Northern Lights

debris. Tents, equipment—bodies. There are a lot of crevices. I'll get as close as I can."
    He wanted them to be alive. He'd had enough of death, enough of waste. He hadn't come to look for bodies, but for boys. Frightened, lost, possibly injured, but boys he could return to their terrified parents.
    He scanned through his field glasses. He could see the bowelloosening drops, the skinny ledges, the sheer walls of ice. There was no point in wondering why anyone would be compelled to risk limb or life, brave hideous conditions, starve and suffer to hack his way to the top. People did crazier things for sport.
    He registered the buffeting winds, the uneasy proximity of the little plane to the unforgiving walls, and shut down the fear.
    He searched until his eyes burned, then lowered the glasses to blink them clear. "Nothing yet."
    "It's a big mountain."
    She circled, he searched, while she continued to detail coordinates to control. He spotted another plane, a little yellow bird swooping to the west, and the sturdy bulk of a chopper. The mountain dwarfed everything. It no longer looked small to him, not with everything he had focused on it.
    There were shapes that made its shape—plates of rippling ice, fields of snow, fists of black rock that were punched out of cliff walls and were streamed with somehow delicate rivers of more ice, like glossy icing.
    He saw shadows he imagined the sun never found and vicious drops to nothing. From one a beam of light shot back at him, like sun bouncing off crystal.
    "Something down there," he called out. "Metal or glass. Reflective. In that crevice."
    "I'll circle around."
    He lowered the binoculars to rub at his eyes, wishing he'd brought his own sunglasses. The glare was murderous.
    She climbed, banked, and as she circled, Nate caught a flicker of color against the snow.
    "Wait. There. What's that? About four o'clock? Jesus, Meg, four o'clock."
    "Son of a bitch. One of them's alive."
    He saw it now, the bright blue, the movement, the vaguely human shape, frantically windmilling arms to signal. She dipped the wings, right then left, right then left, as she arrowed back.
    "This is Beaver-Niner-zulu-Niner-Alfa-Tango. I've got one," she said into her headset. "Alive, just above Sun Glacier. I'm going in for him."
    "You're going to land?" Burke asked when she'd repeated the call and relayed coordinates. "On that?"
    "You're going one better," she told him. "You're going out on it. I can't leave the plane—crosswinds are too risky, and there's no place, and no time to tie down."
    He stared down, saw the figure stumble, fall and roll, tumbling, sliding before it lay still, nearly invisible now in the white surf.
    "Better give me a lesson and make it quick."
    "I put down, you get out, climb up, get him, bring him back.Then we all go home and have a really big beer."
    "Short lesson."
    "No time for much more. Make him walk. If he can't, drag him. Grab some goggles. You'll need them. There's no fancy work here. It's just like crossing a pond and climbing a few rocks."
    "Just doing it several thousand feet above sea level. No big deal."
    She showed her teeth in a grin as she fought minor little wars to keep the plane steady. "That's the spirit."
    The wind tore at the plane, and she fought back, dragging the nose back up, leveling the wings. She angled toward her approach, dropped the gear, cut back the throttle.
    Nate decided not to hold his breath since inhaling and exhaling might not be an option very shortly. But she slid the plane onto the glacier, between the void and the wall.
    "Move!" she ordered, but he was already yanking off his safety belt.
    "It's probably twenty below out there, so you make it quick. Unless I have to take off again, don't try to give him any medical assistance until we've got him back in the plane. Just get him, haul him, dump him in."
    "I've got it."
    "One more thing," she shouted as he shoved open the door and the wind roared in. "If I do have to lift off, don't panic. I'll come back for you."
    He leaped onto the mountain. It wasn't the time to question, to overthink. Cold cut into him like knives, and the air was so thin that it sliced his throat. There were hills rising up out of hills, rippling seas, acres of shadow, oceans of white.
    He pushed himself across the glacier, settling for a lumbering jog instead of the sprint he'd hoped for.
    When he hit rock, he went by instinct, pulling his way up, clattering like a goat, then sinking nearly to his knees when