“Negative, negative,” Dryman said, cutting him off. “I’m dodging mountains out here, I’m ten feet in front of a blizzard and I’m flying on fumes. I need some landing instructions fast.”
“Repeat, the field is
“Listen here, Aspen, I’m running out of fuel and it’s getting darker by the second. I’m coming down. Give me wind and runway instructions.”
“You can’t even
“Then turn on your lights and say a prayer,” Dryman answered.
“We haven’t got any lights! Wait a minute . . . I can hear you. You’re north of the field.”
“You got a truck or car there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well pull out on the front end of the runway, aim it down the strip and turn on the lights. I’ll have to feel this one in.”
“Mister, you’re crazy!”
“You’re probably right, but I don’t have any choice. I’m going to have to dump this into that pocket you’re in. Get movin’, pal . .
There were mountains all around them and the snow was slashing at the cabin windows. Dryman peeled up on one wing and dove down the side of one of the mountains, then pulled out and skimmed across the village at about five hundred feet.
“I think the airport’s over there someplace,” he said, pointing vaguely to the left.
“Hey, Boss, I can’t see anything in front of us. I’m really flying by the seat of my pants.”
Suddenly in front of and below them, through the slashing snow pellets, they saw headlights flash on.
“Glorioski, Sandy, there it is,” Dryman yelled enthusiastically. “All we gotta do now is land.”
The plane roared across the east-west strip heading south. Dryman peeled up, stood the plane on her wing and swung around in a tight arc one hundred feet off the ground, did a perfect 270-degree bank, leveled off, dropped down and hopscotched over the top of the car, clearing it by five feet.
“Hang on!” Dryman yelled as he cut power and pulled the nose up. The plane whooshed down and thudded hard on the frozen ground. Snow showered up over the wings and pummeled the cabin. Dryman pumped the brakes, trying to keep the plane from skidding out from under him. The fence at the end of the field rushed toward them. Then he slammed hard on the right brake and the plane spun around twice and stopped.
They sat for a full minute staring out at the snow flurries that fluttered around them.
“Beautiful,” the pilot finally said half aloud. He turned and looked back at the rear cockpit. A pale Keegan smiled wanly back at him and gave him a thumbs-up sign.
“Always remember,” Dryman said with a laugh. “Any one you can walk away from is a good one.”
The airport manager drove up through the snow, the chains on his tires clinking against the fenders of his car. He jumped out, a young redheaded man in his mid-twenties, his eyes still bugged from the spectacle of watching Dryman make it safely to the ground.
“You guys okay?” he said as they climbed out of the plane.
“I’m ten years older than I was an hour ago,” Keegan replied with a sigh.
“Amazing! Amazing!” the young man yelled. “I’ve never seen anybody fly like that!”
“And probably never will again,” Dryman said, climbing out of the plane. “You did real good, fella. What’s your name?”
“Jesse Manners,” he said sticking out his hand. Keegan jumped down from the wing and slogged through ankle-deep snow to shake hands with the young man.
“Keegan, White House Security,” he said. “This is my pilot, Captain Dryman.”
“Jesse Manners,” he repeated, shaking their hands. “I manage the airport here, such as it is. Why don’t you taxi over to the hangar? Least it’ll keep your plane from freezing up.”
“Good idea,” Dryman agreed.
“Mind if I drive with you?” Keegan asked. “I need to call the sheriff.”
“Sure, but he ain’t here. He’s over at Glenwood Springs to talk to the sheriff there. I seen him at lunch just as he was leavin’. You might try Duane Harris, he’s the forest ranger in charge, usually watches out for things when the sheriff’s off somewhere.”
“He’ll do.”
The ranger sounded friendly and a little awed by the fact that they had flown into Aspen in such bad weather. Manners provided hot coffee while they waited for Harris to drive fifteen miles from town to the airport. Keegan avoided Manners’s questions while they waited and finally the youthful manager went into the hangar to help Dryman check out the AT-6. Half an hour later a husky forest ranger in a heavy sheepskin jacket entered the airport office. He was in his late twenties, a pleasant, shaggy- haired man with the beginnings of a beard and a quick smile.
“Mr. Keegan? Duane Harris, U.S. Forestry Station,” he introduced himself.
“Good to see you,” Keegan said. “I really appreciate your help in this. Meet my pilot, Captain Dryman, H.P. for
