Flight To Pandemonium Page 9

  “Why there?” asked the Captain. “If that bug got as far as Nome, Talkeetna will be risky or worse.”

  “Stop just long enough to drop me and anyone else who wants off… like those nurses. Take five minutes. Then, you should take advantage of our disappearing act.”

  The Captain considered a minute and said, “We should check Talkeetna, but this thing can land damned short. I think we should use that to our advantage if Talkeetna doesn’t work for us.”

  “Now you’re beginning to think like I do!”

  “Then it’ll be prison for sure.” The Captain’s smile was grim.

  “There you go again. You’ve got a better idea maybe?”

  “I’m a Boeing driver. You’re the bush jockey.”

  “Fine a ride as it is, this isn’t a bush plane. Let’s bring Ted back in. He grew up around there.”

  Pappy explained their dilemma to Ted. Referring to the map, Pappy asked, “What’s the ground like around there? I’m just a puddle jumper.”

  “Pretty rough country, mostly spruce hills, old workings and muddy creeks,” replied Ted. “Then you hit the Talkeetna Mountains. How about something south of there like the flatlands along the Susitna River? Coupla of good strips near there.”

  “Naw, way too close to towns… and people beating those quarantines,” said Pappy. “Look for something remote, something forgotten and lost in the sticks. A strip just long enough to land and away from any road.”

  “Okay, near Talkeetna lost in the sticks,” confirmed Ted. “I’ll find something. Problem is…we’ve gotta find it after dark. Never a dull moment around you boys. Say Pappy, we should catch up on the news while we still can; see if you can find something while I’m scouting the charts.”

  A few minutes later, Pappy tapped his headphones and pushed a switch. Both pilots listened intently… grimly looking at one another. The Captain said, “Good Lord… I think I’ll pipe that into the cabin while we have a look at charts. They need to hear this for themselves, otherwise they’re not going to understand our next move.”

  11

  Deadhorse Dormitory, September 30th, late afternoon. Lazlo stared dully out the panoramic windows catching movement in his peripheral vision. A herd of two dozen caribou crossed the highway and wandered slowly onto the tundra directly in view. They milled about calmly, some occasionally nibbling on the edges of bare patches for lichen, while most settled down to rest.

  Moments later the entire herd arose facing the highway. Lazlo turned and looked, but saw nothing. Four wolves rose from hiding, and ran low across the highway obviously focused on the herd. The caribou reacted in unison exploding into a spectacular long legged gallop. Shortly the four wolves maneuvered closely together and Lazlo realized they were focused on a slower animal. The entire herd disappeared around a collection of sheds to the west. The wolves had been gaining on the slower caribou when Lazlo lost sight of the herd. The outcome didn’t look promising for the deer, he thought sympathetically.

  Lazlo spent long hours lounging in the recliner wrapped in his winter clothing, dozing and ignoring a faint hearted resolve to do something useful. He was awakened by a long convoy of company vehicles filled with camp employees and rooftop baggage heading south, leaving camp. A tractor tug which normally pulled a full sized drill rig towed a train of open flatbed trailers loaded with oil field employees heavily muffled in winter sleeping bags. The loaded conveyances grew stranger and stranger. The most outlandish sent a flock of startled ravens into the sky as the ground beneath them vibrated from a rubber tracked articulated tractor traveling fast for its size. Normally used only on ice, the tractor carried a double prefabricated module rigged as a mess and field kitchen.

  Lazlo speculated on how many people he watched pass by. Certainly less than half the population of camp he thought, and wondered how they had been chosen… by lottery perhaps? Any attempt to leave must now be on foot. The motley collection of passing vehicles told him that everything capable of moving had been conscripted. Now, he would be unlikely to find anything for himself.

  The notion of hiking alone in the wilderness was frightening. That wolf pack had fearlessly pursued the caribou, crossing the Dalton highway right into the midst of a public camp. How could an unarmed man defend himself against such determined predators… or a charging grizzly bear like Sally? Guns and hunting were prohibited everywhere at the bay, so he was certain he would not find a firearm.

