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For the last 40 minutes, Skipper had been "scudrunning," flying along the bottom edge of the cloud ceiling, sometimes in the clouds, sometimes just under them. The weather had cleared slightly and he pushed power to the engines.

Bert and Phillip were straining to see the helicopter behind them; but so far neither had spotted it. That didn't mean much though. Rear visibility from the Cessna wasn't the best and the helicopter could very easily still be there.

With the buffeting the small plane was taking from the heavy weather the avionics system failed again and this time Phillip was unable to resuscitate it. As a result Skipper dropped down; then gained altitude again several times as visibility improved or deteriorated.

When the weather closed in again they were flying nearly blind, and Skipper cut the power back. Dropping down low he spotted the headlights of cars moving along highway 395 about two hundred feet below and continued to go "IFR" as Bert had put it. As long as he stayed a couple hundred feet above the road they probably wouldn't hit anything.

As the quiet little city of Bishop, nestled in the Owens Valley of California's Eastern High Sierra Mountains, passed beneath them the highway curved and they started to gain altitude again as the road climbed over the 7,000-foot Sherwin grade. The ceiling lifted weirdly with the elevation and a phenomena known as the Sierra Wave, giving Skipper barely enough visibility to fly.

"Do you think they're still back there, Mr. Mason?" Phillip asked. He was looking better, but still frightened.

"Always allow for the worst possible scenario, Phillip. Then you can only be pleasantly surprised," Skipper answered. "I figure if this thing is worth kidnapping and murdering over then we haven't seen the last of them. Don't worry, we'll handle 'em just fine."

After what he had seen so far, Phillip believed him. Sort of.

Bert looked at Skipper and then nodded in agreement, if only to make himself feel better, too.

* *

Just south of Bishop Gregori caught sight of the Cessna again. It was just disappearing into another cloud bank and had increased its lead by almost another half mile.

"Faster! Faster, damn you! They're pulling away." The thought of failing, of losing track of the Cessna, was bringing Gregori close to the edge of emotional collapse. He was fraying at the edges after many years of clawing his way upward in the organization. Delivering the Roacherian Effect Device when others couldn't would earn him the high place he coveted. Failure was unthinkable.

The pilot stared at Gregori then checked his instruments. The engines were overworking and he was low on fuel. He started to tell Gregori they had to land or risk crashing but a glance at the gun in his hand, the wild look in his eyes and the cold, merciless face of Alexi behind him helped change his mind. He decided falling out of the sky was undoubtedly preferable to what these two might do to him if he refused to go on.

Skipper managed to put the plane safely on the ground at the tiny air field just outside the tiny little town of Lee Vining just long enough for Bert and Phil to jump out. Then he fed power to the engines and lifted off again.

Bert and Phillip were going to take Skipper's old Jeep up to meet the girls at his cabin. As much as he would like to have Bert with him with the bad guys so close, he'd feel a lot better knowing the girls and Phillip had Bert to protect them.

Skipper was going to check their back trail for their friends in the helicopter and, if he spotted them, lead them back toward Bishop and away from the others.

As he gained altitude heading south the chopper suddenly loomed in front of him coming head on. Skipper banked hard to the left at the last instant then slipped back to the right to come back on course. The helicopter banked hard left 180 degrees and began chasing a good distance behind him. Taking a deep breath and settling his heart down after the near collision Skipper slowed to allow the chopper to just keep him in sight.

Checking his instrument panel automatically Skipper was jolted to see his fuel gauges indicating empty. The tanks had been full when they first took off, and he should have had enough fuel left to fly all the way back to Big Bear if he had wanted to. "They must've hit the tanks when they were shooting at us", he thought. "Well, this changes things a mite. Can't make it to Bishop, so we might as well head up over the mountain and make life rough for 'em." Turning west he hugged the terrain closely and flew up over Mono Pass. Snow and ice, whipped over the Sierras by the winter storm winds, beat against the fuselage while the turbulence shook the little plane badly. The weather was deteriorating and the full moon which had only rarely illuminated the landscape spent more and more time hiding behind the clouds. Skipper wondered how much longer he could keep the old plane in the air -- he was flying on fumes.

Banking south he flew over Parker Pass and into the Alger Lakes area. "Alger Lakes", Skipper said to himself, "Too rough to get home from here on foot. Stay in the air, baby." He took a heading off the lakes and flew through familiar territory. He'd done a lot of backpacking and hunting through this area over the past few years.

Suddenly the left engine sputtered causing the plane to yaw -- he was totally out of fuel in that tank. Skipper corrected expertly while shoving the throttle back and feathering the propeller on that engine. Then he cut the mixture and killed the magneto.

