some sky with an impromptu aerodynamic magic trick. For a few minutes they bounced through turbulence, catching their breath, and then the calm voice on the radio said, “Pat, be advised, they’re getting heavy snow and ice-I say again-heavy snow and ice and sixty-plus wind gusts east of Lake Vermilion.”
“Roger,” the pilot said. Then he yelled, “Map.” Iker held it at the ready.
As the Beaver lurched at two thousand feet, Broker looked forward, between the tangled arms and legs, over the jittering dials and gauges on the console, out the window.
God had been busy.
God had built a solid, grayish-white churning wall all across the sky, and that wall was coming straight at them. Broker could see lakes and woods being vacuumed into its base.
One eye on the forest disappearing in front of the oncoming blizzard and one eye on the map, the pilot shouted in the radio, “Closest place to land with road access is. . ah, Snowbank. So. Okay. I’m going to drop into Snowbank ahead of this thing. Get a vehicle to the boat ramp. You got that?”
“You’re diverting to Snowbank boat ramp. Lay on ground transport,” the radio voice said.
“Right.” The pilot dropped the mike and yelled, “Hang on.”
Everybody groaned as the Beaver pitched over into a steep dive and the pilot bent forward, very intent on the churning white wall.
Broker was thrown nose to nose with Sommer’s corpselike face and Sommer’s eyes popped open as Iker, in the front, climbed his seat while Milt slowly moved his lips: “Holy Mary, Mother of God. .”
Their eyes were clamped shut and they were braced in the forty-five-degree dive, so they didn’t see the seething white wall break over the trees and chew inexorably into the western end of Snowbank Lake, as the Beaver leveled out and swooped down five, four, three feet off the waves, then skimmed the white caps, then bounced, rivets rattling, as it careened toward the boat ramp which was fast disappearing into the tempest, and they never saw the pilot smile as he cut the prop and coasted herky-jerky into the white churn.
It sure beat flying those commercial cattle cars.
Chapter Eight
“Next stop’s the dock,” the pilot yelled. “I put her down upwind to try and drift into the sucker, so be ready to jump out and tie us off.”
But Broker couldn’t see anything because the windscreen was plastered with snow as they bucked, blind, on the waves, and he was definitely swearing off small planes forever.
And Iker was yelling into his police radio, “Sam, where the hell are you?”
The radio shouted back, “Dave, I got you visual. We’re on the dock but it’s like looking through oatmeal.”
“This guy’s looking real bad here.”
“Hey, we’re lucky to get wheels turning. The Suburban broke down and I had to commandeer a vehicle. We got out fast as we could.”
Milt lay curled in a ball with his face pasty as chalk, and was gripping his injured arm. Sommer hung from the stretcher straps. The pilot pointed to Milt. “There’s blankets in that aft compartment. Looks like we got some delayed shock there. And get the ropes.”
Broker lifted the stretcher to open the compartment door and Sommer screamed and they all gritted their teeth because there was too much scream and not enough cabin. But Broker kept moving and got the blankets, covered Milt, and went back for the coils of rope. Then he turned to Sommer.
“Hurts Jesus hurts,” Sommer said, rocking in his straps as the sweat popped and streaked his scalded face.
“You’re going to be all right,” Broker said, and suddenly Sommer’s hand groped up and clutched Broker’s arm.
“Tell Cliff. .” Sommer muttered through clenched teeth and his eyes were wide-open yellow jets. Not seeing.
“We gotta do something quick. He’s out of his head,” Broker yelled as he pried off Sommer’s fingers. Then, getting his voice under control, he tried to calm Sommer. “Okay, tell Cliff.”
“Tell Cliff to move the money. Don’t let them. .” Sommer reared on a needle of pain, licked his cracked lips, and blinked away sweat. “Gotta tell Cliff. .”
“What? Cliff who?”
“Cliff Stovall.” Sommer collapsed back on his restraints.
Broker rested his wrist on Sommer’s forehead and came away jolted by the clammy hot flesh. “C’mon. C’mon,” he shouted to Iker.
“Working on it,” Iker yelled back. Then-“Oh shit!”
They collided with something hard and as the rivets holding the plane together groaned, Broker flashed on the claustrophobic but also indignant vision of scuttling and
“Bingo,” the pilot yelled triumphantly. “Quick, help me with the rope.” He clambered over the seat, tunneled through the crowded bodies, and grabbed the coils of rope. “Think fast. Move. Open the hatch.”
They struggled with the door, pushed it open, and squinted into the blowing snow and saw that one of the pontoons had snagged on the deck and pilings of a boat dock.
The pilot yelled, “C’mon, we gotta tie her down before we float away.”
Two bundled figures waiting on the dock turned out to be a county deputy and a paramedic, a woman. They helped Broker, Iker, and the pilot struggle up onto the slippery planks, and they all commenced to fasten ropes to secure the plane.
Broker concentrated and tied a bowline. He squinted at lights that hurt his eyes and realized he was staring into powerful low beams that showcased the churning snow. A huge maroon Chevy Tahoe with tire chains idled at the end of the dock.
When the plane was anchored, they hauled Sommer and Milt up to the dock. The robust brunette paramedic took one look at Sommer and yelled, “C’mon, let’s get him in the truck.”
The pilot accepted a thermos of coffee and, armed with a Louis L’Amour paperback, stayed with his plane. Everybody else piled in the Tahoe. As they plowed back toward Ely, Sommer screamed and writhed and drew his knees up to his chest at every bump and shift. After three tries, the medic gave up running the saline IV. Sommer just thrashed them out.
Broker huddled in the back, wrapped in a blanket next to Milt, who made a cramped pile on the cargo floor beside Sommer. He sipped a sloshing cup of hot coffee gratefully, but he couldn’t shake off the bone-deep chill from his last dip in the glacier water. He shivered and figured it was a sign of getting old.
Iker and a deputy sheriff the size of a pro wrestler hunched in the front seat. The way the windshield was catching snow it looked like
“Get ready for a hot belly,” the paramedic shouted into her radio. “His pressure is one eighty over a hundred. Pulse is one twenty and he’s running a temp of a hundred and four.” She listened, rolled her eyes, and poked Iker in the shoulder. “ETA?”
“Fifteen minutes,” Iker said.
“Make that one five minutes,” the paramedic said. Then she punched off the set and shook her head.
“What?” Broker asked.
“Procedure,” she said in a weary voice. “Obviously, the helicopter’s out from Duluth, so the administrator wants to throw him in an ambulance and put the ambulance behind a snowplow and ship him down the road to the nearest hospital where there’s a surgeon.”
“In this weather? What about Falken, the surgeon who paddled out with me?” Broker asked.
“They’re arguing about that right now. His license is current and they made some calls.”
“So what’s the problem?” Broker asked.
“Mike. The administrator. He wants to poll the hospital board before he signs off on surgical privileges. One of
