Ice Reich (2 page)

Ramona, you're a hard-luck case even when you're dead.

There! A ribbon colored white and lead-gray, leading into a knot of storm. Hart banked and began following the river. It led to a gap in the foothills and he pressed on, five hundred feet above the John. The water was unfrozen and low at this time of year. Its exposed bars had turned white with snow flurries.

The air had stabilized since he'd crossed the edge of the storm but light and visibility continued to fade, leaving him in a box of cotton. He dipped lower toward the broad gravel channel, snaking the plane and sensing more than seeing the squeeze of enclosing hills. Still no Anaktuvuk. Ivan was whimpering, his toenails skittering as he scraped for purchase in the bucking plane. "Dog," said Hart, "I think we'd better put down."

He'd been foolish not to do so earlier, he realized. The fog of snow had cost him the ability to judge exactly how close he was to the ground, increasing the possibility he'd slam into it when he tried to land. He needed a dark log to serve as reference point but had left all trees behind. He was in a developing whiteout, the same effective blindness he'd feared in Antarctica. "A sane man would have fled to Brazil," he chided himself, not for the first time.

If he could drop a reference marker from the plane he could judge his approach to the ground. Something big, something colorful, something... red.

Ramona's blanket was red.

He debated it for only a moment. Crashing would do her no better good— she'd be chewed up if the undercarriage broke and the plane skidded down on top of her— and the snow might cushion her fall. She was beyond caring, wasn't she? The only danger seemed to be the possibility of angry relatives if she was busted up too much. Right now they seemed less threatening than the unyielding flank of a mountain.

Banking as steeply as he could, he turned downriver, anxiously watching a snow slope solidify off his wing tip. Then he continued turning until he was pointing north again, satisfied he could maintain that orbit. There was a gravel bar below, far superior to boggy tundra for a landing. He unlatched the plane door and pushed it open against a shriek of wind and cold, holding it with his leg. Leaning out, one hand on the stick as he circled, he began tugging at the slipknots that held Ramona in place. Ivan kept up a low, rumbling moan.

Hart clung to a fistful of blanket. At the point where the John's channels joined, he let go. Ramona slumped, the wind caught her, and she was gone.

The Stinson bounced upward and circled. There! The red blanket was bright as a cherry against the snow, closer than he'd imagined: nervously, he pulled up a few feet. Then he aimed for her cigar-shaped form, wanting his undercarriage to touch just past her. Flaps down, power reduced, he glided down, fighting small gusts. The heavily laden plane was sluggish. He aimed as if to ram her and then hopped over Ramona at the last minute, striking the bar beyond. The plane bounced once, twice, set down, stumbled over a rock, began to slow. He'd made it!

Then it all went wrong. The right wheel banged into a snow-hidden hole and shattered, a wing tip caught, and the plane jerked sideways, pivoting out of control. The propeller chewed into gravel and disintegrated, one piece cracking the windshield. The engine screamed, coughed, died. And then it should have been quiet except that Ivan was barking excitedly. Hart blinked. He'd been thrown onto the control panel. Cargo had lurched forward to occupy the space where his head had been and he reached up to shove it back.

The plane was awkwardly tilted. He popped open the door on the elevated side, pushed clear, and dropped to the wet, snow-dusted ground, sweating. He sat a minute on the hard gravel and then stood unsteadily and backed off to survey the damage. His propeller had become two wooden stumps. One wing was crumpled. The wheels and struts were gone and if Ramona had still been strapped on she'd have been crushed. His plane was finished, and so was he. He had no money to repair the damage, and, after this, precious little reputation to get a loan.

"Damn, damn, damn." The world was a white blur of gusting snow. He assumed he was near Anaktuvuk but had no idea how far. There was no real danger, he thought: the storm would soon blow over this time of year. He'd just have to wait.

He dug out his parka and some jerky, throwing a bit to the dog. Then he sat in the cockpit.
Jesus!
Well, he could still probably find a flying job in the Lower 48, running a mail route and going crazy from boredom. Or he could chuck the whole business and stay up here and fish. To hell with it. To hell with everything.

