CHAPTER – 1
The bedroom is dark, illuminated only by the steady light coming from the computer's power indicator. The door swings open, bumping into the dresser with a thud. An older, fit man fills the entrance as he flips the light switch, flooding the room with bright, painful light.
“Up and at ‘em Sam, we’ve got to go,” he says.
Sam grumbles, pulling the blankets up over her head to shield her from the irritating light. The man closes the distance to the bed, yanks the blankets back, and gently shakes her.
“Grr, Dad.” She attempts to pull the covers back to the cocoon of warmth.
"You're the one who wanted to go with me. There’s a plane down on the mountain. Come on.” He turns to toss some clothes at her but finds them scattered around the room in complete disarray. "And when we get back, you are organizing this room."
"Come on, Dad; I'm an adult now,” Sam whines.
“I am well aware of your actual age. That doesn’t discount the rules you set up. If I recall, it was something along the lines of barely passing for seventeen, still living at home and not paying rent.” His voice carries karmic justice as his mouth curls into a grin.
“You’re enjoying it too much,” she whimpers.
“Yes, I am,” he chuckles, “The devil is in the details, as you always say.”
"Yeah, yeah. Mini-lecture done, I’m coming. A little privacy, please?" she asks as she pushes her way into wakefulness.
"I'll be outside warming up the truck; don't take too long."
"I know, Dad."
He leaves the room with a large smile, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Sam works her way out of bed slowly and tugs off her pajama top. Rushing, she reaches for a long-sleeved T-shirt and pulls it on, placing a crystal on a leather band around her neck above the cloth.
She shivers and picks up speed as the frigid air of the room nips at her exposed skin. Sam quickly assembles a pair of long underwear, pants, and a sweatshirt pulling each on in turn. Before a mirror on the dresser, she tries to do something with her hair sticking out in every direction. Her hands pat at it, but it just stands up with a mind of its own.
“Why do I care? I don’t; it’s not like the snow and trees are going to comment. Dad might,” she talks to herself as she reaches for a well-worn baseball cap and puts it on, tucking her short blonde hair over her ears adjusting it to perfection.
Sam emerges from the cabin, turning the lights off inside, leaving only the single bulb on the porch to illuminate the darkness. She shivers against the cold as she moves towards the vehicle, 'Search and Rescue' painted on the side. There is a trailer attached with two snowmobiles, the necessary gear tied down. She climbs into the passenger seat, pulling the door closed.
“Present,” she says while putting on her seatbelt.
Her dad reaches down and pulls up a large metal coffee cup, handing it to Sam. "Coffee, strong, to wake up my navigator."
"Yeah, yeah.” Sam accepts the cup offered. She gives the rising steam a long sniff, then takes a sip as she reaches for the folded maps on the dashboard. "Coordinates?"
He unzips his coat, takes out a paper handing it to her. She reaches up, poking the button for the light above her head while balancing the coffee and his handwritten scribbles.
"Why can't people have emergencies on a real people schedule?" she asks through a yawn.
"That’s not the way it works."
Her father drives fast but cautiously down the snow-covered road while Sam checks the coordinates on the map to assess a possible route.
The truck slows as they approach a fork in the road. Sam looks up in contemplation. One has been recently plowed, the other has a thick blanket of untouched snow on it.
"Which way is going to be faster?" he asks.
"If we go around to the bridge, it'll be too long," Sam elaborates, pointing towards the plowed road. "And depending on how they came in, that whole side of the mountain is going to be unstable if it hasn't come down on them already. Here’s hoping it hasn’t.”
“You’re the master here. What is your gut telling you?”
“Stop using me that way, Dad.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” Sam says, taking one last glance at the maps. Something is nudging at the back of her mind. “I suppose rescuing people is better than being used as a mule for moving secrets.”
“I didn’t—”
“We’re past that - bygones.” She ends the conversation with an upheld hand.
He obliges, waiting, having seen her do this before, pulling into her thoughts.
She takes a deep breath, exhaling all the errant concoctions in her mind. Touching the map, the coordinates of what are written of the plane going down. She hears it as if a thought, a faint voice in her mind. ‘ That’s not where you need to go .’
