Chapter 5 - BURIED
Snow does not feel soft when several thousand pounds of it stops on your chest.
It feels like concrete.
My right arm was pinned beneath me.
My left hand had maybe six inches of movement.
My knees were trapped at an angle that told me trying to force them would waste oxygen.
I could hear Kwon shouting somewhere above or beside me.
Distance was impossible to judge through packed snow.
"WHITEOUT!"
I forced air into the small pocket in front of my mouth.
"Here."
The word came out weak.
"Say again!"
"Here!"
A probe punched through the snow two inches from my cheek.
Cold air rushed into the cavity.
I almost laughed from relief.
"Got her!"
Ramirez's voice.
Then digging.
Fast.
Controlled.
No panicked shoveling into my face.
My team knew what they were doing.
While they worked, my left hand stayed pressed against the phone buried beside me.
The screen had gone dark again.
I could still feel its smooth edge beneath my glove.
"Another person beside me."
I coughed the words.
"Right side."
Kwon answered.
"Beacon?"
"Don't know."
"Alive?"
"Unknown."
The snow loosened around my shoulders.
A glove grabbed my harness.
Ramirez cleared my airway completely.
"Breathe."
"Working on it."
"Any pain?"
"Everything."
"Helpful."
"You're welcome."
They freed my left arm first.
I immediately reached back into the hole.
My fingers found the phone.
I pulled it out and shoved it into my chest pocket.
Ramirez noticed.
"Souvenir?"
"Evidence."
His eyebrows rose.
"Of course it is."
Two minutes later I was out.
Kwon checked my pupils.
"You good?"
"Yes."
"That answer is automatic."
"Then why ask?"
"Because occasionally you surprise me."
I stood.
My right ankle protested.
Not broken.
Probably bruised.
"Find the other burial."
Beck already had a probe line working.
The avalanche had not been enormous, but it was deep enough to kill anyone without a beacon.
Our own transmitters made us easy to locate.
The stranger's did not.
That bothered me.
"No signal from him?"
I asked.
Beck shook his head.
"Nothing."
"Then grid it."
We probed.
Three minutes passed.
Four.
Time under avalanche snow is measured differently.
Every minute is a negotiation with oxygen.
At six minutes, Kwon hit something.
"Strike."
We dug.
A black sleeve appeared.
Then a shoulder.
Then a hooded head.
Ramirez cleared the face.
Victor Hale stared up at us with terrified gray eyes.
He was alive.
Barely.
"Easy."
Ramirez checked his airway.
Hale grabbed my sleeve with surprising strength.
"Don't let Bell get it."
"Get what?"
"The report."
His eyes moved to my jacket.
He had seen me take the phone.
"You have it."
"Your phone?"
"Yes."
"Why were you running?"
Hale coughed hard.
"Thought you were him."
I looked at Kwon.
"Grant Bell?"
Hale nodded.
"He followed me from the wreck."
"Why?"
"Because I copied the test records."
"What test records?"
His breathing became ragged.
Ramirez put oxygen under his nose.
"Slow down."
Hale shook his head.
"No time."
"There is time if you stay alive."
I crouched closer.
"Victor, did the NX-41 cause the crash?"
His eyes locked onto mine.
"Yes."
The word was quiet.
Certain.
"How do you know?"
"Because it failed exactly the way we told them it would."
Wind tore through the trees above us.
I barely heard him.
"Who is we?"
"Engineering group."
"Northstar?"
"Yes."
"You reported the defect?"
"Three times."
"When?"
"Last winter."
"What happened?"
He laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
"They changed the report."
My pulse slowed.
"Who changed it?"
Hale closed his eyes.
"Bell."
"Grant Bell altered a safety report?"
"He signed the revised test package."
"Why would you both be on this flight?"
"Field validation."
"For the same system?"
"Yes."
That was insane.
If Hale was telling the truth, Northstar had put two people who knew about a disputed cold-weather fuel system aboard an aircraft using that system.
"Did Bell cause the aircraft to go down?"
Hale opened his eyes.
"I don't know."
That answer sounded more credible than certainty.
"What happened before impact?"
"Pressure warning."
"Which side?"
"Left."
"Then?"
"Fuel smell."
"Then?"
"Pilot tried to divert."
"And?"
