PHOENIX FROM THE COLD E-Book

Kurt Jaeger

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 325

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

A crew member of an oil-and-gas exploration syndicate working in the Arctic North of Canada suffers from a broken leg and receives first aid at the camp. In the meantime, an aircraft got ordered by radio to bring him urgently to Yellowknife's hospital. The plane arrives late with the patient's wife, who is a nurse. At the same time, an adverse weather front moves in rapidly from the north. Although the first gusts of wind and driving snow sweep over the camp, the pilot decides to take off and right away gets into horrible weather conditions. Close to the ground and dodging high-rise terrain, the pilot manages to fly ahead of the storm, but then suddenly, the engine quits, and he has to attempt a forced landing immediately. Due to bad visibility, the aircraft strikes a frozen lake's shoreline. It ends up severely damaged the woods. Although nobody is hurt, the chances of getting out and back to civilization are practically zero. Hit by roaring winds and freezing temperatures, they hope in vain for a search aircraft and subsequent rescue. After days, the situation becomes desperate, but then the pilot comes up with the idea that seems completely unreal. Although the Cessna aircraft's damage is substantial, he wants to get it back into the air. However, there is no help around. Hit by hunger and bitter cold, he works on a solution that might be disastrous.

Leseprobe

PHOENIX FROM THE COLD

Kurt J. Jaeger

PHOENIX FROM THE COLD

Survival in the Arctic

By Kurt J. Jaeger

Novel

Copyright: © 2021: Kurt J. Jaeger

Layout & Cover: Erik Kinting – www.buchlektorat.net

Publisher:

tredition GmbH

Halenreie 40-44

22359 Hamburg

978-3-347-35481-4 (Paperback)

978-3-347-35482-1 (Hardcover)

978-3-347-35483-8 (e-Book)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher and author.

This book is dedicated to the pilots making a supreme effort to provide the small towns in northern Canada with all the essentials. In the mid-1970s, they were also catering for ambulance flights, supporting industrial plants with personnel and spare parts, or rescuing missing colleagues, adventurers, trappers, and hunters in the infinite expanse of the tundra.

With fearless enthusiasm, they contributed to the development of the Canadian North. Some have paid for it with their lives. They will be remembered forever by all those who developed the aerial support in the isolated North with a pioneering spirit.

CHAPTER 1

22nd November. Camp Three at 18:10 hrs.

As if carved in stone, the tall man's sharp-edged facial features brightened up rhythmically to the movements of the Coleman lamp. In the dazzling whiteness of the hissing light, ghostly shadows danced over his bearded face framed by the wolf hair of his hood. Like small vapor columns, his breath blew from his nose to vanish at once in the harsh cold of the polar night. The fresh snow beneath his fur-lined boots crunched dryly at every step, flying up as a glowing white flag in the glaring lamplight. In the folds of his thickly padded anorak, he carried a small box under his right arm. He was 50 yards from the dimly lit entrance of the wooden barrack when he stumbled briefly. A curse crossed his clenched lips as he tried to regain his balance with outstretched arms. The box under his arm flew into the spraying snow.

"Bloody hell!" He grunted for a moment, then shone his light on the container, sunk deep into the snow. With difficulty, he finally managed to grab the box with the thickly padded glove of his right hand and then clamped it under his arm again. He uttered a few incomprehensible words while grumbling, then slowly stomped on towards the barrack's lighted entrance.

Owen Burnett hated this hostile place in the winter, the camp, and the weather conditions in this godforsaken area. For hundreds of miles, nothing but bushes, patches of forest, and frozen marshes. The small Grizzly Mountain near the camp was the only minor geological point of interest.

He remembered very well how the company down at Edmonton had described his future assignment here at Great Bear Lake: solitude, pleasant temperatures, and a few mosquitoes, but that had been in the three summer months. Now the harsh winter had already been in control of the camp since the beginning of October. A few weeks ago, the vast lake had started to freeze over, and the work on the natural gas exploration wells was increasingly fierce due to biting winds, drifting snow, and the bitter cold. Owen Burnett was sure about one thing – he would not be renewing his contract in the coming spring. Let the gentlemen behind the teakwood desks in Edmonton look for another idiot to do the job.

