Page 18 of High Intensity

He’s already pulling a crate from the back of the crew cab when we join him.

“Delivery from Ama,” he clarifies, motioning for me to grab the massive thermos on the floor behind the driver’s seat.

“Yes. I’m fucking starving,” JD mutters when he catches sight of us entering the shelter.

“Stew, sandwiches, and coffee,” Bo announces as he pulls a large pot from the crate.

It’s not often we have the luxury of a home-cooked meal when we’re out on a call, but we happen to be stuck at a base camp just over half an hour’s drive over a bumpy forestry road from the ranch.

Over the hearty lunch, I listen to Bo filling the sheriff in on the ramped-up activities in town this morning.

“We even had a KCFW-news van pull into the rescue this morning.” He chuckles. “Lucy had her shotgun out and about blasted them off the porch.”

Bo’s wife is a tiny firecracker with a big attitude and runs Hart’s Horse Rescue, just down the road from the ranch.

“What the hell were they doing at the rescue?” Junior wants to know.

“Never got a chance to ask, but when I got to the ranch after, Ama mentioned they’d been there earlier, looking for the latest on the search. Apparently, the crew was pretty pushy, and were reluctant to leave after Jonas shut them down.” He barks out a laugh. “But they moved when Thomas stepped outside waving the old double barrel shotgun.”

“Guys…I’ve got something.”

I turn my head to catch Jackson pointing at something on the screen. Everyone scrambles to their feet, crowding behind himas he zooms in on what appears to be a couple of snapped tree tops as the drone slowly flies over.

“There’s another one,” he points out. “Can you stay this course but go in lower?”

Sully adjusts the altitude to where the drone almost skims the tops of the trees. The camera mounted under the drone can pan a hundred and eighty degrees, giving us a wide view of the area.

“Right there,” JD pipes up. “Debris on the left of that ridge.”

He points to the downslope of a rocky outcropping at the center of the screen. In the drift of snow at the bottom, you can clearly see discolorations and pieces of torn metal.

“How far is that?” Dan asks, even as Jackson pulls up a map on the second screen.

Our location is already marked and he puts in the drone’s coordinates.

“Two point seven miles as the crow flies,” he informs us.

Normally a distance our horses could easily do in record time, but considering the rough terrain combined with the snow, it’ll likely take us some time to get there.

“Have a look…” Jackson indicates a thin line on the map. “This looks like one of the old logging trails. It runs on the north side of that ridge. If we can find it, that might make the going a little easier.”

These mountains are riddled with old logging trails, a lot of them unused and grown over. However, they generally provide the smoothest passage through what otherwise is unpredictable landscape. A trail would definitely speed up the process.

On the screen it looks like the drone is hovering low over the location, the camera zoomed in on a larger piece of metal, a partial tail number visible. It matches the first three digits of the missing Cessna 560 Citation. Just visible from under the section of the tail is a hand, palm up with the fingers curled in.

Jesus.

Ewing is already on his radio, calling it through.

“All right, guys,” Sully calls for attention. “Get the horses ready. Load up the sled with the medical kit, the second generator, and the floodlights; sundown is only four hours off. But your first order is to look for survivors. Oh, and as you go, make sure to leave clear markings on the trail.

“Jackson, I’m going to need you to take the second sled, load it heavy with logs, then follow them, and tamp down the snow on that trail as best you can. Make a few runs if necessary; we’re going to need vehicle access as close to that location as we can get.”

Less than half an hour later, we start making our way through the deep snow. It’s not only hard work for the horses, but there is a considerable risk they could get injured. One careless step could have devastating results, so despite wanting to rush to the crash site, we force ourselves to go slow.

It takes almost two hours to get to the first evidence of the downed plane—a part of the landing gear sticking out of the snow. Faster than I’d anticipated, but still not fast enough to my liking. At this point it’s safer to leave the horses secured and continue on foot to get closer.

We have seven crash victims to find, and, even though the odds are not good, I’m hoping we can find at least one, but maybe more of them, alive.

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