"Power dropped."
He swallowed.
"We hit the slope."
Ramirez checked his fingers.
"He needs to move."
"One more question."
I leaned closer.
"Why did you leave the survivors?"
Hale looked ashamed.
"Bell saw me with the phone."
"What did he do?"
"Tried to take it."
"Physically?"
"Yes."
"Did anyone see?"
"Miller."
"Then why didn't Miller stop you?"
Hale stared at me.
"He tried."
My stomach tightened.
"Tried?"
"Bell hit him."
Every muscle in Kwon's face changed.
"With what?"
"Radio battery."
"Where?"
"Head."
I grabbed my radio.
"Miller, Whiteout."
Static.
"Miller, answer."
Nothing.
I looked at Beck.
"Beacon?"
"Dead."
"Emergency frequency?"
"Nothing."
I stood.
"We move now."
Ramirez pointed at Hale.
"He can't keep our pace."
"Then we make our pace his pace."
Kwon pulled out a compact rescue tarp.
"Drag sled."
"Do it."
Within four minutes Hale was wrapped, secured, and moving behind us.
I carried his phone inside my jacket where the battery stayed warm.
The uploaded file bothered me.
If the upload had completed, where had it gone?
Cloud storage?
Email?
A journalist?
A federal investigator?
Northstar?
I wanted answers.
The mountain did not care.
Our priority remained the living.
We climbed.
The avalanche had erased part of the route.
We detoured through timber.
The slope steepened.
Every twenty steps, Ramirez checked Hale.
Every five minutes, I tried Miller.
No answer.
Forty minutes later, we saw the first wreckage.
A piece of aluminum protruded from the snow beneath a pine.
Then a section of interior panel.
Then luggage.
The aircraft had hit hard enough to scatter debris across nearly two hundred yards.
I raised my fist.
Team stopped.
"Fuel smell."
Kwon nodded.
It was faint but unmistakable.
"No open flame."
"Copy."
"No unnecessary electronics near pooling fuel."
"Copy."
We moved uphill.
The main fuselage appeared through snow.
It had come to rest against a rock outcrop with the nose crushed and left wing partly separated.
The tail sat thirty yards downhill.
A small red light blinked inside it.
The beacon.
On.
Off.
Four seconds.
Seven seconds.
On.
Off.
Beck stared.
"Still cycling."
Hale lifted his head from the sled.
"Bell did that."
I crouched.
"How?"
"Test mode."
"Why?"
"To burn the battery."
That was a clever way to make a beacon look damaged while gradually killing it.
"Can he disable it completely?"
"Yes."
"Then why didn't he?"
Hale looked toward the wreck.
"Because a dead beacon immediately looks suspicious."
That answer was chillingly logical.
I keyed my radio.
"Miller."
Nothing.
We approached the rock shelf.
I saw three people first.
Dunn knelt over the pilot.
Mercer sat with his back against the rock, one arm wrapped around his ribs.
Price was lying beneath an emergency blanket.
Then I saw Miller.
He was on his side ten feet away.
Blood had frozen along his temple.
"Noah."
His eyes opened.
For one second he looked confused.
Then he smiled weakly.
"Took you long enough."
Relief hit so hard I almost got angry.
"You look terrible."
"You always say the sweetest things."
Ramirez dropped beside him.
"Pupils unequal?"
Dunn answered.
"Slightly earlier. Better now."
"Loss of consciousness?"
"Maybe ninety seconds."
"Vomiting?"
"Once."
Ramirez looked at me.
Possible brain injury.
We needed extraction.
Now.
"Where is Bell?"
I asked.
Miller's expression changed.
"Gone."
"How long?"
"Twenty-five minutes."
"Direction?"
He pointed toward the tail.
"Downhill."
I looked at Hale.
"He said you followed him."
"I did."
"Then the avalanche hit."
"Yes."
"Did Bell get caught?"
"Don't know."
Kwon scanned the slope.
"Could be buried."
"Or watching us."
Dunn looked up sharply.
"Watching us?"
I ignored the question.
"How is Cross?"
His expression darkened.
"Bad."
Pilot Daniel Cross was conscious, which was good.
The rest was not.
His left leg was trapped under a deformed cockpit frame.
His blood pressure was low.