Burnett had now reached the steps to the crew's quarters. From the generator shed, the dull throbbing of the diesel engine resounded. And then he heard familiar voices from inside the austere log cabin. Shivering, he climbed the steps to the entrance, turned off the Colman lamp, kicked the snow off his fur boots against the jamb, and opened the door. In the sparsely furnished room, brightly lit by two ceiling lamps, warm smoke-filled air hit his face. The mist of beer and sweat crept into his nose.

"Shut that bloody door, Owen!" a bass voice barked. Burnett slowly pulled the hood of his coat back, combed his graying hair with his fingers, then slammed the heavy door behind him shut with the heel of his boot.

"Here, Percy, there's the pharmacy pack from Barrack Three! There should be some stuff in there that you might need for Ryan's leg."

He placed the red-cross-marked plastic box in front of Percy Miller on the table amid glasses and beer cans. For a moment, the loud conversation of the men gathered around the table fell silent. Everyone looked fascinated at the box. Miller, a giant of a man, pushed back the rolled-up sleeves of his lumberjack shirt. His eyes, deeply buried under thick eyebrows, looked at the chest for a moment and then at the cold-stained face of Owen Burnett.

"Thanks, Owen. I'll drop by Ryan and check with Michael Reeves to see if there’s anything in the box that’s usable."

"And, what about the damn airplane? Shouldn’t it have been here a long time ago?" Burnett asked a bit indignantly. He wiped his dripping nose with the back of his hand, then, with a grim expression, scratched his gray-mottled beard.

"I know the question is justified," Miller replied, "but the flight was ordered by radio the day before yesterday and immediately after the incident. I don’t know what happened."

"Maybe they have bad weather down there and can't get through to us," said an elderly, slender-looking man with an unkempt mustache. He was wrapped in a greasy overall, and his eyes fixed on a beer can in front of him.

"You can forget that, Ethan. They report clear weather in Yellowknife. I think there may have been a technical problem with one of the planes. At seven o'clock, we'll have radio contact with the base again, and then we'll hear the reason for the delay."

Burnett had now taken off his weighty Anorak and sat down at the table opposite the bulky foreman, Miller. He was worried. Thirty hours had passed since the accident with Ryan Cooley. The combination of an open leg fracture and deep cuts had caused him substantial blood loss. An infection on his poorly dressed leg also appeared entirely possible.

"How could shit like that ever happen to Ryan?" Burnett asked.

"What do I know?" Percy Miller replied flatly. "It's always the same – not paying attention for just one moment, and it's already too late. You know yourself that Ryan always tended to engage in an exaggerated hustle and bustle, and that's when the shit hit the fan."

"But why was he alone up there in the rocks? He had no assignment from me," Miller countered.

"He was probably curious and wanted to investigate the old log cabin of the uranium prospectors who worked here years ago. Ryan must have slipped on an ice sheet hidden under the fresh snow and fell over the rocks. With this cold weather around here, the bones tend to break faster than usual."

"Did you notify his wife already? After all, Ryan will hardly make our camp happy again until next spring," a young man casually leaning against the wooden doorpost wanted to know.

"Of course, Frank. After we knew how badly Ryan was hurt, I immediately notified the Head Office in Edmonton. Why do you ask?"

"Could be that his wife will come by plane to pick him up."

"Not if we fly Ryan to the hospital in Yellowknife. She can visit him there and fly with him to Edmonton after the doctors have patched him up."

Frank Wilson seemed hardly satisfied with the answer. With the corners of his mouth pulled down, he wearily raised his shoulders.

"Frank is not so wrong with his question," Ethan Turner at the end of the table interjected, eagerly trying to pull his mustache straight.

"I don’t want women in this lousy camp. That's only asking for trouble," Miller replied sharply.

"It would be a nice change, however," geologist Dick Summer said, grinning and leaning against the warming stove. "The only women around here are over at Fort Franklin, and that's damn far away."

As usual, his glasses had already slipped down his nose, and he involuntarily pushed them up again. Percy Miller laughed out loud.

"That would no doubt suit you, you horny old goat. Better concentrate on your Playboy Centerfolds. As long as I'm in charge here, Camp Three is and will remain free of any woman, no matter how old or ugly they are, understood?"

"Well, guys, did you hear that? Camp Three has the status of a male monastery!" Frank Wilson bellowed loudly. He pushed himself away from the wall and theatrically threw his arms in the air. "The callouses on Dick's hands will continue to come not just from changing the drill rods or tinkering with the handle of a shovel!"