  Lazlo needed a means of self defense or the rest of his problems likely didn’t matter. Could he make some sort of weapon for himself? He decided to search the dorm. He forced open every room in the building, but found only a flimsy length of electrical conduit, an overlooked backpack, and trash.

  Emptying everything from his wheeled carry-on, he evaluated each item for utility versus weight. He packed his spare winter clothes, a lap blanket, a fire starter, and several empty plastic bottles… a pathetic collection considering how far he must travel.

  When Lazlo heard the sound of an airplane, he rushed to the windows in time to watch a military C-130 cargo plane on its final approach to the Deadhorse runway. After landing, the plane taxied to the far end of the field and pulled off the tarmac onto the tundra next to the highway. Trampling soft tundra anywhere was considered a grievous misdeed as well as hazardous. Lazlo wondered what motivated the pilot of this large airplane to take such a risk.

  As he watched, a squad of uniformed troops unloaded a small military tank and a robust humvee mounted with a machine gun. They established a roadblock across the Dalton Highway with light reflective barricades, then moved the armored guns facing traffic lanes.

  Meanwhile a second C-130 landed and taxied to the Alaska Airlines terminal and discharged more troops and humvees. Every fifteen minutes another C-130 arrived until there were nine. Troops in humvees took up positions around the airfield reaching far beyond Lazlo’s view.

  Lazlo didn’t feel threatened inside his refuge. He recalled his boss explaining that inviting the military might be a solution to his problems. Perhaps remaining oil field employees would be evacuated by the nine air transports parked at the terminal. As the designated pariah, he knew the plan wouldn’t include him. However, he looked with envy upon so many rifles and unmanned humvees.

  Lazlo was about to resume his search of the dormitory when he noticed a military convoy of humvees, heavy trucks, and armored vehicles heading north beyond the adjacent dormitory building. He stopped counting at thirty and watched as they gathered in line in front of the roadblock. A dozen soldiers assembled and saluted the guards who checked documents.

  The barricades were moved; the convoy entered the loop road and turned into the oilfield toward the main compound. Troops surrounded the air transports and established guard posts. More armed soldiers remained to enforce the roadblock at the airfield.

  The military movements conveyed a sense of invasion and alarmed Lazlo. Instead of evacuating the oil camp, they were isolating the entire town. Having heard no news for days, Lazlo wondered whether another unexpected world event had occurred… or if that bug was related to some terrorist plot motivating this display of force. Then again, Russia wasn’t all that far away. This wasn’t a rescue; this was an invasion, hostile, and frightening.

  With the arrival of so many soldiers, no one could drive about the oilfield unchallenged. Prudhoe Bay was dependant on daily food deliveries which vanished. Three soldiers set up a field shelter near the barricade and began foot patrols around the perimeter of the service yards and dormitories. They never left the shelter unmanned. Military humvees periodically crept back and forth around the airfield and along the loop road.

  Later that evening, power and heat to the building failed. Looking across the tundra, he still could see runway lights. Without benefit of human contact, and now without power or heat, Lazlo’s mind drifted to anxiety. What might explain isolating a town alrea
dy effectively isolated by geography as was Deadhorse… and using so many troops to do so? He closed his drapes leaving only a narrow slit to see through.

  Lazlo decided to bide his time until he knew more. Using mattresses and bedding, he made a warm nest near his spy slit preserving his view of the loop road. The patrols should remain ignorant of his presence while the orange painted warning kept everyone away.

  Hiding from authorities, though, had consequences for leaving. Air travel wasn’t possible. North beyond the airport was Prudhoe Bay. Even if he managed to slip by the patrols, he knew little about marine boats. Navigating the Arctic Ocean in fall would be madness. West were wetlands and countless tundra ponds. East was wild country and the Arctic Wildlife Refuge fifty miles away.

