“Could be him,” Keegan said flatly.
He read the passport information:
John Trexler, born Erie, Pa., November 2, 1898.
Passport application: August 12, 1933. Renewed: February 9, 1938.
Occupation: Ski instructor.
Address: Mountain Way, Aspen, Colorado.
He was hiding his excitement. Now he was sure that John Trexler was Fred Dempsey and both were Siebenundzwanzig, the Nazi agent 27. Keegan knew the real John Trexler was born in Erie on that date and had died a week later. This had to be their man.
“Listen, Keegan, don’t go grandstanding on this, okay?” said Smith, and for the first time he showed concern. “If you’re sure he’s your man, take plenty of help.”
“Oh, absolutely, Mr. Smith. Absolutely.”
In the weather room at National Airport, Dryman pored over maps and weather charts, shaking his head as he studied them.
“This could be hairy, Boss, very hairy,” he said, holding a thermal chart next to the sectional map. “We got a front moving in from Canada. They already had their first snowstorm of the season earlier this week. There’s four inches of snow on the ground and a blizzard coming in.”
He looked up at Keegan.
“Mountains all over the place. Big mountains—like fifteen- thousand-footers—and this place is in a pocket. Look here.”
He pointed to a large sectional of the area. The town was surrounded by mountains, two of which, to the north and south, were indeed almost fifteen thousand feet high. Dryman traced his finger down a heavy line that coursed south a few miles west of the town.
“That’s the Continental Divide. We’re gonna have to fly over it and nose-dive into that airfield, which I’ll guess is nothing but a cow pasture with a wind sock. I say we forget it until after the front moves by.”
“Why should that bother you, you’re the one who prefers to land on highways and in cornfields?” Keegan answered. “How much time do we have before the storm hits?”
Dryman read the weather strip.
“They’re expecting bad weather to move in by late afternoon. It’s a seven, eight-hour flight when you figure in at least three stops for gas.” He looked at his watch. Five A.M. “If we’re real lucky we may be able to sneak in ahead of the storm. Otherwise we’ll end up in Lost Overshoe, Nebraska, or some dipshit town in Kansas. That’s if we don’t wind up in the side of a mountain.”
“Hey, Mister Hot Pilot, you crapping out on me? You’re the one was bragging about flying through dishwater when you were hauling the mail.”
“That’s hittin’ below the belt, Kee. That’s a real shot in the groin. We’re looking at mountains and snow here.”
“I say we give it a shot, H.P. If Aspen does get snowed in and we have to sit down someplace along the way, remember, he can’t get out either. At least we’ll be close. The minute the storm blows over we can move on him.”
“It’s gonna be colder’n hell out there”
“Then we’ll have to get some warm clothes.” Keegan said. “And we need to get ourselves a couple of pistols
They had picked up a strong tail wind somewhere over Missouri and were approaching the Colorado Rockies by three P.M. Ahead of them was a wall of ragged, threatening mountains. Black storm clouds broiled over angry, towering peaks draped in snow and ice and surrounded by ragged tors. As they flew toward the mass of rock and snow, howling winds began buffeting the small plane. For fifteen minutes Dryman tried to raise the radio at the Aspen airport without success. The storm rushing down from the north turned afternoon into twilight. The fuel gauge was twitching on empty.
Dryman pressed the button on his mike.
“Aspen local this is Army 457, do you read me? Over.”
Nothing.
“Either I can’t break through all this interference,” he yelled back to Keegan, “or they’ve shut down because of the storm.”
“Let’s just find the damn strip and get on the ground,” Keegan answered.
“Easier said than done,” Dryman answered. “There’s a fifteen-thousand-foot mountain between us and the town and so much snow on the ground we probably won’t be able to see it anyway. And these clouds aren’t helping. It’s getting darker by the minute.”
“Then put it down on the highway or in a field or any-damn where!”
“Aspen local, Aspen local,” Dryman kept repeating. “This is a distress call. This is Army 457 calling Aspen local
The radio crackled with static and then a faint voice faded in and out: “. . . is Aspen . . . the air. . . losed. . . you can hea on the phone and.
“Aspen local, this is Army 457. I’m having trouble reading you. We are about twenty miles south of you on the opposite side of Castle Peak. Do you read?”
They were flying below the tops of the mountains and the winds became stronger, more erratic. The plane, buffeted by the turbulence, suddenly dropped off on one wing and spun out. Dryman slammed the stick forward as the plane spiraled out, pulled back on the throttle and stopped the spin. He pulled out of the drive and swept across a snow-swept valley. The mountains towered above them. Keegan could almost reach out and touch the straggly pine trees as the plane slowly started to climb back up. Sheer cliffs surrounded them.
Dryman frantically checked the map. There had to be a way out of the pocket they had dropped into. He began to circle and climb, circle and climb, going for altitude to clear the fifteen thousand-foot Sawatch Range. But as they hit fourteen thousand feet the engine began to falter again. The plane shuddered as Dryman pushed it to the limit, but wind, storm and thin air were choking out the engine. He circled again as he scanned the sectional map in his lap. Then he saw a notation between two of the mountain peaks, “Independence Pass, 12,095 feet.”
“I can’t seem to bust fifteen thousand feet,” Dryman called back to Keegan. “There’s a pass over there to our west. It’s our only chance to get on the other side of this range.”
He tightened his circles, the plane skimming the treetops as he searched for the cleft in the mountain range.
“There!” Keegan cried. “Off to the left.”
It was a narrow gorge that sliced deep into the foreboding wall of mountains. Dryman peeled off and dove straight into the cut. Keegan’s knuckles were white. The plane was roaring through a claustrophobic canyon less than a hundred yards wide with sheer cliffs on both sides and harsh winds still wracking them.
As they zoomed out the end of the pass, the radio crackled to life:
“This is Aspen local, Army 457. Our field is closed.. . I can direct you south to . .
“Negative, negative,” Dryman said, cutting him off. “I’m dodging mountains out here, I’m ten feet in front of a blizzard and I’m flying on fumes. I need some landing instructions fast.”
“Repeat, the field is closed, Army 457. It’s already beginning to snow here and .
“Listen here, Aspen, I’m running out of fuel and it’s getting darker by the second. I’m coming down. Give me wind and runway instructions.”
“You can’t even see the runway,” came the answer. “We haven’t cleared it Off since the storm last week. We’ve still got two or three inches of snow out there!”
“Then turn on your lights and say a prayer,” Dryman answered.
“We haven’t got any lights! Wait a minute . . . I can hear you. You’re north of the field.”
“You got a truck or car there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well pull out on the front end of the runway, aim it down the strip and turn on the lights. I’ll have to feel this one in.”
“Mister, you’re crazy!”
“You’re probably right, but I don’t have any choice. I’m going to have to dump this into that pocket you’re in. Get movin’, pal . .