With its ever-threatening weather and harsh terrain, life on the Alaskan Peninsula can be challenging. But for Wayne Carpenter, an Alaskan bush pilot, Dillingham, Alaska, is where he calls home. Nicknamed "Hammer" for his aggressive flying style, he is one of the best in business. During a routine food drop to his best friend Bill Rankowski, owner of Iliamna Fishing Guide Service, Hammer suspects that something isn't quite right with his friend and the lodge. Risking his life, Hammer investigates and finds that Bill's lodge has been overtaken by an al Qaeda terrorist cell. While Bill survives the ordeal, his lodge cook and the animals do not. And the stakes grow larger when cell members threaten Hammer's family. Vowing retribution, Carpenter and Bill hatch a plan to track down the terrorists and exact revenge. They do not know that they face Toni Larucci, one of the most ruthless terrorists within al Qaeda.
Terror on the Peninsula
The Larucci FilesBy Dana L. CoyTrafford Publishing
Copyright © 2011 Dana L. Coy
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4269-3472-8 Chapter One
The day was windy, the usual ten to fifteen knots with gusts up to twenty-five, and choppy due to currents of air bouncing off hills and land structures that were being fed from high-velocity ocean air. The shape of the panhandle and the peninsula that form the Gulf of Alaska helps generate, capture, and guide numerous highs and lows into a natural catch basin, one providing an environment for the ultimate flying challenge. Wind was never unusual for southwest Alaska. The sky was mostly cloud-filled and with a 3,000-foot ceiling rapidly moving northeasterly, all was gray and white with an occasional patch of blue. The puffy white vapor characterized unstable low-pressure clouds, with winds moving in a counterclockwise direction from the center of the system located a hundred miles out in the gulf. The low created an onshore flow across the narrow width of the peninsula and up the Cook Inlet.
To Hammer, comfort was just being in a plane. Wind was wind and he was under control, with his muscles powered by a bit of adrenaline and that last cup of coffee. Conditions of heavy winds, known as "common" to this part of the world, were his forte. He embraced the airplane, caressing the yoke and peddles in synchronization, guiding the machine to an exact location. Once in a while his head would impact the interior of the plane from an unexpected bump of excessive turbulence. There was no thought of panic or fear, just a gentle tightening of the belts. His touch was from years of experience gained from time spent "in country," the old military phrase, depicting the time spent in an environment mostly hostile. The term "hostile" also suited Alaska perfectly.
Flying and landing the Cessna Skymaster was hardly ever a problem for him. The airplane would fly in just about any weather but ice. Landings, however, were tricky. There was a suggested sixteen-knot maximum crosswind component assigned to the smaller twin engine Cessna airplane, which occasionally was exceeded. Besides the wind, sharp fist-sized gravel and chuck holes the size of bathtubs covered the runway, which an occasional caribou scampered across; it was a wonder that he did not spend more time straightening landing gear.
At first, when he had just started flying out of Dillingham and the area was all new to him, the adrenaline high would not necessarily be overbearing, but noticeable from the sweat running down his face. This happened to everyone in the first few weeks of flying this area. Stress and fatigue from having filled the day with too many hours of flying caused Hammer's experiences in Vietnam to occasionally reappear. Justifying any thoughts of insanity, he rationalized that most of the time he considered himself quite stable, but as with any veteran who had flown in combat conditions the mind sometimes played games with mental visions when triggered.
On occasion, images of 'nam would flash in his mind, reminding him of the damage to his airplane from low-level passes, a product of bullets and tree limbs. Over there, nasty rain squalls would continually create zero visibility, keeping him guessing to the whereabouts of any landing strips. In that time of aviation history, there was no GPS. The bulldozed patches of reddish dirt, covered sporadically with metal matting and showing no threshold marks for a beginning or end, was the place he used for a temporary nest for his bird. With the difficult flying conditions in 'nam and the usual damage to the aircraft, trying to not be a statistic and falling short or landing long of the runway, made touchdown challenging. The jungle always had things flying out and the sloppy, reddish mud runways, splashing and spraying thick goo that covered the airplane, made the whole experience demanding every single flight, every single day.
Thirty years after 'nam, thoughts and images of battle were few and the passing of time and each new flight out of Dillingham refreshing. One thing he looked forward to was the absence of bullet holes on his post flight checks; in 'nam, he was continually covering them but here, not having to perform the ritual of patching, made for a much more satisfying flight. There were always other things out to get him. Daydreaming or lackadaisical feelings were two silent enemies of fliers; overconfidence and complacency were two more. A few deep breaths from the overhead air vent and a glance out of the fuselage to diagnose the direction and conditions of the wind put Hammer in the ready mode for any situation. Landings were anything but normal and depended on the circumstances, such as crosswinds, rain, and unannounced traffic. There was a list fifty deep. The pilot had to be ahead of the airplane, knowing what was going to happen before it happened, and had to know the airport. Hammer had that all important 100 percent concentration on what he was required to do.
Most of the damage to the airplanes in the bush was not only from rough runways, but from nasty gusts of wind at touchdown causing a side load on the gear. This is why he preferred the straight-leg 336 rather than the 337, a retract; the hydraulic system for the retractable landing gear was more delicate on the 337, and it would only take that one time to not have the gear extend to ruin his whole day.
In the wet season, the runways were not oozing sloppy mud, but mostly gravel that drained well. The gravel could be groomed to eliminate the large chuck holes. The danger of the gravel was during the thaw, when it deep freezes in the winter, sometimes as much as a foot and a half deep, and then thawed in the spring. The result was a process of a solid changing to a liquid. As the ground and gravel thawed, it was like chocolate pudding a foot thick. The slop might last just a few weeks or a month and a half, depending on the temperature and rain. Hammer convinced the townspeople with runways to keep their vehicles off the surface during that time. This was to keep from getting ten- to twelve-inch deep ruts.
He did not want to be like the Air Force crews that spent hours cleaning mud from landing gear and engines every day. A ding in a prop from a rock was costly. Unlike military aircraft, any damage came out of profits and surely was not paid for by Uncle Sam. Without a good operating machine, heaven forbid the failure of any mechanical part in flight. The journey for survival in the case of ditching would lead most assuredly to death.
With only two of the 336 Cessna's working in his company fleet, repair was still a daily chore. He had been so busy, time for repair of the third plane, lying in a heap of unrecognizable parts and covered by canvas at the side of the hangar in Anchorage, had been limited. That was a reminder for him not to hire unproven pilots. The constant abuse, the normal wear and tear on tires from gravel strips and the usual aircraft inspections made maintenance a large part of the day. If the aircraft needed fixing it was attended to and, along with the required fifty-hour progressive maintenance checks, Hammer's evening entertainment was set.
Hammer was a fanatic about maintenance. One of his philosophies was to make "a good and thorough walk around before flight." If one was to ignore or miss a part of that all-important preflight ritual, one was apt to be a statistic and it was easy for the Alaskan bush country to consume any airplane. After all, if the fan stopped, it stopped and the reason didn't matter. You were still going...