Troop 402

By Donald Ladew

When a commuter plane crashes in a violent storm in the Canadian Rockies, four unlikely passengers must find a way to survive. Each will be tested in ways that can't imagine.

Their chances seem impossible at the outset. A determined, obsessive boy scout, an arrogant 'Mr. America,' and old Italian deli man with a bad heart and a pretty flight attendant are thrown together on a Canadian mountainside.

Before they can escape to civilization they must confront bad weather, a wounded grizzly bear, criminal trappers and each other. Their greatest test will be to learn to work together, to become a team, in this case, Troop 402.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456602864

Book preview

Chapter 1

Late in the afternoon the sky turned dark and a cold mist covered the airport. The air was filled with moisture and bad electricity. There was a feeling of violence withheld.

The sheets of water on the tarmac in front of the aviation terminal were rippled by occasional gusts of wind. The airport lights had been turned on against the premature darkness.

Occasionally an aircraft maintenance man in yellow oil skins appeared in the lights and then disappeared.

Planes landed sporadically but few took off. Boise, Idaho wasn't an international gateway.

Placer Airways Flight 402, a twin-engine turboprop commuter plane, sat alone in front of the furthest wing of the terminal. With its tan and white stripes it looked out of place near its flashier cousins parked in front of the main terminal.

The pilots of those giants referred to Placer as ‘Placid Airways’. The employees of Placer didn't mind. Placid was good. Management was sane and the company had been profitable since it started up six years before. If they wanted flashy, they could work for American or Delta, live in Los Angeles, eat smog and measure life against the latest fad.

In Boise, you live near the mountains and breathe air so pure it tastes like candy.

Flight 402 was on the milk run from Chicago. Its final destination was Seattle, Washington, weather permitting. It had already stopped at Minneapolis-St. Paul, Rapid City S. Dakota, and Missoula, Montana.

The flight arrived in Boise two and half hours earlier with ten passengers. Now, as the plane prepared to leave on the next leg, the ten passengers were probably at home having a decent meal, watching Dan Rather going on about the blood-mean miseries of the world.

The plane should have fueled, picked up three passengers and left on the last leg of the trip, all of which would have taken about forty minutes.

Captain Peter Duckhorn, a middle-aged, slightly balding man with a much loathed paunch stared at the latest weather data on a computer display. He looked at his first officer impatiently.

Doesn't look too bad to the west, Neil. The wind ought to push this mess east.

First Officer, ‘Neil’ Neilsen, turned away from a plotting table covered with navigation charts and walked over to the display.

Maybe...it's this unstable air mass sitting out here off the coast and these storms here in northern Oregon that bother me. This is the funny season. You get bad storms up here, come out of nowhere. I don't believe anything I see from meteorology any more. Since we began ruining the atmosphere the weather is all screwed up.

Nielsen was tall, thin and slightly stooped. He had a long mournful face that made him look older than thirty five. Captain Duckhorn figured it was all the worry Nielsen carried around.

Jesus, Neil, you'd worry if we had a hundred thousand foot ceiling all the way to Fiji.

Nooo, the Hawaiian Islands maybe, not Fiji. Nielsen didn't smile. He was dryer than dust even on a rainy night.

We could give it another hour, see what happens.

I don't think so, Duckhorn said. No, if we do that I'd rather cancel and try again in the morning. If we stay we have to put the passengers up at the Airtel. It’s a toss up, Neil. I want to keep the schedule.

Nielsen pulled a manifest from his flight case. We've only got three passengers, hardly seems worth the effort. He took a package of Tums from his pocket and put two in his mouth.

What's the matter Neil, anxiety getting the better of you?

No, I had burrito's and beans for supper. Things are rumbling and grumbling down there.

The Captain gave him a dirty look. You better put a zipper on it or you'll be flying strapped to the toilet. Let's get the show on the road. Call Sherry, have her inform the passengers. I'll file the flight plan.