Over Gem Lake now he quickly ran through the summer terrain in his memory. He knew this country would be tough for anyone on foot even during the summer. Although he knew he could hike out he figured it would be a very interesting experience for whoever was in the chopper behind him -- if they followed him down. Would they? Skipper thought so. As his right engine started to sputter Skipper chose an open area between Gem Lake and its neighbor Agnew Lake, banked the plane down and dropped full flaps. It would be a cold, miserable five-mile hike through rough country to reach his cabin on Silver Lake and in this weather dressed in just a light sweater and a leather bomber jacket it would seem a heck of a lot farther.

Committed now he ran through the same routine of shutting down the right engine. Thinking quickly he mentally went through everything he had to do before the plane touched down in the snow. "Snow -- leave the landing gear up and slide in. Switches off." Rapidly flipping switches Skipper turned off everything electrical to reduce the chance of fire. He could see about a thousand feet of fairly level snow-covered clearing just ahead and figured that touching down at his present airspeed he'd likely use every bit of it.

As the plane cleared the last of the trees Skipper leaned over and unlatched the cabin door in the very likely event he would want out as soon as the plane slid to a stop. When he straightened up again he saw a dip about twenty feet long running across the far end of the clearing just in front of a rise about a foot high at the tree line. "Oh, momma, I hope she stops before we hit the ditch, or I'll be on my head for sure!" he thought, just as the tail began to drag in the snow.

Skipper bellied the plane into the small open area joining the two lakes. That would give the chopper room to follow.

The plane slid farther and faster on the snow than Skipper had hoped. He saw the ditch getting closer, gave his harness straps another tug and braced his feet just as the plane nosed into the ditch. The little craft hit the far side of the ditch with a solid thud, seemed to balance in a hand-stand for an eternity, then fell onto its back in the trees just beyond.

Phillip couldn't understand what was happening. He didn't understand why Skipper had let them out; then took off again in this awful weather. Surely he would crash and freeze to death -- if he survived the crash. Not only that, Phillip was afraid he was going to freeze to death as well. The heater in the old WWII Jeep worked about as well as heaters in old Jeeps work, which was great as long as it was summer time in the tropics. And the threadbare canvas top and doors allowed the snow to blow in almost at will.

Bert drove back down highway 395 to the June Lake Loop where he turned and headed west toward Silver Lake. Stopping at a pay phone in the small community of Silver Lake, Bert called the cabin. A computer voice answered.

"Hello. You've reached me but I can't talk to you right now. Please leave your name and number after the beep and I'll get back to you soon. Thanks."

BEEP. "Hello, Patti? Mary? Are you there? Pick up the phone! This is Bert...."

Patti picked up the phone when she heard Bert's voice. "Bert! It's Patti. Where's Skipper?"

"He's okay. We flew up and he dropped us off. He's out flying around right now. I'm in Silver Lake on my way to the cabin now in the old Jeep. I have Phillip Weston with me. I'll fill you in when I get there. We're just down the street and we're freezing!"

"Come on in, Bert. Pull into the garage. Bye."

When Bert and Phillip arrived they found out that Patti and Mary had only been there about an hour themselves but the house was warm and welcoming and Patti had everything under control. She was very worried about Skipper but managed to keep up a brave appearance.

Shaking his head to clear his brain, Skipper took a quick inventory. He was upside down and except for a small cut on his cheekbone and a barked right shin he was okay. Releasing his seat belt he rolled down onto his shoulder then crawled out under the rumpled wing and into the trees to survey the wreckage.

"Looks like I just bought another airplane. Good thing it wasn't a 747."

Skipper moved away from the plane and did another quick inventory, this time of survival gear. He had his .45 and two magazines of ammunition, his small custom pocket knife, and a little magnesium and flint gizmo he carried on his key ring for starting fires. It would be enough. He heard the chopper landing as he moved away through the trees toward Agnew Lake. The trail he left in the snow was wide and clear, making it look as much as possible as though three people had passed through. Fifty yards into the trees he circled back toward the chopper.

Gregori and Alexi leaped from the helicopter as it touched down. Gregori turned back to the pilot and ordered him to wait.

The pilot didn't argue. His bird was running on fumes and from past experience he knew it'd probably just quit when he ran it up enough to lift off again - so he just shut it down.

He didn't know what to do now, but he knew he had to get away from these maniacs before they realized he couldn't fly them out again. He watched as the two madmen ran through the snow toward the wreckage of the plane. Now it was his turn to run. Turning to the cockpit door he was startled when it opened and he was jerked out into the snow.

