Expect the Sunrise (8 page)

Andee tried to control her rising emotions. “
You
listen. Believe it or not, I know what I’m doing, and I promise we’ll figure everything out after I take care of our basic needs.”

McRae raised one cocky eyebrow.

She stood and brushed past him.

“Our basic needs are to get out of here,” Ishbane growled.

“I don’t know if anyone heard my Mayday,” Andee continued. “But the ELT should be working, and any plane flying nearby should hear it. When we don’t show up in Prudhoe Bay by nightfall, they’ll come looking for us.”

“Nightfall?” Flint’s voice seemed strained. He needed pain medication. “We might need to spend the night here?”

“Aye. Maybe a few nights,” said a voice behind her.

Andee whirled and met McRae’s grim expression. “If you’ll just trust me, I promise I’ll do my best to get us out of here. But we need to work together. And you need to listen to me. One thing at a time.”

Something flickered in McRae’s eyes as he dragged his gaze over her, a look that told her just what he thought of her ordering him around.
Well, get used to it, laddie, because as far as I know, there is no one else driving this ship.
She alone was responsible for keeping them alive.

Andee shook her head and crouched to open the bag. “At best, we’ll spend the night here. Worst-case scenario has us hiking out.” She glanced at Sarah. “Then again, depending on where we are, I could start now for Wiseman or Disaster and maybe bring back help. It might be faster than waiting on the ELT.”

McRae knelt in front of her. “Are you talking to me? Because you’re mumbling.”

A blush burned her face. She did that—thought out loud in a low mumble. Sometimes even answered herself. It helped to get a couple different perspectives sometimes. She raised her voice. “I have two bags, enough provisions for six, plus tarps and blankets. We need to gather as many supplies as we can—”

“But there are seven of us!” Ishbane said. “There isn’t enough food—”

“Well, the girl isn’t eating, is she? She’ll probably die—” Nina looked at Andee. “I’m sorry.” She put a hand over her mouth. “I’m really sorry … I didn’t mean …”

“Sarah’s not going to die. No one is going to die,” Andee said tightly.

She didn’t know how to read the silence of the passengers as they watched her. She returned to the duffel bag and noticed her hands shook, just enough to betray the adrenaline that filled her veins. More than all of them, she longed to believe her own words.

Mac noticed that Emma’s movements seemed quick, jerky, as if she was trying to hold back the emotions that he’d heard in her voice. She may be small and seem well-attuned to emergency situations, but he noticed the tremor leaking out in her hands.

He had to admire a person who pushed past her fear and took command of a situation. Only he should be the one in charge. He had survival training and had spent too many nights in the bush to remember. With her cute curly hair, her freckles, her lithe form, Emma looked like a city slicker who’d signed up for an Alaskan summer-flight internship.

And she talked to herself. He couldn’t decide if that was unnerving or attractive. For now, he’d find it intriguing. Informative. And just for the record, all he’d wanted was an assurance that she hadn’t forgotten an important aspect to their survival—namely turning on the ELT. Was a straight answer such a problem?

Lightning flashed, followed by another peal of thunder. This late in the year, he expected snow, but then again maybe it would be icy rain.

Spending the night on this mountain, soaking wet and cold, sounded like the perfect way to spend the first day of his vacation, pondering his future.
Oh, joy.

He watched as Emma pulled out supplies from her emergency kits. A signal mirror, whistles, a multi-tool knife, a compass, waterproof matches, a flint-style fire starter, tinder, and a survival candle.

He picked up a roll of wire. “What’s this?”

“A snare wire,” she said without looking at him. “In case we have to catch our food.”

He envisioned a field mouse dangling on the other end and made a face. “Let me help you.”

She faced him, surprise in her eyes. “Okay, lay these out in piles so we can assess what we have.”

Precisely what he’d have done. Or maybe he’d already be leading them in a hike out of these mountains, heading south. With the ELT tucked under his arm. They came with batteries and a remote transmitter.

Except for the basic desire to sleep in a warm bed, exactly what did he have to hurry home to? His brother’s grave? Awaking each morning to the choking weight of failure? Maybe he should be joining Ishbane with chills and feelings of doom. He should step aside and let Ms. Pilot Extraordinaire do her thing. Especially if he wasn’t planning on being an FBI agent anymore anyway. No need for heroics.

She added a flashlight and four chemical light sticks to the pile, then a tarp, two space blankets, a spiral of climbing rope, a bag of climbing paraphernalia, two ponchos, a pair of gloves, and sunscreen.

“You seem prepared,” Mac commented.

She said nothing and added a thermal cap and two pairs of wool socks and a couple packets of chemical hand warmers.

“Were you planning on crashing?”

She stopped, and he instinctively braced himself. “Yeah, absolutely because I think it is oh so fun to be out here, my friend seriously injured, the responsibility of six people on my shoulders. I do it for kicks—take passengers out with the promise to get them to their destination safely, and then I purposely crash the plane. Actually I’m writing a book on psychological responses to stress. Consider yourself a test subject.”

“Sorry … I was joking.”

“Not funny. We’re in a world of trouble here, Mr. McRae, and my one thought is making sure no one dies. So, please, help or get out of the way.”

“You’re not in the least interested in anyone else’s ideas? On what we should do to get out of here?”

She actually frowned at him, an expression of confusion that he would have thought funny if she wasn’t so serious. “Yeah, sure. This is a committee. What do you think we should do, McRae? Fish? Hike? Maybe sing camp songs?”