Inside the terminal, in the wing opposite where FLT 402 was parked, a ticket agent for Placer called across the waiting area.

Boarding FLT 402. Passengers for Placer FLT 402 to Seattle, we're ready to board.

Outside in the rain, Miss Sherry Willis, the Flight attendant towed a two wheeled luggage carrier with one hand and held a rain coat over her head with the other as she ran for the plane.

Miss Willis was naturally cheerful. With her looks and intelligence, she could easily have gotten a job with United or TWA, but she'd seen the rest of the country. Quite sensibly she didn't want to live anywhere else.

On the ramp the plane handlers had the door open and a set of portable stairs up against the side of the plane. She hurried to get out of the rain. She'd had her hair done that morning and didn’t want to loose what took an hour and sixty dollars at the beauty shop to achieve.

The line inside the terminal had three people in it. The first man in the line was short, broad, scruffy and old. He had a day's heavy growth of salt and pepper stubble and wore an old fashioned Borsalino fedora. His accent and pallor placed him two thousand miles to the east. The lines of his face were set in an unhappy cast.

The agent asked for his ticket. He took the passenger's seat card and handed the ticket back.

Thank you, Mr. Genoa. We're sorry for the delay.

So, who cares if you're not going where you want, he growled.

I beg your... Mr. Genoa had already disappeared through the boarding door into the rain.

The next person in line dwarfed the ticket agent. He had a rugged, good looking face, stood six foot six, weighed two hundred and forty pounds, and was built like Arnold Schwarzenegger. He smiled cheerfully and handed over his ticket.

The ticket agent looked up at the young man with admiration.

Could I have your autograph, Mr. McChesney? Would you sign it, Mr. America, please?

Sure. I hope we get through to Seattle this evening. I miss this competition and I won't be mister anything.

The ticket agent smiled. I wish you the best of luck, Mr. McChesney.

McChesney turned and walked out onto the tarmac.

There was a third passenger but the agent had to look down this time. He hadn't been visible behind the body builder. The boy looked after McChesney wistfully.

Alvin Stanford Thomas III was eleven. He was short, compact, close-cropped hair behind steel-rimmed glasses. It was hard to tell what kind of man the boy would become except for the jaw and eyes. The jaw was square, determined and the eyes were very blue and very alert.

His father had called earlier to let the airline know that he was traveling alone and had given her son a signed letter to hand to the ticket agent.

Ticket...your ticket please?

Al Thomas the III jumped, blushed and dug his ticket, boarding pass and the letter out of an elaborate back pack. He was dressed in a boy scout uniform. When the ticket agent handed his ticket back he shouldered the pack with a grunt and headed for the airplane.

On the ramp Prince T. McChesney looked up at the airplane fearfully. He wasn't a good flyer. Flying made him sick to his stomach and fear made him sweat. He had a motion sickness patch behind his ear and silently prayed it would get him through the two hour flight north to Seattle. He looked around to see if anyone noticed, saw the boy approaching, head bent forward from the load.

McChesney went up the stairs to the cabin cursing planes, Frank and Orville Wright, `The Right Stuff’ and the Space Program, hoping he hadn't left anyone out.

When Alvin got to the top of the stairs he couldn't go any further. McChesney was standing in the door flirting with Miss Willis, the flight attendant with his back to Alvin. Alvin grunted with resentment. From their laughter it looked like they were going to stand there forever.

Hey... Alvin spoke quietly.

McChesney went on talking. Alvin spoke louder. Hey, c'mon, gimme a break!

Still the body builder didn't move. Alvin leaned forward, ducked his head and banged the aluminum poles of his back pack into McChesney's back.

Watch it! McChesney turned angrily. Watch where you're going. He looked down at Alvin and laughed. Well, what do you know, it's a dwarf in a boy scout uniform.

To her credit, Miss Willis didn't laugh.

Alvin looked up at McChesney coolly. Would you mind?

Yes, please Mr. McChesney, if you'll take your seat now, it's time to get under way.