A low growl from Ivan prodded Hart from sleep. The dog had its nose up: it sensed something, or maybe smelled it. The light was dim and the pilot peered into the thinning snow, trying to spot what the husky was so uneasy about. Then the curtain of flakes shifted and a huge shape ambled along the edge of the bar. Grizzly!

The bear's cinnamon coat was flecked with snow, the muscles of its neck and back rippling along its hump. Hart groped behind his seat for his sheathed Winchester .30-.30 and levered a shell into the rifle's chamber. The bear took no notice of the click. Then Ivan began barking excitedly and the grizzly's muzzle came up, not so much fearful as puzzled. Slowly it put its nose down and began ambling casually downriver, as if to retreat without admitting it. Hart glanced around the cockpit. The airplane's metal skin suddenly seemed not only cold, but thin. He was relieved the bear had moved on.

Then he remembered Ramona. Of all the luck! It would be less than easy to explain to the village of Anaktuvuk Pass that not only had he used one of its natives as an aerial bomb, he'd allowed her to be devoured by a wild animal as well. Death had not robbed her claim for final decency. He'd have to go get her.

He climbed out of the plane with the Winchester at the ready and began walking back toward Ramona's body, his skin prickling with unease. The grizzly's tracks were huge, like dinner plates with claws. Soon the Stinson was invisible in the fog behind him and he began to turn around periodically, looking for stalking bear. The rush of the river hid all other noise and he couldn't smell or see a thing. Perhaps his own scent would scare the animal off, letting him retrieve the body in peace. "Bear!" he shouted, to encourage the animal to continue on its way. The noise seemed inconsequential.

He saw the grizzly before he saw Ramona. It was a twitching boulder at the limit of his vision, bent over the red blanket and working at the body with a massive paw. He waited to see if the animal might lose interest but the grizzly showed no sign of doing so. Slowly he raised the rifle up, its stock cold against his cheek, and fired deliberately a few feet to the right of the bear's muzzle, watching splinters of gravel fly. Its head jerked up in surprise, grunting.

"Go away, bear!" Hart shouted, without much hope.

He fired again past the animal's head, the bullet kicking up a splash in the river. Rather than flee, the grizzly snarled and reared up on its hind legs, trying to make out this intruder with its dim eyesight. The pilot waited to see if the animal would charge or run, meanwhile sliding replacement shells into the chamber.

Then the bear attacked.

Hart was nearly certain he saw a ripple in the grizzly's shoulder where the first shot struck home, but the animal didn't slow at all. Roaring, it devoured the intervening space between them in a few heartbeats, the beast a wall of furred fury that swelled to consume all of the pilot's vision. He levered and fired, levered and fired, levered and fired, nightmarishly without seeming effect, praying that the bucking Winchester wouldn't jam. There was a click, a signal the last shell was gone, the bear was close enough to smell... and then it abruptly collapsed as if someone had jerked a string and its bones had melted to hot wax. The grizzly crashed and slid, groaning, its angry muzzle exhaling one last cloud of steaming air. Then it was still.

Hart went to Ramona. It was difficult to tell which damage had been done by the fall and which by the bear. The blanket was filthy and half unwrapped, a dangling arm scuffed or bitten. Kneeling, he folded the arm back inside and re-covered the body, retying the ropes holding the shroud in place. Then, hoisting the deadweight over his shoulder, he staggered slowly back to the plane.

The husky was scratching to get out. Hart let him, to stand guard, and then pushed Ramona into the cockpit and clambered in beside her. He'd refused to do this in Fairbanks but now the body didn't bother him.
Still comforting lonely men.
Cradling the rifle in his arms and carefully leaning against the opposite door of the plane, he dozed. This time he didn't dream.

* * *

He woke to a brilliant morning. The overcast was breaking up and the sun blazed with enough heat to make the snow sweat. He climbed out stiffly, drank from the river, and chewed on a piece of jerky. No bears were to be seen, or anything else for that matter. The treeless whiteness of the scene made him think of the moon and he tried to guess how far it was to Anaktuvuk. The natives knew he was due the day before and radios would be crackling back and forth.

Prudence suggested waiting so long as snowmelt didn't push up the John River. He watched the old dog trot down the sandbar, sniff at the bear, and then come quickly back to settle down under the broken wing of the plane. In clearing weather Hart felt even stupider for having crashed his Stinson. He should have turned back to Fairbanks or Bettles, Ramona or no.