"Make a sound and you'll be here until spring thaw," Skipper whispered. He forced the pilot into the snow face first and had his knee on his back, the .45 auto against the base of his skull. The pilot gave a very slow nod of his head and kept his eyes tightly shut.

"Now very quietly, tell me what's going on." Skipper quickly frisked the pilot for weapons. He didn't even have a fingernail clipper.

"I don't know, Sir. Honest to God, I don't know. I just fly this crate for the company when they contract with me. They have a staff pilot who flies their main helicopter. These guys are some kind of company big wigs who ordered the flight and then pulled guns on me so I would follow that plane. Just get me out of here and away from them, okay? Please?" he begged. "They're crazy!"

Skipper was keeping an eye on the two over by the wreck. They moved off through the trees following his trail.

"Then lets get back in the chopper and fly." Skipper started to yank the man to his feet.

"We won't get off the ground. It was stumbling out of fuel when I landed."

Skipper didn't comment. He just reached in and jerked a handful of wires from under the instrument panel. "Okay, let's go." Skipper pointed across the clearing toward the stream that lead from Gem Lake into Agnew Lake and nearly in the direction of the wreck.

"But that's were they went," the pilot looked scared.

"Just do exactly what I tell you and you might stay alive. Now move." Skipper spoke quietly but with such authority that the pilot began to stumble through the ankle deep snow without further comment.

The stream was frozen. Agnew Lake was frozen. Everything was frozen. The night sky had clouded over and the snow was falling more heavily. They would have been hopelessly lost in a few minutes if Skipper hadn't known the area so well and if he hadn't had an uncanny sense of direction.

The pilot was shivering violently. Skipper found shelter behind a large fallen tree about a half mile away from the clearing and laid a small fire with some kindling. It was wet, so he split some pieces to get at the dry center wood, then used a shredded business card for tinder. Using his tiny flint and his pocket knife, he soon had a small fire going. Placing the pilot between the fire and the tree, he moved off in the direction of the wreck; leaving the pilot alone with orders to stay put until he returned.

"Stay put, Hell. Where the heck would I go?"

* *

Gregori and Alexi followed Skipper's trail -- right back to the helicopter. Gregori flew into an almost apoplectic rage. He checked the interior of the chopper and found the pilot gone and the wiring damaged. Without the pilot the damaged wiring didn't matter anyway since neither he nor Alexi knew how to fly it. He turned, looking around in the snow. Skipper's tracks and those of the pilot were already nearly obscured.

"Come, Alexi. We must find them before their tracks are gone."

They moved off after Skipper. Gregori was cold and even the exercise wasn't warming him. Dressed only in a light business suit he knew he'd freeze to death soon and they'd only gone about a hundred yards.

"Alexi! Give me your jacket. I'm cold. You're bigger than I am so you'll stay warm enough."

Alexi looked impassively at his boss and slowly shook his head no.

"Alexi! Now! Your coat. Give it to me." Gregori turned and pointed his gun vaguely in Alexi's direction.

Alexi had seen enough. His brain was dim but he knew when he was being threatened and he reacted instantly.

Grabbing Gregori's gun and hand in one of his own huge paws he twisted until the gun pointed at Gregori. Jerking at it he tried to take it away and Gregori's wrist and hand broke with a sickening crunching sound. The gun went off and the bullet struck Gregori in the heart.

Surprised, Gregori shouted something but the sound came out garbled. He fell backward, arched his back and died within seconds.

Alexi's hand was bleeding. The shot had taken off most of his little finger. He looked around. Everything was white and cold. Where was he? He didn't know. He did know where the helicopter was and he remembered it was warm in the helicopter so he turned and began trudging in that direction.

* *

Skipper could just hear Gregori over the wind and knew the two men were only about thirty yards away. He could not understand the words but even in Russian he could tell they were arguing. He moved closer and heard a shot ring out followed almost at the same time by a startled shout. Then nothing but the wind in the trees and the crunch of snow under his feet. He waited several minutes before moving closer. When he did he found the smaller man lying face up in the snow with his open eyes filling with the blowing white powder and a slight haze of steam forming around the still warm body.

A trail of footprints led away in the direction of the helicopter. The trail was marked by frequent patches of blood.

The dead man had been shot in the chest. Skipper wondered what happened to the larger one. He pulled off most of Gregori's clothing to take back to the pilot. The larger agent was behind him somewhere but had been wounded and unless he was prepared for survival in this terrain and weather Skipper thought his chances of making it out alive somewhere between slim and none. Right now, though, he had to worry about getting himself and the chopper pilot to safety.

The pilot jumped when Skipper returned. He had added some wood to the fire which was burning more energetically than before and he was shivering a little less.

"What happened to those other guys?" he asked.