He had no detectable pulse at the foot.
His skin was gray.
We had to free him before cold and crush injury finished what the crash had started.
"Can we move the frame?"
Dunn shook his head.
"Not by hand."
Kwon opened the heavy rescue case.
"Hydraulic spreader."
"Fuel is too close."
"Manual pump."
"Use it."
We worked.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen.
Snow intensified.
Jackson called over radio.
"Whiteout, air extraction window is gone."
I expected it.
It still hurt.
"Next estimate?"
"Maybe dawn."
"Maybe?"
"Weather owns the answer."
"Copy."
We had nine casualties counting Hale.
We had one small rescue team.
We had no helicopter.
And an avalanche hazard was increasing above us by the minute.
I looked at the map.
The old mining road passed within a mile and a half of our position, but deep snow made normal vehicles useless.
"Ground team status?"
Shaw answered from command.
"Tracked carriers are moving from the south."
"ETA?"
"Three hours."
Three hours was too long for Cross.
"Push them."
"They're pushing."
I turned back to the pilot.
Then something metallic clicked behind me.
Not loud.
But wrong.
Kwon heard it too.
We both turned.
Grant Bell stood twenty feet away near the edge of the wreck.
Snow covered his shoulders.
Blood ran from his nose.
In one hand he held a flare pistol.
His hand was shaking.
The muzzle pointed at the snow between us.
Normally a flare gun is a rescue tool.
Next to spilled aviation fuel, it becomes something else entirely.
"Nobody move."
Bell's voice shook harder than his hand.
Kwon went still.
I slowly raised my empty hands.
"Grant."
"Where is Hale?"
Hale lifted his head from the sled.
Bell saw him.
His face twisted.
"Give me the phone."
I felt its weight inside my jacket.
"Why?"
"Because he stole company property."
Hale shouted from behind me.
"Those reports belong to the government!"
Bell swung the flare pistol toward him.
"Shut up!"
Kwon shifted half an inch.
Bell snapped the weapon back.
"Don't."
I watched his eyes.
Panicked.
Cornered.
Not trained.
That could make him more dangerous, not less.
"Grant, listen to me."
"Phone."
"There is fuel under your boots."
He looked down involuntarily.
"If that flare fires, you die too."
"Then give me the phone."
"Why is it worth dying for?"
His mouth tightened.
"You don't understand."
"Then explain it."
"You people always think everything is simple."
"Nothing about this is simple."
I took one slow step forward.
He raised the flare pistol.
"Stop."
I stopped.
"Northstar knew."
His face changed.
That was enough.
I continued.
"They knew the NX-41 could fail in cold conditions."
His eyes flicked toward Hale.
"He told you."
"He didn't need to."
I lied smoothly.
"We already had concerns."
Bell swallowed.
"Concerns aren't proof."
"The report is."
"That report is stolen."
"Then why are you holding a flare gun over spilled fuel to get it back?"
Nobody moved.
His face crumpled for one second.
Not guilt.
Fear.
"They'll destroy me."
"Who?"
"Northstar."
That was not the answer I expected.
"I thought you changed the report."
Hale shouted.
"He did!"
Bell looked at him.
"Because they made me!"
Silence.
Even the wind seemed to disappear for half a heartbeat.
Bell's eyes filled with tears.
"They made me sign it."
I lowered my hands slightly.
"Who made you?"
He shook his head.
"No."
"Grant."
"No."
"Who?"
His answer came out as a whisper.
"Daniel Voss."
The name meant nothing to me.
But Hale made a sound behind us.
"Vice president of defense programs."
Bell nodded.
"He said if I didn't sign, I would lose my clearance, my job, everything."
"So you falsified a safety report."
"I had kids."
"And these people had lives."
He flinched.
"I know."
"Put the flare gun down."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can."
"The report can't get out."
"It already uploaded."
His face went completely blank.
That was when I knew Hale had not been bluffing.
Bell whispered.
"Where?"
I did not answer.
"Where did he send it?"
"Put the flare down."
Bell's breathing accelerated.
"WHERE?"
His finger tightened.
Kwon moved.
The flare gun fired.
For one impossible second, the red flare hung in the air like a small sun.
Then it struck the snow beside the broken wing.
May you like
Three feet from the spreading fuel.