‘Then where?’ she questions internally, but there is no answer.
Her hand moves on the map, and her father sees it, “Severin’s creek? That’s quite distant.”
“I’m still thinking. Something isn’t right with the coordinates.” She touches his handwritten note. “I can’t put my finger on it—well, I am—it’s not feeling good.”
As if stating the obvious, he calmly relays, “We need to make a choice, people’s lives depend on it.”
“I get that,” she snaps, as intangible information crosses her mind’s eye in a mix of emotions. Closing her eyes, she presses her hands to them, wishing it to stop. It does abruptly.
“Sam?”
“I’m okay. You told me to trust it, so this is your fault if it goes wrong. Severin's Creek, snowmobiles from there like this,” she traces her finger on the map. “We pack the last half-mile or so. That should keep us clear of an avalanche or on top of it if it's already down."
“Then that is what we do.” He puts the truck into four-wheel drive, turning it to the unplowed road.
Sam continues to study the maps, her finger moving about tracing paths as if all the dangers each pose are available to her. An awkward silence hangs between them for a few minutes.
“Why can’t I explain this? My reasoning?” Sam asks as yet another route ends badly.
“I don’t know.”
“A thousand ways it didn’t work.” Sam shrugs.
“Not the positivity I’m used to.”
“It’s not a very positive situation. We get stuck, we’re screwed. They die if they’re not already. A plane at that altitude coming down like that? Chances of survival is…uh…not good.”
“There you go, using information that wasn’t provided in the dispatch.”
“Dad?!” she warns.
He digresses, “We won’t get stuck.”
“You just know that,” she mumbles through a whisper.
He consoles, “I don’t, but I trust that you wouldn’t have guided us this way if you saw something different.” Sam is about to object again, but he cuts her off. “You don’t know what it is, neither do I, but I know to trust it.”
She takes a sip of her coffee, “I wish I could,” she releases under her breath.
“I can’t imagine what you see in that mind of yours, how you put it all together to make a call, but you do.”
“Dad?” she asks, begging in her tone.
“I don’t know. If you want to bounce it off me, I’m okay with that; if you don’t, I’m okay with that as well. ”
“I’ll choose the latter, if that’s okay?”
“It is.” he nods.
*****
The sun is just starting to rise as they spot the airplane wreckage. A small plume of smoke rises from the forward section resting in a deeply gouged crater to the west, the tail end of the plane eastward, higher on the ridge.
"I'll take the tail," he says, indicating the more extensive and further section. Directing Sam towards the front. "Call it in and radio if you find anyone."
"Got it. Be careful. It doesn't look stable up here."
“I’ll take that under advisement, but I’m the one who is supposed to worry about you.” He sees Sam is about to argue the point. “Don’t even try, Young One.”
“I won’t. The warning still stands. I see more than you do.”
There are no outward signs of life or movement as Sam approaches the wreckage. She un-straps the snowshoes, watching her head to avoid the sharp edges of the plane's shredded exterior. She digs down, moving large chunks of snow until she can get her flashlight inside.
"Anyone alive in here?" she calls.
"One," a female voice sounds through labored breath.
"Hang in there; we'll get you out. Can you tell me how many were on the plane?" Sam asks as she continues to dig a hole to get inside.
"Five, the aviators are dead; the other two, I don't know," she returns with a thick British accent.
"You're sure they're dead?"
"Yes."
“The other two, would they be in the back part of the plane?”
“It is where I saw them last,” the woman states.
She frees her radio. "Dad, confirmed five on board. I've got one alive, two dead."
"Copy," the radio crackles.
"My name is Sam; what's yours?" She pauses her digging and listens when there's no response. "Are you still with me?"
"Yes."
"Are you hurt?"
"Nothing life-threatening," she rasps through a shiver.
Sam gets her head and flashlight in enough to see. The woman is partially buried, her back against the side of the cabin, a slope of snow between them. She can see where the woman has been working to free the snow around her.
"Anything broken, bleeding? Immediate concern?"