There was loud laughter at the table. Wilson's teasing seemed to be getting approval.

"Idiots, as if we didn't have enough worries," Miller muttered, shaking his head and getting up clumsily. He grabbed the red box, fished his padded jacket off the wall hook, and stomped toward the door.

"I'm going to look at how Ryan Cooley is doing. Our medicine man, Michael, is probably keeping him company. See you all tomorrow."

"Have a good snore and sweet dreams," someone barked as Percy Miller pulled up the zipper of his jacket with one last deliberate movement and then pushed the door open. The next moment he stood alone in front of the entrance, submerged in the harsh cold, driven by a chilling wind from the Northwest over the barren blanket of snow. Miller needed some time to get his eyes used to the darkness. Finally, he pulled his flashlight out of the side pocket of his jacket. He beamed at the surrounding area for the reflecting eyes of voracious polar bears, then down the snow-covered path to the nearby sleeping cabin of Ryan Cooley.

Percy Miller did not need to knock. His weight made the wooden steps to the door creak loudly. He pulled the door open and entered cautiously. Cooley lay awake in his narrow bed, his splinted leg propped up with some pillows. The air in the cramped room was pleasantly tempered but carried the unmistakable smell of disinfectants and kerosene. The burner in the oven hissed audibly. Beside the bed sat the slightly plump paramedic Reeves, staring now intently at the approaching camp manager. However, Miller's eyes fixed on the somewhat pale face of the patient.

"Well, how are you, Ryan? Are you in great pain?"

A subtle smile squeezed the pale features in the face of the approximately thirty-year-old man from Calgary. Dark stubble framed his strong chin, making his glowing eyes appear to sit deeper and shine brighter. Swaths of sweat-soaked hair hung over his glistening forehead.

"Thanks, Percy. I’m okay. Only the damned throbbing in my broken leg seems to be getting fiercer by the hour. Michael here thinks we should relax the bandage a bit, but I'm not so sure."

"Owen brought me the reserve medication box from the kitchen shack," Miller said, ignoring Cooley's remark. "I hope Michael will find something that will help you."

He put the red box on the small table next to the bed and tore off the tape around the lid. Then he flipped the cover back.

"Let me see," Michael Reeves said as he rose to look at the contents.

"You know, Percy, you should know that never in my life have I had a complicated leg fracture to look after. My knowledge of these things is purely academic. But what worries me a lot more is the open leg wound. I mean, we should carefully open the bandage around the splints again and check the injury. If, in the meantime, an infection has started, we’ll recognize it immediately. Ryan's temperature has gone up, but he doesn’t have a real fever yet."

"You're the boss," Miller replied with a cheerful grin.

"Well, let's have a look in this box of miracles here to see if we can find something suitable," Reeves muttered as he rolled up the sleeves of his gray and white plaid lumberjack shirt and started to rummage in the various compartments of the box. Suddenly he paused, picking up a small white plastic bottle, and said, "We can use that. My supply has run out!"

"What's that?" Miller asked.

"Disinfecting wound powder, that works at least as well as good old penicillin!"

He handed the bottle to Miller, who examined it for an expiration date. Meanwhile, Reeves had begun to unwrap the bandage around Cooley's leg. And as he did so, he warned the patient.

"Beware, Ryan, we’re about to remove the two wooden supports. You’re likely to experience severe pain, but we have to improve the leg's blood circulation. Then we have to see if the wound has started an infection yet. That means that the gash will begin to bleed again. If that happens, we'll reapply a pressure bandage again."

Ryan Cooley nodded but looked anxiously at his bandaged leg and the way Reeves was handling it. While Miller stabilized the leg, Reeves seemed absorbed in his work. Only once did he look a little worried at Cooley's pain-stricken face as he loosened the wooden support rails from the blood-soaked bandage, and Cooley acknowledged it with a scream.

Allowing for a short break, Reeves began releasing the dressing over the wound. Cooley's moaning became more plaintive. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. Miller wiped them off with a damp cloth, then sympathetically squeezed Cooley's right hand cramped into the bedsheet.

"This shit will be over soon, Ryan. After that, you’ll feel better again, and we’ll have the certainty that everything is fine, for now."

