Free Into the Abyss by Carol Shaben

could see, didn’t know the first thing about flying. Twelve years earlier Del had sold the farm to support his son’s dream of starting an airline. Now he was president and head of flight operations.
    “So I’ll need a co-pilot,” Erik said aloud into the phone, confirming the conditions he’d just received from the weather office and hoping Del would take the hint.
    The cloud ceiling had dropped to less than the legal minimum for a single pilot and Erik wanted to make sure his boss understood that today wasn’t a day for flying solo. Del muttered loudly and though Erik couldn’t make out the exact words, the gist of it was clear:take this flight or you won’t be taking any. Crestfallen, Erik hung up the phone and headed outside.
    A paramedic, Neil Godwin, was waiting beside an ambulance when Erik taxied over to the terminal. By the time the two men had loaded the patient and were airborne, it was dusk. The temperature had dropped noticeably since Erik’s morning flight and fat flakes spun around his cockpit windows. It wasn’t until he descended into Edmonton that he broke through the clouds. At 500 feet above the deck the runway suddenly appeared, a grey belt of asphalt barely distinct from the cloud and surrounding snow-swept fields.
    It was dark when Godwin finally got back to the terminal, apologetically explaining that the emergency department had been backed up. Erik waved off the apology, anxious to be airborne. Stepping outside, white tufts of his breath floated upward like pale ghosts. Erik and Godwin loaded the empty gurney and climbed into the cockpit. Moving quickly through his checklist, Erik cracked the throttle to half open and then flipped the starter switch. A series of rapid-fire sounds erupted and the prop spun into motion, but the engine would not fire. After a few seconds, he stopped then hit the starter switch back over and tried once more. Again the prop spun into motion and theengine strained to engage. No luck. Erik tried several more times, and on the last, instead of the familiar
chk-chk-chk-chk-chk
of the engine turning over, the pilot heard only a weak murmur followed by a sickening clicking sound. The starter had burned out. Erik’s stomach flipped like some great slug rolling over. He’d have to call Dale and let him know. Erik knew how much his boss hated having his planes out of service and if the airline lost revenue on Erik’s account, there’d be hell to pay. He walked with Godwin back into the terminal, got him a seat on Wapiti’s evening flight back to Grande Prairie, and then called Dale.
    “I’m stopping in Edmonton tonight on my way down to Calgary,” Dale told him. “We’ll try to hand prop it.”
    Bone tired, Erik sat down to wait. He dared not close his eyes, fearing that if he did, he wouldn’t wake up until Dale was standing over him. Dale’s plane didn’t arrive until after eleven and Erik rushed outside to meet it.
    For nearly twenty minutes, the two tried to hand prop the plane—a technique where one person sits at the controls while the other cranks the propeller. Finally Dale called it quits, saying that he would have to fly in a new starter on Wednesday’s morning flight. Without further instructions for Erik, Dale strode away toward his plane.
    The young pilot was at a loss. By the time he mustered the courage to ask Dale about a hotel room, he was already 30 feet away and out of earshot. Erik stood beside his disabled plane, frozen fingers tucked into the armpits of his parka, until he saw Dale’s aircraft taxi down the runway, take off, and disappear into a low bank of cloud.
    Inside the deserted terminal, fluorescent lights cast an antiseptic glow. Erik was numb with anxiety, and a raw ache churned the pit of his stomach. It was almost midnight and the agents and baggage handlers were shutting things down. He felt tears burning as he stepped back outside into the cold. He looked around helplessly. Down theservice road a lone light shone in the