He joined the dog and dozed again, then woke shortly after noon to the sound of an engine. A plane! It came up valley out of the south, the glint of metal growing. Karl Popper's orange and silver bush plane, by the look of it. It roared low over the sandbar and circled once, a passenger peering out the side window, and then went on toward Anaktuvuk.

Popper would put down at the village and walk in with the Eskimos to fetch Hart and the cargo. The pilot waited. Clouds drifted in again, first white and then gray. The sun was shut away, the air cooled and rain began to spatter down. Uneasily, he noticed that the river had come up almost a foot with the warming weather. The bar had shrunk and the willows on the far shores were starting to be tugged by the rising current. If he waited too long it would be too high to ford. He wished the Eskimos would show up.

It started raining harder, washing away the thin snow. Hart crouched under the wing, considering. Finally he decided to cross over and start walking up the valley. He was getting awfully hungry anyway.

The rifle went over his shoulder again and the remaining jerky in a pocket. Then he picked up Ramona. The feeling of unwanted responsibility was beginning to be replaced by the companionship of shared experience. She was now too stiff to drape over his other shoulder and so he had to carry her rigid form in his arms, like a log. "You're gaining weight," he said with a grunt.

After crossing the river, he'd gone only a few hundred yards when Ivan let out a low growl. Another grizzly? Hart set Ramona down carefully and unshouldered his rifle. The brush ahead of him moved. He levered a fresh shell into the chamber and aimed.

"Are you already so hungry that I look like food to you?" a voice called out. Shrouded in furs, a figure emerged from the brush and slogged toward him. Two others followed farther behind.

Hart lowered his rifle. "I thought you might be a bear."

"Ah, a white man," the Eskimo said. "When they come to hunt, nothing is safe. I hide in Anaktuvuk." He put his arms up over his face in mock fear.

"I'm hauling cargo, not hunting," Hart said sheepishly. He told the Eskimo his name.

"Isaac Alatak," the Eskimo replied. "And I'm told by Mr. Popper you've stopped hauling and started hunting, judging by what he saw from his airplane. Is not one bear enough for you?"

Hart accepted the inevitable ribbing. "More than enough."

The second man caught up to them. "I've heard of dedicated sportsmen, but cracking your plane up to get at a grizzly is a bit much, Hart." It was Popper. "I think you need another hobby."

"Or another career. Thanks for coming to fetch me, Karl."

"Well, I was paid. For a change." He jerked his head toward the third figure.

That other man hung back a few steps and said nothing, preferring to observe the soaked pilot.

"I'm bringing a body to Anaktuvuk," Hart said. "Ramona Umiat. She died of TB." He pointed to the form lying in the mud at his feet. Startled, he saw part of the blanket had unwrapped again and her arm had once more come free. "She's had a rough time, I'm afraid."

The Eskimo squatted down and touched the still form. Then he crossed himself. "What have you done with my sister, white man?"

Hart winced at the relationship. "I'm sorry. I got caught in the storm. Couldn't make the village."

The Eskimo looked mournfully at the battered body. "Foolish day to fly in, white man. Foolish time for such a sacred responsibility. You need to learn caution. Always the white man is in such a hurry."

Hart opened his mouth, then said nothing.

"I don't think Mr. Hart crashed on purpose," the third man said. Hart was surprised. From the tone of his voice it was obvious he was not Eskimo, or American either. He had a German accent. "Perhaps he was prudent enough not to fly your sister into a mountainside.
Sprechen sie Deutsch,
Hart?"

"Some, from my youth," the pilot replied in German. "I grew up in a German settlement in Montana."

"Yes, I've checked your ancestry," the stranger said, continuing in German.

The reply gave Hart pause. "And you are... German? You come here to climb?" Sometimes krauts came to Alaska for the mountains. They were nuts for mountains.

"An opportunity," the stranger replied. "I'd planned to contact you in Fairbanks but you'd just left. Despite the weather. A decision that seems counter to your reputation."

"Reputation?"

"Antarctica."

There was silence a moment. "The weather was fine when I left," Hart said. "When you fly you have to make decisions."

"I respect that," the stranger said.