Cooley nodded silently with tight lips. The throbbing in his leg had stopped. Instead, waves of pain similar to pinpricks paralyzed him.

"Percy, give me the powder bottle, please!” Reeves shouted suddenly and, as Miller looked over, he saw how Reeves unwrapped the last twirl of the discolored bandage and, in slow motion, peeled off the gauze underneath. The appraisal seemed to take forever, but eventually, Reeves straightened up and said, "Doesn't look bad, but we have to make sure."

He sprinkled the white powder on the partially open edges of the wound, from which again some blood trickled out. Then Reeves quickly applied new layers of wound gauze and carefully began to wrap a new bandage. This time, however, he paid attention to a less tight fit.

"Are you still alright, Ryan?" Michael Reeves wanted to know. Cooley nodded weakly and with his eyes closed.

"Percy, please give me the railings now and help me put them on properly."

While Miller held the two makeshift wooden rails along the broken leg, Reeves carefully tightened the new bandage around them.

"That's it, Ryan. The worst is over. I'll give you a strong painkiller now, after which you should try to sleep a little. I'll come back in about two hours to check on you again, okay?"

"Thanks, Michael," Cooley said weakly, trying a half-hearted smile. With a sideways glance at Ryan Cooley, Miller pulled his paramedic aside.

"What do you think, Michael? Will he get through the night without too much pain?"

"I guess so. The pill Ryan has to swallow now will inevitably send him to the land of dreams for a while. You can rest assured your man here will be ready for the morning flight to Yellowknife."

"Okay, in that case, I’ll go right now to the radio shack to check on the flight from Yellowknife. We have to find out what's wrong with the aircraft and when we can expect it here. Afterward, I’ll hunker down in my bunk. I'm pretty tired and need a good dose of sleep."

Reeve's round face glistened. With a sigh of relief, he wiped his forehead, pointing to the window close to the bed.

"Did you listen to the last weather report on the radio? They seem to be talking about a nasty weather front with snowstorms from the Northwest."

"When?"

"Sometime tomorrow at noon."

Miller pensively kneaded his square chin. This kind of news worried him immensely.

"Well, we'll see how the situation develops. Hopefully, the aircraft gets here before the weather front. Anyhow, we’ll see each other tomorrow morning at breakfast. Okay?"

Reeves nodded weakly. He thought of the blizzard he had experienced ten days ago, which had taught him fear and respect for the elements of nature. Oh God, just not that kind of a blizzard again, he prayed. Come on, whatever, Ryan Cooley had to be rushed to a hospital where they could treat his leg expertly. A plane was the only fast means of transport here in the Arctic and could save Cooley from life-threatening complications. Reeves had great respect for the courageous pilots flying around in this godforsaken area in almost every weather, evacuating the casualties, transporting food and supplies, or bringing trappers and hunters to the deserted Yukon regions of Northwest Territories.

He thought of the sturdy, single-engine 'Beaver' airplanes equipped with floats for the short summer months to land on the countless lakes of the North; in the winter, instead of floats, they had skis mounted to the landing gear to land, but now on frozen ground and lakes. Or the classic 'Cessnas', which, while more delicate and, therefore, lighter in weight, could accomplish the same tasks with less effort. All of them were flown by pilots who, in his view, feared neither death nor devils. Cooley would undoubtedly be in good hands when traveling to Yellowknife with one of these bush pilots at the controls.

One last time, Reeves checked the raised leg's position and then walked over to the small table and several opened packs. He poured some tea into a pint cup from a thermos and held it out to Cooley with one hand, holding in the other a pill between his thumb and forefinger.

"Here, Ryan, take this pill with some tea. In two hours, I'll see you again, and tomorrow you'll be on your way to Yellowknife and civilization."

Cooley took the pill, then washed it down his throat with a sip of tea. The severe pain in his leg had subsided, and drowsiness had seized him. Reeves took the cup from him and put it back on the table.

"Goodnight! And don’t worry, there’s always someone nearby if you need help."

"Goodnight, Ryan," repeated Percy Miller, then he urged Reeves to come along. Once out on the stairs, their breath caught a choking cold. Dotted with thousands of stars, the clear night sky seemed to give the pervasive chill an additional effect.

"Damn cold night! I think the thermometer will probably reach a new low for November by tomorrow morning."

