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CHAPTER ONE

End of September, 1943

UNDER HEAVY WIND SHEAR and driving rain, the small, single engine Ballanca floatplane appeared lost—dwarfed beneath the tempest mercilessly tossing from above and between the jagged cliffs threatening on both sides. The granite walls precariously funneled any advance toward the canyon’s end, hidden in the mist ahead. Pushing eastward through the dark sky, the pilot struggled against the violent conditions in the gorge, the aircraft strained to the limit.
      A bolt of lightning shot across the sky, the jagged shape striking a nearby cliff, then came the thunderous crack as the brilliant flash instantly changed the sky to blinding white. The Ballanca’s cockpit and two faces inside the craft instantly lit up, their expressions frozen in time.
      Ray Dobbs had flown this route many times in all kinds of weather and marshaled a cautious respect for the mountaintops imbedded in the clouds around him. He also knew his plane’s limitations, limitations that had been exceeded long ago. At any moment he expected the storm to deliver a final blow, a pummeling strong enough to snap the plane’s wings clean off. He squinted forward unable to tell the fog on the windshield from the clouds outside.
      His passenger was stoic, his expression cold, focused and determined. If he felt fear, not a trace showed in his face. The plane thrashed sideways abruptly. Ray crabbed it back to stay in the center of the canyon, but knew they were ultimately at the mercy of the violent elements. A second gust followed, battering them hard and the airframe groaned with a sickening sound. Ray tightened his seatbelt strap once again to keep himself within reach of the controls. His fingers ran over the door latch to confirm it was fixed. It was a mechanical motion, an automatic habit that he nervously replayed every minute or two. He wished he could climb higher, but that was impossible. They were hemmed in by the ceiling, which was rushing past only a hundred feet above.
      The pass for which he searched was approaching, but was still some minutes farther on. Ray knew the weather would be better on the other side, as the mountains nearly always blocked these storms, but he’d been in the grip of the winds for almost an hour and the few remaining minutes seemed like forever. He knew that between them and the pass the ceiling would sink lower even as the canyon tightened like a funnel, its cliffs closing in precariously, creating a crucible that would cause the winds to accelerate and the conditions to deteriorate even further.
      Chaotic air currents suddenly jolted the plane upward and it disappeared into the soup overhead. Everything became a fuzzy gray void, and Ray’s heart skipped a beat. He pushed the yoke in and fought the plane back down out of the obscurity. He did not have the instruments to fly in clouds. If he lost sight of the ground, he would become disoriented in seconds.
      The sound of the wind increased as the plane plunged downward. Added to the engine’s roar at full throttle, the cracking thunder and the raging gale, the mix became deafening. The ground reappeared suddenly, the jagged cliffs shrouded in clouds: a mixed blessing, giving Ray a bearing, yet awaiting his slightest mistake. He fought the plane to a semblance of level with no sense of relief.
      It started to rain. An extreme blast of air hammered them unexpectedly from the right. Instantly the plane was at a standstill, turned on its side, and balanced on its left wingtip. Ray let out an uncontrolled shout. There was the twisting groan of metal as they hung in momentary limbo. The distortion popped Ray’s door open and the cold wind and rain roared into the cockpit. Before Ray could react, the plane’s forward motion stalled, and it tumbled downward into an uncontrollable spiral. The jolt slammed his passenger’s head against the panel beside the twin yoke. He clutched his seatbelt tightly but made not the slightest sound as he eyed Ray sternly. “Do you know what you’re doing?” he shouted in nearly perfect English with just a trace of a Teutonic accent. Ray fought the controls, trying to regain authority of the spiraling plane. He had no time for answers.

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