The ice looked thin, so Lessa banked hard.
Something thudded underneath the fuselage.
Finally, the skis dug into enough powder to stop the plane.
Lessa touched her fingers to the wolf carving and thanked the spirits for another safe landing.
She hissed at Russell, “Touch nothing!”
Russell looked at his shoes. “We were gonna crash.”
Lessa hopped out and examined the pod. At least the door was still attached. Russell’s big orange bag was gone. Worse, four of Dabaan’s boxes were missing.
She returned to the cabin and stuffed a flare gun into her jacket pocket.
“Come with me.”
Russell said, “It’s cold.”
She glared at him. Chubby, nearing forty. Reeking of cologne.
“I’m not asking.”
#
Lessa removed a sled from the rear of the plane and tossed a folded tarp into it. The strong breeze and increasing snowfall intensified the cold.
“We lost some cargo because of your little stunt.”
Several inches of powder had already accumulated on old, crunchy snow. Dragging the sled, Lessa chose her footsteps carefully.
Russell’s boots crashed through the snow as he tried to keep up.
Lessa followed a fresh trail slicing through the powder which led to one of the cargo boxes. She stacked it in the sled. One corner of the thick cardboard was gouged out, exposing something black and shiny. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it didn’t look like drugs. She covered it with the tarp.
Over a short hill, Russell’s bright orange bag and three more of Dabaan’s boxes jutted out of fresh snow.
In the middle of the goddamn lake.
The ice was probably thick enough. There was only so much bad luck in the world.
“Yours?” She pointed at the orange bag.
Russell nodded.
When they reached the edge of the lake, Lessa unloaded the single box from the sled. No reason to take extra weight onto the ice.
She looked into Russell’s eyes, trying to read him. “Look, I’m risking my life here. Those boxes contain valuable supplies. Is this bag essential?”
“Yes.”
“You can buy more clothes.”
“It’s my son’s birthday gift. He’s a man today.”
“Buy him another gift tomorrow. He’ll still be a man.”
“It’s an all-terrain wheelchair for hunting and fishing. He’s paraplegic.”
He seemed sincere. “Stay here.” She pointed down. “Right here. And hold this.” She handed him one end of a long rope and tied the other end around her ankle. “Do not let go.”
Fixating on the orange bag, she gently glided each foot across the surface of the lake, the sled in tow. The soft snow bunched up with each step. It was almost funny. She was tiptoeing across thin ice–certain death inches below–to pick up luggage.
Before she reached the bags, there was a splintering sound. She lay face down, barely breathing, heart thudding in her chest. When no sounds followed, she advanced cautiously, listening for any hint of another break.
Russell’s bag was closest, but it wouldn’t budge. She tugged harder and heard the ice layers grinding against each other. The bag had punctured the ice sheet and was now glued to the surface of the pond.
She pictured herself sinking to the bottom. Authorities returning her frozen body to her mother. Her epitaph: “Luggage over Life.”
She slid towards Dabaan’s boxes, avoiding the fragile ice around Russell’s bag. Each box had a carrying strap, but they were too heavy to tug. By rolling her body while holding a strap, she was able to lug one box into the sled as snowflakes stung her eyes and cold air battered her skin.
The last two boxes had also shattered the lake surface, revealing a sliver of dark water. When she neared them, the ice creaked. She grabbed the nearest strap and tried to roll over. She felt it more than saw it. The heavy box almost yanked her shoulder out of its socket. She let go as the box disappeared, swallowed by the black water, which quickly went still.
She roared in frustration.
The remaining box rested at the edge of the hole in the ice. She inched towards it until she could grasp the strap.
Russell’s bag was inches from her other hand. It teetered on the edge of the now widening gap. Water sloshed onto the ice with every maneuver.
She grabbed Russell’s bag.
A crackling sound preceded a hard yank from the box strap. The box must have been resting on a weak spot in the ice. It was falling in. She couldn’t hold it and Russell’s bag. A wheelchair for Russell’s kid. A kid who had no idea some idiot was face-down on a sheet of ice trying to decide between his wheelchair and a box worth thousands of dollars.
As the box plunged into the hole, she realized how much it sucked to be noble.
The lake offered only a muffled gurgle.
She retreated to solid ground, adding the box she’d left on shore to the sled.
Russell said, “Thanks. That was really brave.”
He appeared to be on the verge of tears, but maybe it was just the cold air.
“Yep. Let’s go.”
Without being asked, Russell tugged the sled all the way back to the plane.
Once they were back in the air, Lessa radioed Dabaan on the private channel. “Be there in two hours.”
Dabaan responded. “My discount is now fifty percent. And, ass is freezing. You get here soon.”
Russell was uncharacteristically quiet as Lessa flew the turbulent air to his cabin on Narvak Lake.
After she dropped him off, she sped to the little clearing on the north bank of the Kobuk River.
Dabaan’s snowmobile rounded an icy hill and parked near the cargo pod. Lessa unloaded eight boxes into the snowmobile’s sled.
Dabaan frowned at the boxes. Scratched his chin. “Missing two.”
“Yeah, they’re gone.”
“We get them now. People I deal with, don’t want to disappoint.”
“Look around you. This is Alaska. There are no guarantees.”
“Hmm. Maybe bullet to head ok with you?” He scratched his ample belly, covered by a dingy sweater stretched to its limits.
“Jesus, Dabaan. You said none of this was dangerous!”
“Was referring to cargo. Not client.” He hopped on the snowmobile. “I make call.”