"Quite possibly," Miller countered with a critical look to the Northwest. "On the other hand, it could also be that the clouds of the announced weather front will block any additional chilling by radiation."

He pointed his chin in the indicated direction and then said, "The stars there are already covered by a layer of Cirrus clouds. So, the prediction could be correct."

Reeves nodded thoughtfully, pulling the hood of his jacket over his ears. The front could make their life at the camp damn hard for the next few days: drifting snow in conjunction with the chilling factor, triggered by the fierce wind that left limbs freezing in a matter of minutes.

"See you tomorrow then," he told Miller turning away. "Let's hope it doesn’t get too bad."

"Goodnight, Michael. In case of trouble with Ryan's leg, please wake me up!"

Miller raised his hand in farewell and then walked on the snowcovered path to his hut. In the well-heated entrance area, the Motorola single sideband radio was standing on a small table. He looked at the timepiece on the wall. In a few minutes, there would be the last regular radio transmission of the day, and he needed to know if the airplane would arrive by tomorrow to fly Ryan Cooley to the hospital in Yellowknife. He took a seat in front of the radio unit. He felt tired and needed a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow's evacuation of Ryan would undoubtedly cause a lot of excitement.

Cessna 185 on skies – Credit to Jean-Pierre Bonin

CHAPTER 2

23rd November. Yellowknife Airport at 09:20 hrs.

The electric heater next to the simple desk in the barren and sparsely furnished container office of Arctic Bird Air Charter glowed intensely and provided almost tropical heat. The small window, overlooking the barely cleared runway, impressively conveyed the desolation of the area where this city sought to secure its existence. The chair creaked as Bruce Galonsky, chewing on the end of his pencil, leaned back slowly. He stared through the window, intentionally pursuing the path of a rickety Land Rover that was seeking its way between the aircraft parked on the apron. His short-cut, blond hair stood up like a crew cut, in striking contrast with his slightly tanned complexion. The equally blond eyebrows gave him the look of a blonde Italian. Galonsky's slender fingers glided comb-like through his hair.

His mind was persistently reviewing the contents of the last weather report from Edmonton on his desk. The low-pressure weather front in the North had progressed faster than predicted. The way it looked, it would probably reach the expanse of the Great Bear Lake and thus Camp Three by noon. Yesterday's cancellation of the flight to Camp Three due to a faulty electric booster pump on the 'Cessna' aircraft could bring him into trouble today. The medical evacuation flight, which his partner Vincent Freeman had registered for arrival yesterday evening, was still pending. He thought angrily about the delay and then glanced briefly at the old kitchen clock on the wall.

Nine o'clock! A passenger who could not keep to the agreed time had dire cards from the beginning with him. Another delay was, by all means, not acceptable. If he wanted to avoid the predicted weather problems, he was in no doubt he would have to rush the departure. Outside, Galonsky suddenly heard the rumble of an approaching car. He recognized the sound of the old Land Rover and figured that his passenger had finally arrived. He quickly switched off the heater, jumped up from the chair, and grabbed the leather map case from the shelf next to the door. Then he fished the thicklined US Air Force winter jacket from off its hook. At that moment, he heard a slamming car door and, moments later, the office door opened.

"Sorry, Bruce. I know we're late, damn late in fact," Freeman said, puffing and defensively raising his hand. Behind him, his passenger was stepping into the protective warmth of the container.

"May I introduce Mrs. Cooley to you. She is a trained nurse and wants to pick up her husband, who broke a leg near Camp Three. Percy Miller at the camp is already informed, and Mrs. Cooley might be a great help in this case."

"Glad to meet you, madam. My name is Bruce, and I’m the pilot,” Galonsky said, somewhat surprised by the good-looking and svelt woman in a down jacket. "And you are a nurse?"

"That's right," she answered energetically. "The Edmonton's Head Office informed me that my husband had suffered a complicated leg fracture. Since there’s no doctor on-site and only a paramedic has treated his broken leg, I'd rather be there myself when you pick him up by plane at Camp Three."

"That's fine with me, but I can tell you that Michael Reeves, the paramedic at the camp, is no bungler. He’s already dealt with a lot of first aid cases."

"Thanks for the info. Still, I prefer to convince myself of my husband's condition," she replied, ignoring Galonsky's well-meant advice."

