Page 131 of Love Me Reckless

The climb probably takes half a minute but it might as well be an hour. We are well past our “No Down Time” rule of a minute or less of no service—something McTavish warned should never happen. What’s gone wrong?

When I step onto the engine room, thanks to the windblown snow clinging to the plexiglass windows and the thick overcast sky, it’s dark and gloomy in here.

I hurry down the narrow corridor between the machinery and the deceleration assembly to where Brody, another mechanic named JT, and one of our electricians, a goofy dude named Ansel, are huddled over the diesel motor frantically working through a restart sequence. JT is an apprentice, so I’m not surprised he’s the one holding the giant flashlight for the others.

“Try it now,” Brody says from where he’s squatting at the base.

Ansel shakes his head.

“Shit,” Brody groans.

“Have you checked the fuel system?” I join Brody, whipping out my flashlight.

“Other than to make sure she’s gassed up, no.”

I follow the seams in the giant motor casing to the back, following the fuel line to the pump, where the fuel-water separator islocated. It’s not in a very obvious spot, but it’s my first place to go in a no-start issue. It’s so dark in here that I have to get on my knees and crane my neck with the flashlight to see the clear housing section of the filter.

Bingo. “Fuel’s contaminated.”

“What?” Brody says, climbing over the hydraulic piston to get a look at the filter from another angle.

I point my gloved finger to as close as I can get between the machinery.

“Shit,” Brody says.

“Radio McTavish. We need a strap wrench and some place to drain the fuel.”

“You’re going for a bush fix when it’s twenty below?”

“You got a better plan?”

“Shit,” Brody says again.

McTavish comes over the radio. “Ski Patrol says we’ve got a medical situation on the one of the chairs. How close are we?”

“Ten minutes,” I say then curse to myself because no way can I meet that timeline. It’ll take me at least ten to get this mucked-up filter off and drain the fuel, and that’s only if I have the right tools.

Brody relays my ETA and request.

“Are you sure it’s the filter?” McTavish says in a rush.

“Reed says so.”

“All right,” McTavish replies. “I’m sending Stepanov from base with fuel. Strap wrench and siphon are going to take longer.” In the background, I hear the high whine of a snowmachine. Good, at least the fuel is on its way.

“What’s the medical?” I ask while feeling down and around metal parts so cold they sting my fingers, planning my next move.

Brody whips off his gloves to text using his phone, probably to one of the ski patrollers so he can keep the details off the radio.

“Not good,” Brody says, madly typing a reply. “A kid and his dad. The kid’s diabetic. It’s the cold. It’s zapping her energy.”

I need to get that kid off the lift and safely into the arms of the ski patrol. Which means I’m not waiting for those tools.

“Ansel, hold the light. JT, get me a siphon and a container.”

The kid’s eyes widen. “How big?”

“Ten gallons should do it.” I give him a steely look of confidence. “Go!”

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