“I can walk out of here when you unbury me and get me something warm," the woman states.
"On it," Sam returns, not expecting the ungrateful nature of the woman. "I'm sorry; I didn't catch your name."
"I didn't give it. Just do your job," she commands.
"Yes, ma'am."
The radio crackles, her dad’s voice comes through. "Two alive here. One able to walk, the other we're going to need the sled and a med-vac asap."
"Copy that, calling it in." She rolls onto her back, switches the radio channel, finding difficulty with gloved fingers. "Dispatch, Rescue One on scene. Three confirmed survivors; two deceased. Two survivors are mobile, one is critical. Pack unstable, advise pickup at the meadow at the fork of Severin's Creek."
"Copy Rescue One,” comes through static.
Sam tucks the radio back into her pocket and continues to dig. When she's made the hole big enough, she squeezes through. She wiggles her pack inside, sliding down to where the woman is. She places the flashlight upward, lighting the plane's interior as she settles in to evaluate the woman. A flash of recognition crosses Sam's expression as she checks to see if her eyes dilate.
"I told you I was fine!" she snaps, jerking her head to the side, away from the direct light.
"Actually," Sam corrects as she shuffles the snow from around her, "you said 'nothing life-threatening,' but given you've been buried up here for a couple of hours, shock, concussion, hypothermia, and internal bleeding come to mind."
"I am familiar."
Trying to keep the conversation going, Sam continues. "Been in situations like this before, then?"
"Not this particular one."
"Okay, not this particular one, but I’ll assume something similar," Sam pauses for a moment. Shaking the thought free, "This is my first rescue involving a plane."
"Hum." she returns, avoiding a direct answer.
"Bet it was frightening. I don't like flying. Wouldn't catch me anywhere near an airplane, and this," she rolls her eyes around, "is why. You're probably thinking the same thing now, huh?"
The woman nonchalantly shrugs, wincing at the pain. Sam pauses her digging, their eyes meet. Sam shakes her head softly as if clearing an errant thought. The woman’s expression changes to cautious curiosity as she watches her.
"Don't worry; we'll take good care of you. It's not far to the snowmobiles, and then it’s only a half-hour to where the chopper can pick up your friend," Sam continues.
The woman doesn’t answer as she analyzes Sam working to free her.
"Family?" she inquires. There is only silence. "Co-worker? Acquaintance? Do you know them?" Sam sits up and runs her arm across her forehead. She pulls off a glove and unzips her coat to get some air.
"Yes, I know them..." the woman starts, hoping it will stop her questions, but her words trail off, her eyes catching the shimmer of the crystal on Sam’s necklace.
"Anyone I can have Dispatch contact? Let them know you're okay?" Sam asks.
"No." The tone of her answer moves both of them to look directly at each other, holding in an awkward silence.
"Okay," Sam returns. "Didn't mean to poke a nerve.”
The woman shakes her head as if to indicate that it is nothing of concern. "Have we met before?" she asks in a whisper.
Sam is more taken by the sincerity behind the query than by the question itself. "I was going to ask you the same thing. You seem familiar to me, but... "
A loud bang recoils through the canyon, followed by a second, startling both women.
"What the hell was that?" Sam yelps, scrambling for her radio; she depresses the button. "Dad? Dad?! Dad, come back?" There is nothing but a crackle. "Dad?!"
The ominous silence is broken by a quiet rumble. Sam’s eyes fill with fear as she meets those of the woman, confirming what she's thinking.
"Avalanche!" Sam throws herself on top of the woman out of instinct.
It's mere seconds before the snow impacts the side of the plane, rolling it down the slope like a twig in a rapidly flowing stream. They are bounced about inside the plane. The sounds of bones snapping, their bodies bending and contorting in unnatural ways as they are thrashed around like rag dolls.
The woman smashes face-first into a protruding piece of window, the entire left side of her face torn open. Sam’s arms and legs fight for a position within the revolving space. A hard crack sounds. Her body goes limp as it crashes to the roof of the plane. Everything goes black.