He held up his hands. “Sorry. I just thought maybe we could talk about what we need to do.”

“We will—after we figure out how bad the situation is.” She sighed, and he saw her shoulders sag a little. “I’m sorry, McRae. I know you’re trying to help. Right now, just sit down and try to stay warm. I promise I’ll take care of you.”

Whoa.
No one had ever said that to him before with such seriousness. He felt like a first-grader, outside in his shirtsleeves during a fire drill. Everything inside him simply stilled, confused. He’d never
not
taken charge, and he didn’t do helpless. Never had.

Still, he could see stress shimmer off this woman, and while he’d had his doubts about her abilities, she did appear to have her wits about her, even if she did wear her prickly side out. Besides, he was on vacation, not responsible for anyone, right?

“Call me if you need me.” He sat beside her, watching, wrestling with his ego. He had nothing to prove to anyone.

She pulled out a canister of water, four survival bars, a packet of coffee, a pot, a mini-stove, and a metal canister with what he assumed held camp gas. She sat back, her hands on her legs. “Oh no.”

“What?” From his first glance, it seemed she’d brought everything but his aunt Brenna’s canning kettle.

“I thought I’d packed a tent.” She put a hand to her forehead, then absently ran her fingers along the bruise. “What was I thinking?”

For a moment, past the can-do attitude and the snippy way she’d drawn the line in the sand, he recognized regret. The expression that said
why am I so stupid?
zeroed in on a tender place inside him and squeezed.
Wow. Okay, just breathe through it.
Regret did that—snuck up on him when he least expected it.

Thankfully he was a lifetime away from his job now. The plane crash felt like an abrupt dividing line between the man he’d been—pushed by his job, his goals, his duty—and the man he might be if he gave it all up.

Nobody. Just another dazed passenger emphasized by the way Emma talked to him. He was a guy with a future hauling in salmon or crab fishing on the open sea. Although he respected his sisters’ husbands for their choices and hard work, something inside him had wanted more. To save the world evidently.

In the end, those hopes had only gotten his brother killed. He didn’t know how he expected to face that grief. Or recover and go on doing his job.

Maybe if he finally faced Andy MacLeod and demanded some answers from the pilot, he might begin healing. Maybe he’d quit the bureau, find a wife, start a family. It seemed like a goal Brody might smile at from the heavens above.

His new life could start right now, right here. Learning to live in the shadow. Learning to take orders. Learning to survive, not conquer. Learning to dodge the pain and settle into the cold, dead landscape that was his heart.

Most of all, learning how to exorcise from his life this burden that hovered—more than worry or regret over his choices—the weight of
responsibility
. The fear that if he didn’t get it right … then who would?

Not
him
. Not anymore. He should keep that thought paramount, especially now.

Emma pushed herself to her feet. “Everyone, listen to me. We need to get to shelter before the storm breaks. Then we’ll figure out where we are and what to do next. Did anyone bring a tent?”

Silence.

Emma winced. “All right, then we need to find shelter.”

“What about the plane?” Ishbane asked. He still held his nose although it had stopped bleeding. Mac noticed him shaking slightly.

Emma must have seen it also, for she grabbed one of her emergency blankets and draped it over his shoulders. “We can’t go back into the plane until we know it’s safe. With all the leaking fuel … well, I don’t feel comfortable. Besides, if it starts to snow, we could get snowed under, store up carbon monoxide, and suffocate. Not only that, but it’s liable to get cold tonight—really cold. And the plane won’t keep us warm enough—”

“What if we build a fire inside?”

Emma closed her eyes, as if drawing patience from some deep well.

Mac shook his head. Apparently no one besides him had taken basic chemistry. Spark plus fuel equals big bang. Maybe someone should say that aloud a few times.

Emma sighed. “It would be better to find a cave or construct a shelter.”

Standing there, her hands balled in her pockets, she looked every inch the Scottish lass, her face into the brutal wind as she gazed out onto the Highlands.

What a dunderhead! He was starting to think like his father, who still had pieces of his heart back in the old country. Mac and his siblings had grown up on tales of famous Scottish heroes like Robert the Bruce and Mary, Queen of Scots. This pilot reminded him of Flora MacDonald, a heroine of the eighteenth century. Resourceful and feisty, she dressed an English prince as her maid and helped him escape the clutches of his family’s rule.

Just like this lady might help them escape the clutches of hypothermia.

As if reading his mind, Emma turned and caught his attention. “See what you can find from the debris. Anything. A tarp, a sleeping bag, clothing, rope. Even books. We can use them to start a signal fire.”

The wind picked at the litter, sending papers scattering. Mac walked out into the debris field, found the cover to the belly pod and another sleeping bag. He noticed books fluttering and wondered who among them was the reader. He picked up one that lay open, its torn pages fluttering.
Last of the Breed
by Louis L’Amour. Yes, they might need that one for reference if they hoped to find their way out of here. Despite what Emma had said about the ELT working, he saw a long hike in their immediate future.

More papers blew at his feet, and he stomped on them to keep them in place. They crinkled under his feet, and a torn corner caught his eye. A map. He leaned down, picked it up, and stared at it. He recognized the Trans-Alaska Pipeline System quickly, having memorized the area. Three points were circled in red.

Realization came slowly. The circled areas were weak points in the pipeline, the places due for overhaul. Places where a saboteur might place a bomb or two, enough to blow the line. Horror dried his mouth.
No.