  South was the only way out via the Dalton Highway, now under military control. During his many years of oilfield work, he’d traveled that road just once as far as Atigun Pass. No one really needed a map… there was only the Dalton Highway… blocked by the military and surrounded by wilderness.

  Reality brought him back to making preparations. He fashioned a stabbing spear with a kitchen carving knife joined to a length of wooden bed frame wrapped with electrical wire. In order to kindle a wood fire with only a sparker, he carefully teased apart the cotton mattress batting using the corkscrew of his Swiss army knife and sliced fibrous wood shavings from the bed frame for tinder. Lazlo dressed in all the indoor clothing he possessed, and then donned his winter parka, pants and boots. He placed two pint bottles of water between his wool shirt and long underwear avoiding his bare skin. Now ready as could be for what might come, he slithered into his cocoon of bedding and slept.

  Peering out his spy slit the next morning, he realized that military traffic had vanished and foot patrols had ceased. The guard house was vacant. What could that portend?

  Presently a violent williwaw blew into camp from the south and tipping over a fifty foot standing crane mounted on a truck in the north service yard which crashed into the roof of a building. No one investigated.

  Low grey clouds brought rain, then hail in a swirling white curtain carried on the wind. Lazlo’s view of the tundra faded as the landscape whitened with bouncing hail stones. Fat flakes of snow followed, creating drifts among the buildings. Nature seemed to be reclaiming the oilfield. Lazlo fully opened the window drapes, mesmerized. Already, the storm would be regarded as a memorable one so early in the season.

  The dormitory was cold. Airfield lights disappeared in blowing snow. Leaving on foot was now impossible, but the cover of the storm provided an opportunity Lazlo hadn’t anticipated.

  The storm blew intensely all next day. By evening his surroundings slowly became visible, but frigid wind scoured the bleak landscape. Rime ice trailed from every exposed object, twisted in the form of tattered curtains. Deep winter replaced fall.

  A dark bear figure materialized through the veil of whiteout. He watched Sally emerge followed by two cubs. The grizz was famous for her habit of kitchen breaking. She frequently found ways to defeat new barriers and had passed the skill to her cubs. She terrified the night kitchen crew and guards. Approaching or feeding her was strictly forbidden. While raising cubs, she was a fearless and unmolested wanderer about camp. Lazlo had observed her nearly every day while at work.

  As she neared, Lazlo could see her coat was matted with tendrils of hanging ice, her face and muzzle coated with an ice carapace. She slowly plodded along with the cubs strung out behind her. The first cub tottered, its coat disheveled and dirty. The second cub looked worse. Its face, muzzle, and chest were covered in thick reddish ice. The cub stumbled, coughing blood and phlegm from its muzzle in crimson icy tendrils. Sally, aware that her cub was in distress, stopped, turned, and waited. Staggering on, the cub left a platter sized puddle of pink.

  The second cub was close to death, thought Lazlo. He had never seen a wild animal sick like this. Sally had survived many Arctic winters… always tough and resilient. Now she looked sluggish… sick! What were the bears eating he wondered?

  Had the bat flu arrived at the Bay after all? That would also explain the limited evacuation and strange activity. But everyone sick at once… even the military? That seemed unlikely when less than a week earlier everyone appeared normal. Perhaps the flu arrived with the transport flights… or with the convoy.

  Perhaps Prudhoe Bay was quarantined. The Main Construction Camp would be a ripe environment for spreading disease in close quarters. So why bring in the military adding to the calamity? If Lazlo hadn’t caught that flu earlier, would he now?

  Maybe departing was the best plan despite the weather. Lazlo reassembled his backpack considering a new plan. He included the lightest, most trail suitable food he possessed, and set aside the rest to eat first. While he could keep relatively warm under his mass of blankets, he resolved to ration food.

  Leaving the Bay undetected under the cover of the storm was inviting. The deep snow gave him an inkling of how to leave if the weather would cooperate a little longer. New thoughts were reassuring. The solution had been obvious all along… solving the problem of traveling on foot, of needing more food, packing the gear he needed to carry, and of escaping the wolves…if he could just find his favorite conveyance. Conditions outside remained too treacherous to venture out just yet. I’ll have just one quick chance, he thought. Wait for the right moment, or all would be for naught.