"Unfortunately, we’re already late. Therefore, may I ask you to follow me straight to the airplane?" Galonsky ordered, and with a sidelong glance at his partner, he added, "Vincent here will take your luggage."

"It's just a carton of medicines for the camp, two thermos bottles of hot coffee, a couple of sandwiches, an oversized down comforter, and two blankets for my husband. In his condition, he will be sensitive to the cold," she replied.

"Alright, at least we have no weight problem."

Galonsky was the last out of the door. Without worrying about Mrs. Cooley, he turned the key and walked with long strides to the parked 'Cessna' 185. A weak north wind cut into his face, causing tears to fill his eyes. He drew the fur-lined hood of his winter jacket over his head and pulled the full-length metal zipper in front up to his chin. The first rays of sunlight were already flashing over the eastern horizon cutting through the icy air as he removed the engine covers. Then he carefully pulled open the left-hand cabin door and looked at the thermometer on the fresh air intake.

"Fairly cold this morning. Minus 18° Celsius!" he shouted over his shoulder, then turned back and said with a wry grin, "Mrs. Cooley, you can already board the airplane from the right side. I still have a few things to check while my partner Bruce brings the cargo."

"Thank you! By the way, you can call me Mary!"

Galonsky blinked a little sheepishly in the now dazzling sun. He extended his right hand with a smile and said, "Mary, Mrs. Mary Cooley, a beautiful name. You already know my full name from my partner Vincent."

"Bruce is not exactly rude either," she replied, smiling and squeezing his hand with surprising strength. "I think we'll get along well."

Galonsky gave a slight nod, then cautiously squeezed past her to open the cabin door on the right side of the 'Cessna'. He had a good reason to do it himself. After a night in the open, the door seals often got frozen, and an abrupt opening could cause them to fracture. At some distance, she followed him around the propeller of the single-engine 'Cessna', watching with interest as Galonsky slowly opened the right door and then waved her closer.

"Please take the front seat and take care when entering. You shouldn’t step on the ski runner or get caught on the cable."

He admired her agility as she gracefully swung from the footstep to the right front seat and lifted the seatbelts. That is probably not the first time this lady is getting into an airplane, he thought, then gently pushed the door into the lock and checked the frozen ski suspension. After verifying the oil level of the engine, he turned the two-bladed propeller slowly by hand.

Meanwhile, Vincent Freeman had started loading the cargo for Camp Three from the Land Rover's trunk into the 'Cessna's luggage compartment. The tightly lashed emergency equipment for survival under Arctic conditions, together with the quilt and the woolen blankets, occupied a substantial space in the cramped cubicle.

"Did you load everything?" Galonsky asked as he heard Freeman slam the Land Rover's tailgate.

"Everything and a little more. Percy Miller has requested a few spare parts for the 'Snowcats'. The engines continuously suffer from carburetor problems."

"Heavy?"

"Negligible. Maybe no more than ten pounds," Freeman answered.

"Okay, you can go back to the office and radio our take-off time to the headquarters in Edmonton. I want the patient to be loaded immediately upon arrival. We have no time to lose. I'm in the air in ten minutes at the latest."

"Alright and, Bruce, just don’t forget to report by radio the ETA for the return flight from Camp Three. I’m staying at the airport until you’re back, and I’ll organize an ambulance for Mr. Cooley.”

Just as the chubby Freeman slid behind the Land Rover's steering wheel, Galonsky swung himself into the left pilot's seat and immediately closed the door of the 'Cessna'. He then flipped the toggle switch for the battery to ‘On’, engaged the electric fuel pump, and pushed the mixture lever fully forward. Galonsky injected some fuel with a few powerful pump strokes, advanced the throttle slightly, and pressed the starter button with the magnetos turned on. With a slowly increasing yowl, the starter motor hesitantly began to turn the propeller. Barely after one turn, the engine started with a bang. The propeller's twitching blades became a rotating disc, and the engine tuned to a steady humming staccato.

Mrs. Cooley had been following Galonsky’s movements with interest and now leaned against the backrest of her seat. Her gaze wandered to the instruments that Galonsky kept tapping as if by doing so, he could force the desired indication.