"They won't be bothering us for awhile. Get these on and let's get out of here." Skipper tossed him the socks, shirt, jacket and pants.

The pilot recognized the clothing as that worn by one of the two men he had been flying. The shirt had a hole in the chest surrounded by powder burns and blood. He looked at Skipper for a moment, then pulled the clothes on over his own.

"Who in hell are you anyway?" he asked.

"I'm a friend. Who're you?"

"Joe Burdici. I'm sort of a free-lance chopper pilot. U.S. Tech calls me when their staff pilot is already flying or needs to sleep.

"Where're we going? I think the nearest road must be about twenty or thirty miles from here."

"Wrong, Joe. The community of Silver Lake is about three or four miles northeast of here. It won't be easy but we can make it in a few hours. If we stay here...well, someone might find us come spring thaw."

"You got a compass? How in hell will we find our way in this snow?"

"Trust me. The only other choice you have is to go it on your own. Your choice, but choose now." Skipper was cold and he had been talking long enough. He started out through the blowing snow.

Wind and snow whipped at Joe's face and be lost sight of Skipper several times. Each time he sat down and called out. Skipper finally took a thin tree branch about three feet long and told Joe to hang on to one end and not let go. If he did Skipper would not come back for him. If Joe stopped again, he'd die.

Hour after hour crept by but for Joe it had become eternity. He could no longer feel his hands or feet. He was sure he was going to die but stumbled on anyway, feeling Skipper tugging at the other end of the branch.

The footing became more level and Joe closed his eyes. He had not been able to see anything more than the dark shape of Skipper's back against the white swirling snow anyhow. When Skipper stopped Joe started to sit down again..

"Come on, Joe! Get inside!" Skipper yelled.

Joe opened his eyes. At first everything was blurred, then slowly he began to focus on a bright doorway and crawled inside. It was so warm the heat seemed to burn his skin. Skipper pulled him up onto a couch and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

"May I help you, Mr. Mason?" The night clerk at the Silver Lake Resort had met Skipper a number of times over the past two years.

"Sure can, Paul," Skipper smiled weakly. "My friend here is in sorry shape. Get him into a fairly hot bathtub and call the rescue squad to pick him up. If he wakes up before they get here have him drink hot liquids. Tell anyone who asks that he just wandered in here alone." Skipper reached into his pocket and fumbled his money clip with nearly frozen fingers. Extracting a one hundred dollar bill he handed it to Paul. "This should cover any expenses."

"It'll be my pleasure. Come on and get yourself warmed up too. You look about frozen stiff yourself."

Skipper waved him off. "No, I've got some unfinished business. Just don't tell anyone you've seen me, except the police, and then only if they specifically ask. No one else. Okay?"

The night clerk nodded, "No sweat." Coming around the desk to care for Joe he added, "Take care of yourself, Mr. Mason. It's going to get colder before it warms up any."

Skipper stepped outside into the cold.

Skipper punched in the code to disable the alarm system on his cabin and slipped quietly through the back door. He felt he did the right thing by helping the pilot out but doing so had slowed him down a lot. Right now he was suffering from hypothermia and probably frostbite. He hadn't been able to feel his feet for some time. Before reaching the door to his cabin he had desperately wanted to just lay down in the snow and let it all go. But he had thought of how sad it would make Patti and Bert to find him like that and pressed on.

Other than his growing depression and hypothermia Skipper's most pressing need was to be sure everything was all right here at the cabin and that neither Patti and Mary, nor Bert and Phillip had been followed. He didn't need to walk into a trap at this point. He found them all in the living room in front of the fire talking in low voices. It was three o'clock in the morning.

"Hi, everyone. I'm home." Skipper walked in as though nothing was out of the ordinary, mostly to allay the fears of the women. "I hope you didn't wait dinner for me but I must confess I'm starved and I'd kill for some hot cocoa. I'm going upstairs for a shower. Patti, could you rustle up a sandwich or something for me? Thanks, hon." Skipper disappeared up the stairs as Patti, Mary, Bert and Phillip sat openmouthed, staring after him. Patti fought back tears of joy and relief. Bert laughed out loud.

About two hours later Skipper and Bert sat in the living room discussing recent events. The others had gone up to bed. Skipper was on his fourth mug of steaming hot chocolate.

"Where's the file, Bert," Skipper asked, as he sat close to an ornate antique potbellied stove watching the flames inside dance and pop.

"You're looking at it, Skip. I tossed it in there as soon as I got here. Stirred it good, too, just to make sure it cooked all the way through."

"Good. Now we have to get Roach taken care of - one way or another," Skipper sighed. He was dead tired and knew this case would weigh heavily on him for some time even after it was finished.