******
There is only a foot of breathing room within the remains of the cabin. The flashlight gives a slight glow. Sam is lying primarily on the top of the hard-packed snow.
The woman is a few inches from her, upright, buried from the chest down, the left side of her face caked in blood where the glass slashed deeply, the retina of her eye near completely missing, the red stains the white beneath.
The breath from both of them mists into the air. The woman’s hand, painstakingly freeing itself, moves towards her face, halting at the excruciating pain it causes. She lets loose a muffled scream that doesn’t last long as she bites back the agony brought about, but it's enough to draw Sam’s attention.
Sam takes a couple of slow breaths as she studies her surroundings, blinking at the moisture in her eyes. She rolls her head to see the woman and her condition illuminated by the soft glow of the flashlight.
"Ouch..." Sam says through clenched teeth. "Uh...ma’am?...Miss?” she asks in a hushed whisper. “Please, say you’re okay?"
She responds with what Sam can only distinguish as a whimper, her body moving with the careful breaths she is drawing.
"I'll take that as a no. Bad?"
"Dreadful..." she says through a groan.
Sam's face scrunches up in disgust as the woman rolls her head to where the dull glow from the flashlight shows the wound.
"Uh, yeah, that's Halloween-horror-mask-overdone-with-blood, bad. Try not to move, and I'll see if I can, uh..." Sam falls into silence as the realization hits that she can't feel or move anything.
After an extended period, the woman breaks the silence. "You still there?" she asks, moving her hand towards Sam's face.
"Yeah...I can't seem to…um move or… feel anything." Sam chokes on the thought.
"Hold still," the woman says with a calmness that carries a warning to listen and not argue even if she could. The woman’s hand moves slowly towards where Sam's voice emanates. She assesses Sam's position; she feels for what she can reach, not finding anything warm and wet. "From what I can appraise, you're not bleeding, but I cannot be certain, is it completely dark in here, or--”
“Flashlight visible, but your left eye, it’s totally shredded, and…I’m guessing blind.”
“My assessment as well,” the woman returns evenly. “Can you feel that?"
"Should I?" Sam asks, trying to move her neck to see what's going on.
"Don't move unless you have to," she returns with strength in her calmness.
"Doesn't that hurt?" Sam asks, being able to see her face closer and the depth of the wound.
"I have a high pain tolerance."
"Damn woman, I'd say so! If that were me, I'd be crying like a baby."
"Crying doesn't solve anything," the woman states, moving her hand around behind Sam's neck. She rolls Sam slightly towards her with a slow, methodical touch, feeling some more. She lets out a sigh that can only be taken as frustration.
"What is it?"
"You're not going to be any use to me," she says with a hint of disappointment.
"Translate it into what it means for me ?" Sam asks, not wanting to know the answer.
"You won't be able to get me free before I bleed out. And you’ll freeze to death long before anyone finds us."
"Yeah? Well, sorry about that. If it's any comfort, you are not bleeding that much. You've got movement. Dig yourself out."
"My face is not what is of concern.”
“How can it not be? Are you on some kind of crazy drug?”
The woman continues, avoiding Sam’s comments. “Whatever has me pinned has most likely ruptured my femoral artery."
"Yeah? Well, that sucks. What about me?"
As if to satisfy a whining child, "Feels like a clean fracture." She continues to touch behind Sam's shoulder.
"Of what? My spine, huh? Are you sure?" Sam asks and receives only silence. "You know you can answer. It's not like the news could be any worse than not knowing and letting my imagination run amok, ‘cause I have quite the vivid one."
"Ignorance can be bliss," she responds as if talking about something else.
"Yeah? Really? I don't think so. I prefer knowledge; I absorb it like a sponge. Where there is a will and the know-how, there is a way; you just have to figure it out."
"You would if..." the woman trails into silence as if catching herself speaking out of turn. She gently rolls Sam back to the snowpack. "Are you having trouble breathing?"
"Not really," Sam says as the woman’s hand finds its way to Sam’s neck and takes her pulse.
"Is your satchel close at hand?" she asks; her accent begins to fade. Sam catches it, and the recognition battle starts again.