"At this wintery chill, the oil and cylinder temperatures are climbing very slowly into the green arc. We'll be ready in a few minutes," Galonsky said in a tight voice. Hastily rubbing his clammy hands, he glanced again at his wristwatch and mentally recapped his timetable. Around 360 nautical miles and 120 knots against a known headwind resulted in roughly three hours of flight time to Camp Three. He knew he had fuel for nearly five hours in the wing tanks and, therefore, would be forced to refuel from stored barrels at the camp. No easy task in the cold and the forecasted driving snow, but it had to be. Otherwise, the reserves would be too scarce for the return flight to Yellowknife.

When he noticed the instrument's rising oil temperature, he hastily slipped the earphones over his ears, unhooked the microphone, and called the control tower. With clearance for take-off at his discretion, he taxied the 'Cessna' onto the snow-cleared runway, then stepped on the brakes for a run-up of the engine. A swift glance at his female passenger’s expression assured him of her calm comportment. Setting the gyroscope, moving the flaps to start position, and checking temperature and oil pressure indications for the last time, he slowly pushed the throttle fully forward. Trembling under the engine's takeoff power, the 'Cessna' sped up quickly. Galonsky corrected the tendency of the 'Cessna' to veer to the left, and then with increasing speed, slowly pulled the control wheel against him.

Mary Cooley noted with astonishment how the skis' rumble suddenly ended, and the airplane then left the runway in an even climb. Seconds later, she saw Galonsky reduce the engine's power, decrease the propeller speed, and raise the flaps. They were finally on their way to the northwest edge of the Great Bear Lake and Camp Three.

CHAPTER 3

23rd November. Camp Three at 12:30 hrs.

It had been less than twenty minutes since the 'Cessna' 185 had landed on the snowed-over airstrip of Camp Three. Brightly colored and empty 50-gallon fuel barrels marked the extent of the leveled area in the snow. Not far away stood the shack of camp supervisor Percy Miller. One room of his barracks served as an office. Furnished with a desk, a Motorola radio, a few chairs, several steel cabinets, and a petrol stove, the simply equipped room provided a pleasantly warm stay. Bruce Galonsky was standing a little nervously by the small window facing the parked 'Cessna' barely 100 yards away. He stared at the dark mass of clouds approaching from the northwest and then again at his airplane, which swayed slightly in the gusty air. Snow caught by the wind blew like a veil over the vast landscape.

"Damn, how much longer does it take? The stormy weather front is approaching fast."

"They'll be carrying the patient to the aircraft any moment now," Miller reassured him. "His wife and our camp medic, Michael Reeves, are with him now. They’re preparing Cooley for transport. His personal belongings already got packed."

Galonsky nervously scratched his scalp. "My God, I’m glad that we at least have the refueling done. I almost froze my fingers. I think it would be about time to buy a motor-driven pump instead of fumbling with the old hand pump."

"Just a few more minutes, Bruce, then you’ll be on your way. By the way, why did you fly Cooley's wife in here? That was utterly superfluous."

"As far as I know, it was an order from the Head Office in Edmonton. At least that's what my partner Vincent told me. And by the way, she's a doctor, ah, I mean a nurse. She obviously must know how to handle a broken leg."

"Bullshit! This only results in unnecessary activities and creates additional problems. Reeves, our paramedic, has everything under control," Miller replied dully. He didn’t want to know or hear about women in the camp. In his experience, they inevitably always brought problems to a men's campsite. Good thing this dapper nurse was leaving with her husband Ryan in a few minutes again, he thought.

"But you have to admit, Percy, she’s a good-looking specimen," Galonsky said, slightly amused by Miller's discomfort. "By the way, did you see her fabulous rack?"

"I couldn’t give a damn. Besides, I didn’t even notice."

"You're not by any chance a disguised misogynist, are you?"

"Nonsense, but I'm a fucking realist and know my people here very well," Miller said. "Believe me, Bruce; women are pure poison in such a camp. Up here in the North, it's like judgment for a banishment. After some months, my men will go nuts at the sight of a woman. Their brain slips right between their legs. As a result, we have carelessness at work, accidents, and quarrels. As long as I serve here in this godless area, I will fight like a lion against such excesses."

"Don’t worry, Percy. I shall immediately take the imminent danger back to Yellowknife. One thing I can tell you right now, if we don’t get out of here right away, we'll be stuck. You can already hear the howling of the increasing wind."

