still filled with a horrific image of his own making. “You can do it, Ralph.”
“N-no, I can’t,” he said.
Brad nodded. “It’s okay, Ralph,” he said. “This is an actual, and it’s a bad one. We’ll wait for a SAREX or encampment to get your sign-off. No worries. Ron, take Ralph’s place and conduct the search.”
Just as Spivey started to move forward, the younger cadet said, “No… no, I’ll do it, sir.”
“You sure?” Brad asked.
Ralph looked at Brad warily, then nodded his head and looked off into the distance. “He’s… he’s just seen his dead mother,” he said in a low voice after a short silence. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, immersing himself again in the image of the crash scene coalescing in his mind. “He’s probably already seen his dead father. Maybe he tried to awaken him, then realized he was dead. He didn’t recognize his mom at first, but he can tell something awful has happened to her. He climbed out of the plane. Now he can see his mom, or what’s left of her. He’s scared and alone, surrounded by death. They were… were swatted out of the sky by the angel of death, but he somehow survived, and… and he’s wondering how? Why? Why was I allowed to survive—”
“For Christ’s sake, Ralph,” Ron said perturbedly, “let’s not get so
Brad held up a hand to silence his friend. “He’s doing it his way, Ron,” he said. He turned to Ralph. “What else do you see, Ralph? What’s happening?”
“He didn’t stay with the plane,” Markham said curiously. “Why wouldn’t he stay? The plane wasn’t on fire, and except for the farm equipment, there’s no sign of civilization within sight. His parents are dead, but they are still his parents. Why didn’t he stay? Why…?”
Ralph swallowed, and Brad saw a tear run down his cheek. “He thinks it’s his fault his parents are dead,” he said weakly. “He’s running because he’s scared and… and he doesn’t want to be found.”
“What?”
“He thinks it’s
“What a load of crap,” Ron sneered.
“We need a direction, Ralph,” Brad said after shooting Ron another “shut up” glance.
Ralph scanned the ground, his head darting back and forth — Brad thought he looked like a golden retriever hunting for a faint scent. Finally, Ralph looked toward the west, away from the hay baler, and held out his arms out to his sides. “This way, sir,” he said. “Away from the crash site and civilization.”
“Verbalize what you want, Sergeant,” Brad prompted him again.
“Line abreast, six paces between,” Ralph shouted. He got out his compass and took a bearing on a distant mountain peak. “Initial bearing will be two-six-zero.”
“Let’s go,” Bellville said. They lined up, with Brad in the middle.
“Make a report to the air team, sir,” Ralph said. “We may have a survivor that doesn’t want to be found — that’ll make it more difficult.”
“Good call,” Bellville said, impressed with the young cadet’s procedures and growing confidence. He pulled out his portable FM radio. “CAP 2722 and Battle Mountain Base, this is Battle Mountain Hasty, we’re beginning a line search for the third soul, a boy. We believe he’s running and may be hiding from searchers. Initial heading from the crash site will be two-six-zero.”
“How confident are you in that bearing, Hasty?” Rob Spara radioed from base.
Bellville looked at Ralph, then smiled and nodded. “Very confident,” he replied.
“Very well, proceed,” Spara radioed. “CAP 2722, suggest you begin an expanding-square search just in case that’s not a good bearing.”
“Two-seven-two-two copies,” Patrick radioed from the Cessna orbiting overhead. John programmed the GPS aboard the plane to begin the search from the crash site, which would describe a square-shaped pattern that started at the crash site and got larger after each leg was completed.
Meanwhile, on the ground, the team began to move westward, staying roughly in line and carefully scanning the ground. After about a hundred yards, Ron shouted, “I spot a sneaker, and it looks fairly clean. How about that? Marky guessed right.”
“Good call, Ralph,” Brad said.
“Is it a left or right sneaker?” Ralph asked.
“What the hell difference does that make?” Ron asked.
“He’ll be favoring the other foot, which means he might start turning in that same direction,” Ralph said. “He’ll be taking longer strides with his right foot, which means he’ll be turning left.”
“Where’d you learn that, Marky — on a cornflakes box, or from a comic book?” Ron sneered.
Ralph looked hurt and didn’t reply, which made Brad immediately come to his defense, although he had never heard of that theory either: “It makes sense,” Brad said. “Which is it, Ron?”
“The left one, O great white lucky-ass tracker,” Ron replied.
“Alter the track ten degrees to the left,” Ralph said. “New bearing two-five-zero. Sir, radio the search plane that we have found an artifact from a survivor, we are altering the search track to two-five-zero, and recommend they switch to a creeping-line search along that track.” The creeping-line search would fly one mile on either side of the track, going back and forth away from where the sneaker was found.
“Roger that, Sergeant,” Bellville said, after a slightly stunned nod of his head and an impressed smile.
“Way to kick butt, guys,” Patrick said cross-cockpit. On intercom he said: “We’re switching to a creeping-line search, one mile each side of track, quarter-mile spacing — the ground team found a sneaker along the track they predicted.” John reprogrammed the GPS for the new search pattern. A creeping-line search was a series of turns perpendicular to the search bearing, moving outward along the search bearing from a known point such as a crash site, road, or runway — useful when a target’s direction of movement or travel was known.
“Fitzgerald brought his A-game today,” Leo commented.
“It’s not Fid — Cadet Sergeant Markham is leading this search,” Patrick said.
“You mean ‘Little Marky’?”
“You bet,” Patrick said. “He may act a little mousy now, but he’s sharp as a freakin’ tack. I predict ‘Little Marky’ may be leading this squadron in a few years.”
“Cactus Two-Zero-Three-Three, Reno Approach, roger,” the air traffic controller radioed after receiving the check-in call from an inbound airliner. “Descend and maintain one-three-thousand feet, Reno altimeter three-zero- zero-one. There’s VFR traffic inbound to Reno at your eight o’clock, six miles, primary target only, and I’m not talking to him yet, so I’ll have to keep you a little high for now.”
“Three-three passing seventeen descending to thirteen,” the airliner first officer responded. “Negative contact on the traffic.”
The controller hit a button on his panel that connected him instantly to Oakland Center controllers: “Oakland, Reno Approach, I’m looking at a primary target fifteen miles southeast of Mustang. He’s doing about two-sixty. Was he talking to you and missed a handoff?”
“Stand by, Reno,” the other controller responded. A moment later: “Negative, Reno, everybody’s checked in.”
“Copy, thanks, JT,” the Reno controller said. He punched a button for his supervisor, and a moment later the shift supervisor came over and plugged his headset into the console. The controller pointed to his screen: “Ted, this guy is blasting straight in for the runway and he’s not talking to anyone,” he said. “I’m going to have to send this Southwest flight into holding over Mustang and back up the other inbound GA flights until he’s clear.”
“Did you try raising him in the clear and on GUARD?” the supervisor asked.
“That was my next move.” The controller hit a button on his console that allowed him to talk both on his assigned frequency and on the UHF and VHF GUARD emergency frequencies. “Aircraft on the one-five-zero-degree radial and fifteen DME from Mustang, airspeed two-six-zero, heading two-eight-zero, this is Reno Approach Control on GUARD,” he radioed. “If you can hear me, turn to a heading of one-eight-zero to remain clear of Reno Class-C airspace and contact me on this channel or switch to one-one-niner-point-two. There is traffic at your two o’clock position, less than four miles.” No reply; he repeated the instructions several times, in between vectoring other