"You mean my pack? No, not that I can see or that you could reach. But don't worry, there is a beacon in my coat for these sorts of emergencies. There was already another team heading this way. Besides, my dad is out there."
"Your dad is dead," She returns evenly. “As are we." Her hand feels the leather band holding the necklace.
"No, he's not." Sam spits back. "He's a survivor, just like me. All I have to do is wait for him to find me."
"The naivety of youth, and..." she starts, then stops short. "Any friends of yours will be far off course."
"What are you talking about?" Sam asks, and when she doesn't respond, "Your not-family, not- friends, not co-workers who crashed with you?"
"Yes.”
"There's something you're not saying about this whole mess, dodging at every turn.” Sam pauses and shovels through her memory trying to tug it out.
“The coordinates you were given? Do they match the location you came to?”
“Uh…” Sam pretends to think but already has the answer. “Now that I think about it, no. I just trusted what I knew.”
“Huh,” the woman says simply as she continues to assess Sam’s condition.
"You a doctor or something?"
"Once upon a time, you could say I was."
"Kind of young, aren't you? I don't mean that in a bad way, just you know, doctors have all those years of medical school and..."
"I'm a lot older than I appear to be," the woman responds as her hand traces down the band of the necklace.
"Yeah, kinda know the feeling,” Sam says with truthful humor. “The same could be said about me.” She takes a moment, looking the woman over. “It's driving me crazy; you’ve got to know that. But, you see, I have this perfect memory and know I have seen you somewhere before. I remember everything--I mean everything!"
"Eidetic memory," she returns on a mumble, more to herself.
Given their closeness, Sam hears her clear as day. "Yeah, so if you know what that is, you understand why that's impossible."
"Not impossible. We have crossed paths, just not in your lifetime," the woman mutters as she finds the crystal on the necklace. She lets her finger caress it gently. It shimmers in a prismatic effect at her touch. "Do you know what this is? What it can do for you?"
"It's just a rock on a necklace."
"It's more than that."
"Okay, it's sentimental; it’s the only thing I have of my mom's." Sam's voice fills with sadness. "It's not even a real crystal-- some kind of synthetic knockoff that she kept in a cheap jewelry box, never wore it until…it’s not important.” Sam shies away from the personal explanation.
“But it is. You really don’t know?”
“Apparently not. It’s important to me, okay?” Sam fires at her. “While I can't stop you, I can ask you kindly to keep your paws off."
"There is assistance to be had here for both of us, but I need you to trust me."
"Trust you? I don't know you from a hole in the wall.” Sam takes a few moments to think it over as the woman waits, implying she won't take 'no' for an answer but that an answer, either way, is time-sensitive and of world-saving importance. "Tell me your name."
"That is what it takes to earn your trust?" The woman asks as she moves and begins digging through the snow down towards her left side.
"What are you doing?" Sam asks cautiously.
The woman grimaces as she wiggles her hand down through packed material. The action causes her great pain. Sam watches, completely lost. When the woman’s hand comes free of the snow, it’s covered in blood but is holding a small, bendable material. She feels her way to Sam’s face. She recoils against the touch.
"Can you see this?" the Woman asks.
"Yeah..black thingy. Looks like a fridge magnet. Though, why you’d think it’s somehow worthy of trade? Oh, never mind." Sam relinquishes. “Continue.”
"There is a series of numbers and letters on one side, lower corner, can you see them?"
"Kind of hard, it's black, and it's darker than shit in here." Sam squints. "Yeah, I think so. Turn it clockwise 180 degrees."
The woman rotates it accordingly. "Make sure you get all 38 digits."
"Your blood and snow is all over it…I can’t see it all.”
The woman uses her thumb and wipes across it, clearing the image.
“Doesn't matter, I'll remember it just like having a picture. What I don't understand is why it's important right now?"
"They can't find this on me, dead or alive. You got it?”
“Yeah, got it, trapped in my noggin’ with all the other useless information. What is it?”