  12

  Over the Alaska Range in the Otter, September 30th, approaching dusk. Flying the ridges seemed like a tourist excursion for Mac. Flying so low revealed a far more dramatic view of the countryside than could be seen from miles above. The rolling tundra and coastal hills gave way to the unmistakable Yukon River Valley and its watered potholes. Later, they climbed above majestic snow covered peaks surrounded by ice fields which abounded in all directions. Mac enjoyed a flight suppressing grim thoughts.

  His muse was interrupted when he was inadvertently elbowed by his seatmate looking over a chart. Mac understood little, but what he heard made him curious. He interrupted, “Hello, I’m Mac. Mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Sure… I’m Tony.” They shook hands. “And this is Jack.” Jack enveloped Mac’s hand without shaking. Tony’s hand was calloused and work hardened; Jack’s was muscular and felt like rough sandpaper. Tony’s weathered face topped a sinewy physique while Jack’s upper body looked like a weight lifter with massive strapping arms projecting from a worn denim shirt.

  “Are we still heading for Anchorage?” asked Mac. “I hope not. You were looking at charts. Know anything you care to tell me?”

  “The one thing I’m sure of is we’re not goin’ to Anchorage,” Tony whispered. “You aren’t part of this bunch, are you? How did you get on this flight?”

  “Just seized the moment and climbed aboard. You two were already on board, but you don’t look like airline employees either.”

  “We’re not. I’m like you… just gettin’ outta Dodge any way I could.”

  Mac learned that both men were gold miners who owned claims on the beach in Nome but lived winters in California.

  “Tony, does that airline dude know where we’re headed exactly?”

  “Ted’s still up there with charts. They’re looking for someplace in the sticks.”

  “Do the rest of these people know where we’re headed? They’re an unlikely looking group dressed as they are in city clothes… and what about those nuns?”

  “Beats me… haven’t talked to any of ‘em. Ted says they’re mostly medical folks, nurses and techs. Can’t imagine they have a death wish either…and they should know.”

  “So how are they going to land this big airplane in the sticks?”

  “Ted says this is a tough old bird and built for landing short, and the reason we came along,” said Tony. Jack looked out a porthole sullenly ignoring the conversation.

  “You t
wo give Ted any ideas?”

  “Ted wants to drop the nurses and nuns in Talkeetna. I’ve been talking with Jack. Problem is… so many people. If they all come with us, it’ll take some real doin’ with so many mouths to feed. None of ‘em look like they have wilderness skills. So our refuge has gotta be a place with resources.”

  “I give you guys credit for thinking ahead. I just panicked.”

  “Question is how long will it take for this bug to blow over? It’s already fall and I wouldn’t wantta go through winter trying to help so many needful city folk.”

  “They do look like they belong in a warm doctor’s office, especially the nuns.”

  “None of them are even dressed for winter.”

  “I’m still wearing my best winter clothes otherwise I don’t think I’m any better prepared than they are.”

  Glancing at Mac, Tony replied, “You look fit enough to pull your own weight when the time comes. And we’ll be hauling some of theirs for sure.”

  Conversation in the cabin was interrupted by the intercom. “Folks, we’ve been listening to a public radio broadcast. The program is prerecorded. I think you should hear this for yourselves. I’m going to pass it to the cabin.”

  An announcer’s voice began in mid sentence… “has been produced for member stations who are unable to continue independent programming. Content will be updated every six hours and rebroadcast continuously in the public interest. On top of the hour we will report on the President’s Declaration of National Emergency and Martial Law.

  “But first we will cover the ongoing controversy over quarantines which will immediately affect every family in the country. Realigned boundaries are intended to arrest rapid spread of the pandemic. We turn again to Gwen Connor of WABE, Atlanta National Public Radio with an updated report from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention…”