They walked the plateau together collecting pieces of the Bell’s aluminum exterior large enough to bridge the crevasse, then began layering them over the gondola until only a narrow slot remained.
“You’ve got a flair for this,” Sam told her.
“I know. One last touch: camouflage.”
Using a bowl-like chunk of the Bell’s windshield, they collected about five gallons of water from the runnel, which they poured over the gondola’s aluminum roof, followed by several layers of snow.
They stepped back to admire their handiwork.
Sam said, “ “Once it freezes, it’ll look like part of the ice sheet.”
“One question: why the water?”
“So the snow would stick to the aluminum. If our hunch is correct and we’re visited by another Z-9 tonight, we don’t want the rotor downwash exposing our shingles.”
“Sam Fargo, you’re a brilliant man.”
“That’s the illusion I like to create.”
Sam looked up at the sky. The sun’s lower rim was dropping behind a jagged line of peaks to the west.
“Time to hunker down and see what the night brings.”
With their supplies either stuffed into the duffel or buried in the snow, Sam and Remi retreated to their shelter. In the quickly dwindling twilight, they took inventory of the duffel’s contents.
“What’s this?” Remi asked, pulling out the lumbar pack Sam had snagged just before leaping from the Z-9.
“That’s a-” He stopped, frowned, then smiled. “That, my dear, is an emergency parachute. But to you and me, it’s about a hundred fifty square feet of blanket.”
They extracted the chute from the pack and soon they were huddled tightly inside a white fabric cocoon. Relatively warm and so far safe, they chatted quietly, watching the light fade into complete darkness.
They slowly drifted off to sleep.
Some time later Sam’s eyes sprung open. The blackness around them was complete. Wrapped in his arms, Remi whispered, “Do you hear it?”
“Yes.”
In the distance came the chopping thud of helicopter rotors.
“What are the chances it’s a rescue party?” Remi asked.
“Virtually none.”
“Thanks for playing along.”
The sound of the rotors slowly increased until Sam and Remi were certain the helicopter had dropped into the valley. A few moments later a bright spotlight swept over the crevasse; blinding white slivers of light arced through the gaps in the roof.
Then the light was gone, fading as it skimmed over the plateau. Twice more it returned and went away.
Then, suddenly, the helicopter’s engine changed in pitch.
“Coming in to hover,” Sam whispered.
Sam grabbed the pistol from where he had tucked it beneath his leg and switched it to his right hand.
The downwash came. Jets of icy air and swirling snow filled the gondola. Based on the shadows cast by the searchlight, the helicopter seemed to be crabbing sideways over the plateau, pivoting this way, then that way, either looking for them and/or survivors among their missing comrades.
Sam and Remi had left the Z-9’s tail jutting from the runnel as a clue to the helicopter’s fate. Anyone lucky enough to survive a plunge to the lake would have certainly drowned soon after. It was a conclusion that Sam and Remi prayed this search party would make.
Doggedly, their visitors made three more passes over the plateau. Then as suddenly as it had appeared, the spotlight went dark, and the rotors faded into the distance.
34
Despite the extreme cold, their gondola cave served them well, the snow-covered roof not only protecting them from the wind but also trapping a precious fraction of their body heat. Ensconced in the parachute canopy, their parkas, caps, and gloves, they slept deeply, if sporadically, until the sun peeking through the aluminum shingles woke them.
Though wary of another visit from the Chinese, Sam and Remi knew that to survive they would have to find a way out of the valley.
They climbed out of the gondola and set about making breakfast. From the Bell’s wreckage, they’d also managed to scrounge nine tea bags and a half-torn bag of dehydrated stroganoff. From the Z-9, Sam had unknowingly picked up a packet of rice crackers and three cans of what looked like baked mung beans. They split one of these and shared a cup of tea, the water for which they boiled inside the empty can.
They both agreed it was one of the best meals they’d ever had.
Sam took his last sip of tea, then said, “I was thinking last night-”
“And talking in your sleep,” Remi added. “You want to build something, don’t you?”
“Our mummified friends in the gondola got here by hot-air balloon. Why don’t we leave the same way?” Remi opened her mouth to speak but Sam pushed on. “No, I’m not talking about resurrecting their balloon. I’m thinking more along the lines of a . . .” Sam searched for the right term. “Franken-Balloon.”
Remi was nodding. “Some of their rigging, some of ours . . .” Her eyes brightened. “The parachute!”
“You read my mind. If we can shape it and seal it up, I think I have a way of filling it. All we need is enough to lift us out of this valley and onto one of those meadows we saw to the south-four or five miles at most. From there we should be able to walk to a village.”
“It’s still a long shot.”
“Long shots are our specialty, Remi. Here’s the truth of it: in these temperatures, we won’t survive for more than five days. A rescue party might come before that, but I’ve never been a big fan of ‘might.’”
“And there’s the Chinese to consider.”
“And them. I don’t see any other option. We gamble on rescue or we get ourselves out of here-or die trying.”
“No question: we try. Let’s build a dirigible.”
The first order of business was inventory. While Remi took careful stock of what they had scrounged, Sam carefully reeled the old rigging up from the crevasse. He found only shreds of what had once been the balloon-or balloons, in this case.
“There were at least three of them,” Sam guessed. “Probably four. You see all the curved pieces of wicker, the way they come to a point?”
“Yes.”
“I think those might have been enclosures for the balloons.”
“This material is silk,” Remi added. “It’s very thick.”
“Imagine it, Remi: a thirty-foot-long gondola suspended from four caged silk balloons . . . wicker-and-bamboo struts, sinew guy lines . . . I wonder how they kept it aloft. How did they funnel the heated air into the balloons? How would they-”
Remi turned to Sam, clasped his face between her hands, and kissed him. “Daydream later, okay?”
“Okay.”
Together, they began separating the tangled mess, setting guylines to one side, bamboo-and-wicker struts to the other. Once done, they carefully lifted the mummies from the gondola and began untangling them from the last bit of rigging.
“I’d love to know their story,” Remi said.
“It’s obvious they’d been using the upturned gondola as a shelter,” Sam said. “Perhaps the crevasse split open suddenly, and only these two managed to hold on.”
“Then why stay like that?”