She took Alvin's ticket and smiled nicely. I'm sorry we kept you waiting. That pack looks heavy.

Alvin ducked his head and blushed. He wouldn't have admitted it was heavy if it weighed ten tons. Miss Willis led the way back to the center of the plane.

May I help you with that? It really does look heavy and awkward in here.

Thanks, Alvin smiled at her shyly.

She held the pack while he slipped out of the straps. I don't think this is going to fit in the overhead, she said. Tell you what, I'll strap it in the seat right next to you, just like another passenger, that way if you need anything you can reach it.

Thanks, Ma'am, I appreciate it.

Call me, Sherry. Don't worry, it's the least I can do. We folks from Boise have to stick together. I have to go back and get ready for take-off. Don't forget your seat belt.

I won't.

She moved to Mr. Genoa, who was just across the aisle taking down a blanket and pillow from the overhead storage. When he was settled she moved away towards the rear of the plane.

Alvin got the aircraft safety data sheet from the pocket in the seat in front and read through it once fast, then again slowly. He stood up and located all the exits. When he thought he had everything memorized he put the sheet back in the seat pocket.

He stood up and looked around again. He saw the body-builder back in the rear of the plane, talking and laughing with Miss Willis.

Alvin frowned, muttered as he sat back down. The incredible hulk. What a dork. He didn't see Mr. Genoa across the aisle smile for the first time.

Alvin heard a mechanical cough outside his window and turned to watch the big four-bladed propeller kick over slowly then begin turning faster until it was a blur. He watched everything with intense interest. He knew the high pitched whine came from a turbine which drove the engine. Alvin knew lots of things.

Alvin removed two three-foot lengths of rope from his parka pocket and began tying knots. He didn't look at his hands or the rope. He'd practiced so many hours his hands worked as if they were separate from his body, and as he turned, tucked and folded the rope, he watched the rest of the plane.

It wasn't his first time in a plane but it was his first time away from home on his own. He hadn't told Miss Willis he wasn't really from Boise. He lived with his Dad and older brother near Lowman, thirty miles north of Boise. His father was Chief Forest Ranger of the whole Sawtooth Wilderness area.

Alvin thought of his father and it felt good, and it hurt, and it felt a hundred other things. He missed him already and it had only been three hours since he left home.

In the rear, seated by himself, McChesney tried to think calm. The motion sickness medicine worked but it didn't lessen his fear. The fear waited like a cancer, eager to escape and overwhelm him. McChesney hated the fear more than the plane.

There was a jerk, then the plane moved slowly back from the building and turned to face the runways which were becoming less and less visible. All the noises of the airplane were magnified by McChesney's fear.

Each separate bang of the struts over the uneven cement apron, the rumble of the tires, the whine of the engines, were alien and dangerous.

To Alvin Thomas, it was music. This was escape, excitement, adventure, freedom from the overpowering shadow of his older brother, David, who had already been everywhere, done everything.

FLT 402 took off and climbed steadily into the rain and darkness. Meteorology said the ceiling was fifteen thousand feet, so Captain Duckhorn had requested nineteen thousand for the flight. When they reached nineteen thousand they were still in the soup. He turned to First Officer Neilsen, who nodded his head up and down sadly, as if he expected it all along.

As storms go it wasn't bad. Mild turbulence, visibility nearly zero, but no pilot is ever really comfortable flying blind, and despite their understanding of the electronic gadgetry that penetrated the darkness, they preferred to see with their own eyes.

Neil, call sector control, see if you can get us more altitude. Duckhorn adjusted the weather radar. "Ask for twenty two thousand.

It didn't take long to get clearance and they finally broke free into a clear sky lit by a pale three quarter moon on the rise. To the west the storm clouds were painted by the setting sun in a dazzling display of extraordinary beauty.

In the rear of the plane, Prince T. McChesney saw none of this beauty. The first thing he'd done when he sat down was close the window shade. He sat rigidly, hands clenched in his lap, eyes closed, hating the plane and especially people who pretended to like flying.