“Dabaan–” she started to say.
But he was already banking the vehicle around the hill.
Snowflakes landed on her jacket and didn’t melt. The day was fading, the temperature was dropping.
She could fly away now and never come back. Ditch the plane. Become a different person. Hide. No more family, no more friends, no more Bush flying.
Tired of waiting, she followed Dabaan’s tracks around the hill.
And stumbled against something heavy.
A crate, wedged into a crevice at the base of the hill, obscured by snow and covered by a tarp.
She drew back the tarp.
Three cargo boxes stared up at her. They were heavily iced over, meaning they’d been stowed here for a while.
Was Dabaan skimming from his boss? A few shots of the boxes with her phone might give her some leverage. Despite the snowfall, the satellite signal was good enough to send the photos to her mom. She prayed her mom wouldn’t read her email until she could explain it.
Resolved to end their arrangement for good, she continued around the hill and approached Dabaan. He stood on the riverbank where his pontoon boat was moored, his back to her. He gesticulated as he shouted into his phone in Russian. He sounded irritated. He was always irritated. She wondered why anyone put up with him. Why did she?
“We need to talk.”
He sighed and said something into his phone before hanging up.
“Scary boss.” He pocketed his phone. “Is your scary boss, too.”
“Not anymore. I delivered eight boxes. Two thou apiece. Pay me sixteen and then fuck off.”
“Funny. Boss says you work for free. Rest of year. Then, business as usual.”
“If I don’t pay my fines in a few months, my plane’s gone. No plane, no boxes! Get it?”
“So. We become partners. I help with plane, you work little longer. Is good plan.”
“Uh-uh. Is bad plan. Pay up.”
Dabaan shook his head.
“Would your boss be interested in this?” She showed him the pictures of his box stash on her phone.
Dabaan drew his gun so fast she didn’t have time to react.
He pointed at her phone. “Give me. You take boss’s offer. And your friends, your family, they stay safe.”
Adrenaline coursed through her limbs. It was unnerving staring into the killing end of a gun, but she forced herself to stand in place. He needed her or he’d have already shot her. “Too late. I sent the photos to a friend.” Lessa pocketed the phone.
His face contorted. Feverish. Desperate. Like a wolf she’d accidentally cornered on a hike when she was a girl.
And then her fingers found the flare gun, heavy and warm in her jacket pocket. She’d forgotten it was there. A red fireball erupted through the fabric before she realized what she was doing.
The blast seared Dabaan’s arm and chest. He howled and dropped his gun as he fell on his back.
Lessa suddenly felt lightheaded. Her arm ached. She was shaking.
She almost apologized.
But when Dabaan reached for his gun, she kicked it away, then rummaged through his pockets until she found his phone. And the envelope of cash he usually gave her after a delivery.
She copied what she hoped was the number of Dabaan’s boss into her phone and withdrew her payment for eight boxes. She shoved the envelope back into his pocket.
“Thief,” he said.
“Nope, exact payment. Our partnership is over. You don’t come near me or my friends. Ever.”
He tried to get up but each attempt ended in an anguished growl. Like a bear who couldn’t get into a food canister.
She took the snowmobile to her plane, shut the door and started the engine. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely operate the controls.
The flare gun had been an accident. Hadn’t it? Despite his threats, she’d only wanted him to back off.
When the plane reached cruising altitude, she relaxed a little. A tingling began spreading from her hand to her wrist.
Then something trickled down her arm.
She peeled off her jacket and almost lost control of the plane.
Blood soaked her sleeve. Tenderly, she rolled it back. There was an ugly dark red splotch just above her elbow. Dabaan’s gun must have fired, lacerating her skin.
Several clinics were in range, and the plane’s first aid kit had gauze and pain meds.
She’d survive.
Would Dabaan? He might be too injured to operate his boat. Maybe no one else knew where he was. Probably no one else cared.
Her father’s body had been frozen solid by the time they found him.
What about Dabaan? He was an odious man. Alaska would tuck him into a little nook and the world would be better for it.
The wolf carving on the dash stared at her.
“I am not going back.”
The wolf’s eyes were relentless.
“He shot me!”
And I shot him.
Ten minutes later, she turned around.
Dabaan was still lying on his back, perspiring and looking vacantly into the sky.
Moving him wasn’t easy, but she eventually wrestled his body into the passenger seat. He was able to swallow a few aspirin.
“Don’t bleed on my upholstery.”
She flew for an hour as Dabaan breathed raggedly, delirious.
When they were close to Kotzebue, a settlement which had a small clinic, she woke him up.
“Here’s what I’m thinking. You never tell your boss exactly how many boxes I deliver.”
He kept a blank face.
She nudged his shoulder. “Yes?”
He nodded.
“So your little stash can fulfill the shipment.”
He scowled.
“I quit. I ever see you again, your boss gets a special delivery.”
#
Once Dabaan was in the clinic’s care, she flew to the next town and got nine stitches from a medic who worked out of the back of a general store.
“It’ll leave a scar.”
On the flight home, the breath of the Kobuk valley cradled her little plane. The skies and the wild land below were all hers as long as she was up here.
She focused on her breathing.
In.
Out.
*
Kyle Wagner lives in a coastal town where he and his wife explore life above, at and below sea level. He has attended workshops and classes at the Taos/Santa Fe Summer Writers’ Conference, Gotham Writers, and Madison Writers’ Studio. His work has been published in Flash Fiction Magazine. He stockpiles chocolate because it is essential to life and can only be found on this planet.
New Critique 