The woman puts a great amount of effort, bends the card into two, breaking it, then tediously locates both pieces and snaps them again. "It'll be fine if they find it on you," she says as she seeks out Sam's pocket and places the debris inside. "It'll all make sense to them then."
"Something important, I take it?"
"Yes." There is a long, drawn-out pause. Sam can see and sense the debate going on within the woman as if she is preparing for the most significant moment in her life. "You will comprehend everything shortly. You need to believe what you are feeling and experiencing. It has to be protected at all costs, including my life and yours if necessary."
"What are you talking about? That card thingy? It must have some important information on it for it to be worth that much, willing to die for it and all. But yet you broke it, so no one can use it, well unless they’re uber-technical, which they probably are, but even then--"
“You always talk this much?”
“When I’m nervous or in pain--not feeling anything other than a cold nose, so nerves. Justified, given we’re both gonna die up here, and you’re rambling on about gibberish and a little black card with strings of numbers on them, making me remember them because what? Can’t you? I get it if it’s a combination or, better yet, a bank account.”
“No,” the woman states.
Sam continues as if not hearing her objection. “Too long, even if it were more than one with the pertinent institutions. Not-so-reputable ones? Uh…no again.” Sam’s mind cycles through all the information she’s processed in years past working with her dad. “Decryption code, but no one is dumb enough actually to write it on the device…I’ve been around. That’s just unprofessional and such.”
The woman interjects, “It is.”
“No, it has to be something more. Keycode fits. Something happens to you or me?” she asks with a wavering voice. “Someone else finds it who has the other half, connect-e-mundo. Sense is made, key unlocked, super-secret information is provided. Yes?”
“Possibly.”
“And that right there is what we call a ‘yes,’ but you’re too….whatever--insert your choice of words there--stuck up, stubborn, self-absorbed, protective, uptight, so-on and so forth, to admit it. But I hit it head-on. You know it, I know it, and thus, I must ask, why do you defend the castle when the walls have already fallen?”
The woman takes a breath, realizing she’s up against a peer. “It is of little consequence in the grander scheme of things that could happen, but it is a connection that could lead them to my involvement. The other…I can’t explain. You must be accepting and open for this to work," she says with frustration.
"For what to work? You're not making any sense here. Probably due to the blood loss and all."
“No, I am clear of mind and thought,” the woman says.
Sam is about to say something, but she stops as she senses the woman's overwhelming emotion. She lets the silence hang, showing respect and giving her the proverbial floor to continue.
“I have not spoken my true name nor identified with it since I came to the realization of what I was and what I was to become.”
A calming silence comes from the woman. The air in the compartment becomes emotionally charged. Sam bites off her questions when the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She draws a breath, expecting it to be difficult, yet is easy. There is a receptiveness, the conveyance on a level she cannot explain. Sam opens her senses. As if tangible and tactile, she feels a cry from the woman to render aid.
“Uh, what…I uh…” Sam stutters.
"This might not go as expected," the woman says as she wraps her hand tightly around the crystal on the necklace and squeezes. She whispers with a vulnerability that shakes in her voice. "My true and given name is Amanda."
"What are you--” Sam stops as a warm wave of sensation overwhelms her. "Expecting?"
The stone begins to give off light. A cascade of streaming colors hovers around Sam, like a force field generated from the small rock. The glowing aurora builds to near-blinding strength and then fades back into the crystal as if sucked in by the vacuum of space. Amanda seethes as her hand heats to hot orange, curling wisps of smoke rising from her skin. She holds as long as possible, then releases the crystal with a long, drawn-out exhale. She presses her hand into the snow, dousing the heat.
"Uh...what was that?" Sam asks, concerned.
"The only way to keep it safe," her words rupture into a muffled choking cough. Blood rolls out of her mouth.
Sam sees it and is about to speak when her eyes roll into her head; her breath catches in her throat, releasing a scream of pain, both physical and emotional, so strong it penetrates the soul to the core.
An invisible wave explodes out like a nuclear mushroom cloud, the two of them at the center.
Amanda lowers her head in empathy, knowing what Sam is experiencing, for it has been bottled and buried inside her with no way of release until now.