He tried every mental trick he could think of but the fear was primal, beyond understanding. He desperately wanted Sherry to sit with him and talk. If they talked maybe he could forget about being thousands of feet above the ground in a frail device that might crash at any moment.

But he couldn't ask. He wanted to, but he couldn't.

As soon as the seat belt sign went off Sherry went forward to check on Alvin and Mr. Genoa. The old Italian was reading a travel guide to the state of Washington.

She knelt effortlessly by his seat. Her movements were neat and graceful. Alvin wondered if they taught her how to do that.

How are you doing, Mr. Genoa? She had a genuineness that made the old man feel as if she was really interested.

Genoa was a New Yorker with a finely honed sensitivity to insincerity. Nowhere else, except perhaps Paris, are men and women more uniformly mean spirited, insensitive and ill-mannered.

Tony Genoa was from a country and a generation that understood and appreciated good manners. Living in New York hadn't made him forget.

I'm alright, Miss. You're very nice...it helps.

Thanks. Her smile repaid the compliment. Are you going to Seattle to visit?

I wish I were. No, I'm going to live with my eldest son.

You don't want to do that?

Genoa laughed harshly. No, I don't. Don't get me wrong, my son is a fine man, but a doctor in New York, his voice was filled with bitterness, said I couldn't work anymore. Bum ticker, he tapped his chest.

That must be hard.

He nodded. Yeah, I had the nicest little delicatessen in the Bronx...had it for forty five years. Made a nice living, all I ever wanted to do. Sons don't want their father hanging around, getting in the way.

How does your son feel about it?

Oh, well, he's been asking me to come for years, says the shop is...was too much work. He looked down at his worn and gnarled hands. It wasn't too much work to me!

She smiled, touched his arm. I understand, I really do. There's nothing better than having your own thing.

He patted her hand. I believe you do. Not to worry. It's like Pinochle, you have to play the cards you're dealt.

I hope it works out for you, Mr. Genoa. Can I get you anything to drink, a snack?

No, no, maybe later some fruit.

Sherry pivoted and moved to Alvin's seat. And what about you, Mr. Eagle Scout?

He smiled shyly. I'm not an Eagle Scout yet. His hands kept moving, working the pieces of rope even as he talked.

Do I call you Alvin, or would you prefer Al?

My friends call me, Al.

Okay, Al. How do you do that?

Alvin had tied an elaborate knot without looking. Practice. My father says I have more energy than a squad of marines. I like to keep busy.

Why are you going to Seattle?

I was chosen to be in the `Best Scout In The West’ competition.

Tell me about the competition.

Do you really want to know?

Sure. My brother was a scout, but I was in high school then and I wasn't really interested. She laughed. All I cared about was boys, clothes and music.

Well, they have it every two years. Guys from all over the Western States go, four from each state. They have a whole bunch of tests, you know, woodcrafts, survival, camping, ecology... he looked down at the rope, knots and hitches, you know stuff like that.

Are they all your age?

No, I'm the youngest, he was very shy.

Wow, did you hear that Mr. Genoa?

Across the aisle, Genoa nodded seriously. Age and size don't mean much. Getting the job done does.

The flight attendant bell rang three times and a light on the forward bulkhead flashed.

Have to go, Captain probably wants his coffee.

Her face held no hint of her concern. The three bells meant there was a problem and that she was to go to the flight deck immediately.

Alvin sensed it. He'd been looking out the window since they took off.

Nice girl, Genoa said.

Yes sir. Alvin's attention went out to the plane. Engines sounded good, everything seemed normal.

Sherry entered the flight deck and closed the door behind her. Captain Duckhorn and First Officer Neilsen were leaning forward staring at the weather radar.

Damn, where did it come from? Duckhorn whispered. There was awe and fear in his voice.

Sherry looked out the window between the two men and froze. She shivered visibly. The sky, from horizon to horizon and as far up as she could see was