Percy Miller nodded understandingly, then turned resolutely and walked to the door.

"I'll go check on Reeves to see what’s holding up the transport."

"And I’ll go to the airplane now and start with the preparations for the flight," Galonsky replied. Miller opened the door for him and then stepped out to the platform. Galonsky realized at once how urgent his departure had become. The wind was already whizzing around the corner of the barracks, blowing up the hood of his jacket. Turning, he patted Miller on the shoulder and, drowned out by the sound of the wind, shouted, "Percy, tell Cooley’s wife that we have to start immediately. I’ll give her another five minutes. After that, I’ll cancel the flight for today!"

With that, stomping against the wind along the outer wall of the barracks, Galonsky stepped into the open, treeless terrain where his 'Cessna' braved the rising storm. He hated such disgusting winter weather. In a sheltered barracks, perhaps, sitting around a warming oven, it was bearable. However, he was often unpleasantly surprised by such weather. It was pure hell because it meant poor visibility, heavy turbulence, freezing, and fierce winds that could lead to a rapid loss of body temperature and consequent frostbite due to the chilling factor. As beautiful as flying in the summer in the far north of Canada was, arctic conditions in winter could be so dangerous as to jeopardize this aviation sector. And Galonsky knew that at this very moment, such a situation was exactly coming his way. The increasingly violent gusting wind and low visibility could make a take-off in this austere tundra like Russian roulette.

Tiny, icy, wind-beaten snowflakes bit his face as he reached the 'Cessna'. Hastily, he opened the door and skillfully swung himself onto the rear seat bench for the passengers. For now, he had escaped the weather. His gaze fell back onto the barracks of Camp Three. In the drifting snow, their outline already looked fuzzy. He then nervously checked the time – just before one o'clock! Where in hell were his passengers? A curse stuck to his lips as, at the exact moment, he saw a dark tangle of figures stepping out of the lee of the last barrack. Then he saw the stretcher and knew that the waiting had come to an end. Holding the door with his back against the wind, he stepped out of the cabin again and waited impatiently. The massive physique of Percy Miller, wrapped in his thick down jacket, reached the 'Cessna' first.

"How do you want to load the patient?" he shouted, drowned out by the howl of the wind. He pointed to the stretcher carried by two Inuits of the Satudene tribe.

"The best place is on the back bench. This way, he can stretch his splinted leg on the seat. I'll go over to the other side to help from there," Galonsky shouted, leaning against Miller. Holding his hand over his eyes, he staggered around the 'Cessna'. With the help of the two Inuits, Percy lifted the now warmly wrapped patient onto the bench. Cooleys’s face looked contorted, and he was groaning in pain. Standing next to the entrance and watching the loading, Mary Cooley wiped the fresh snow from her hood. She held out a bag to Galonsky, who opened the door on the other side of the plane.

"It’s medicines!" she exclaimed. "We may need some of it during the flight against the pain in Ryan’s leg."

Galonsky nodded weakly and put the bag just behind the pilot's seat on the cabin floor. Then he grabbed Ryan Cooley from behind and carefully pulled him along the bench into the cabin until he leaned against the opposite cabin wall. He then placed the warm duvet over his legs.

"Is this okay with you?"

"Perfect – all I have to do now is get strapped to the seat," Cooley stammered, deliberately suppressing the pain.

"That's my business," Galonsky said, leaning forward to grab the seatbelts. "By the way, my name is Bruce — Bruce Galonsky, and I think we'll have you soon in the hospital for medical treatment."

"Thanks," breathed Cooley. "I'm glad to have come so far. We almost gave up hope for your arrival."

Galonsky abstained from answering. He knew there was no point in discussing such issues now. Time was running out, and so he hastily pulled on the straps around Cooley and then closed the door on his side.

"Mary, you might as well get in now and retake the right seat!" he shouted when he saw that she stood waiting beside the still open cabin door on the left. As soon as she had the seat belt around her hips, Galonsky said goodbye to Miller with a firm handshake.

"Don’t forget to report my take-off time to the Head Office. With the current tailwind, I should be in Yellowknife in less than three hours. Bye for now!"

Miller nodded, showing a slightly sour smirk, and then stood back. Meanwhile, the wind had grown into a storm. His hood pulled low over his face; he walked over to the two Satudenes already standing at a safe distance away from the plane, waiting.