Vortex

PART I

« Hatred is a tonic, it makes one live, it inspires vengeance; but pity kills, it makes our weakness weaker. »

Honoré de Balzac

1

The unexpected bitter cold sensation was sending shivers all over his body. Benoit turned toward his eight-year-old son, who had just thrown a snowball, hitting him in the back of the neck. He felt a mix of surprise, amusement and pride, all the while shaking himself vigorously like an animal to rid himself of the melting snow that had infiltrated his parka and was trickling between his shoulder blades and down his back. Patrick’s laughter was swallowed up by the cold late autumn air, as if muffled by the humongous, wet snowflakes that had already been falling for a few hours.

—Wait a minute, you little rascal! Benoit shouted, as he grabbed a handful of wet snow.

The youngster tried to escape down the side of the house, but he was quickly overtaken by his father who wasted no time cooling the youngster’s face with the frosty offering. The scenario had been repeating itself for some time as the father was busy shovelling the paved driveway leading to the garage, with the boy helping occasionally. For Benoit, a member of the Quebec Provincial Police, ensuring clear access to the road was very important. He had to be able to get to work at a moment’s notice, if he was recalled to his base of operations, located in the Montérégie region, east of Montreal. At the same time, the exercise and fresh air were doing him a world of good, and it was also a great opportunity to spend some quality time with his son.

The man got up and returned to the front yard, chuckling and encouraging his son to keep up the work of sculpting his snowman, the first of the season. What a storm, he thought, for early November. Thankfully, the cold wasn’t too harsh, given the humidity and the wind. The heavy flurries were darkening the sky to such an extent that nearby Mount Brome and its ski resort could not be seen, even if they were located a mere two kilometres from the house.

Getting back to work with his old metal shovel, Benoit did not notice right away the sound of an engine muffled by the poor weather. His son, on the other hand, paused in the middle of his masterpiece, listening intently. He was not used to this particular kind of sound, noticing that it was quite different from that of the big trucks which regularly travelled down the highway located a few hundred metres from there. In fact, the noise now seemed to be coming from the front of the house. Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he started retracing the steps he had made in the snow with his father a few minutes before.

When he got back to where his father was standing, he found that his father had stopped what he was doing to listen to the strange sound.

—Dad, look over there! Patrick shouted.

But he did not hear his dad’s answer as the noise had become too loud. With narrowed eyes, trying to see something through the snowflakes hitting their faces, both man and boy were scanning the sky in front of them, as it was becoming more and more obvious that the humming they were hearing was that of an airplane. As well as intensifying, there was also a distinguishable variation in the pitch of the noise, as if the engine’s speed was modulating irregularly.

Benoit was thinking that it was not unusual to hear the sound of airplanes nearby, because of the small airport located in the adjacent industrial park. However, it never occurred during such dreadful weather, and it was never so deafeningly loud. What a crazy idea to be flying today! His knowledge of aviation was limited, but it nevertheless seemed strange to him that someone would take to the air on such a day. His daydreaming was interrupted by another of Patrick’s exclamations:

—Over there! he shouted again, pointing at a shadow starting to break through the stormy veil.

A white airplane was approaching their home at an altitude low enough that it was possible to observe it for several seconds. As it was flying directly over their heads, making an incredible ruckus, both observers noticed that it had in fact two engines and was of respectable size. They could see its wings swinging slowly from left to right, up and down, the wind tossing it about. As suddenly as it had appeared, the aircraft vanished behind the house, swallowed up by the storm. Moments later, the throbbing of the engines died even more abruptly than it had begun.

—Unbelievable! Benoit said, mouthing his astonishment. I’ll have to tell Sophie about this when she comes home from work. 

Like a robot obsessed with its task, he grabbed his shovel and attacked the still falling snow with renewed energy.

2

The pilot’s eyes were going back and forth between the satellite navigation system, the aircraft’s flight instruments and the ground, which was zooming by underneath. Up to this point, it had been rather easy to navigate and control the airplane, but snow showers were becoming increasingly persistent and the visibility was deteriorating.

—Damn weather forecast! Sometimes I wonder why I even bother checking it. 

These words, heavy with frustration, had been uttered by a sturdy looking man with greying temples who was holding on firmly to the control yoke of the King Air, a twin-engine aircraft well-known in the aviation world. Seated in the left seat, Robert Dufort was also the aircraft’s owner, and as such had developed a special bond with the machine. Dating back to his younger years in Joliette, where he aspired to be a pilot, he had dreamed of owning his own aircraft. Progression in this line of work had been arduous. After several years working for wages that were barely enough to put food on the table and make payments on the loan he took out for his initial training, he had finally been able, through sweat and tears, to start a small charter company. For some years, business had been good, leading to the purchase of his twin-engine airplane.

He had taken off from a small airport located to the north east of Montreal a few minutes earlier, carrying three passengers and a cargo of several boxes, the contents of which were a mystery to him. One of the passengers had contacted him some days before, requesting a flight and offering enough money to make it difficult to refuse. For the proposed fee, he was to take three people to a small airport located in the state of Vermont, following a route that they would give him on the morning of the flight. The pilot was not to make any arrangements with third parties without the client’s approval.

Even if this whole affair had seemed rather shady, Robert had felt almost compelled to accept this very profitable contract. As a matter of fact, business had been going from bad to worse in the last few months, charter flights were few and far between, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to make the loan payments on the aircraft. To make things worse, a major and very expensive engine inspection was imminent.

So that was that, on the morning of the scheduled flight, the pilot had reviewed the weather forecast for the southern part of the province of Quebec and northern Vermont. Snow showers were expected, more frequent in the mountains, with strong winds gusting up to 40 knots. There were indications that the visibility would be greater than three kilometres.

Shortly before eight o’clock in the morning, a rented panel van had shown up at the airport. After screeching to a halt, three fellows had gotten out, almost running. The man who had been seated in the passenger seat had approached Robert, who was busy carrying out the aircraft’s pre-flight inspection.

—Good morning Mr. Dufort! he had said, with what had seemed like a strong Spanish accent. Are you ready for the trip? An almost imperceptible smile was making his cheeks rise slightly. A short, very dark beard and piercing eyes were strong features of his long face.

—In a few minutes, Robert had answered while closing one of the inspection panels. Say, Mr. Matteo, your friends there seem to be in quite a hurry with the cargo!

In fact, the two other men had already opened the back doors of the van and were busy unloading several white thermoplastic containers, bearing no markings as to their content, except for numbered stickers. After confirmation of the cargo’s total weight, the pilot had given indications as to the location where they should put the payload on board the aircraft. He had then ensured that all the boxes were securely held down with the help of a special tie down net.

Approximately 30 minutes after the three men had arrived, everything was on board, ready to go. It was then that a discussion between Matteo and Dufort occurred concerning the flight plan. The client had reiterated the clauses of the agreement, namely a flight toward a Vermont airport, at low level, but had declined to give the exact location of the destination. When the pilot insisted in order to get more details to file a flight plan and advise the American customs, he had been rudely interrupted by Matteo.

—Listen here, he had said, almost shouting. No flight plan! And especially no customs! Looking at the pilot’s surprised expression, he had continued, his voice stronger: You take off, heading toward Sherbrooke, bypassing control zones, at an altitude of 500 feet or less, radio silence, and I will give you the exact route when the time comes. As if trying to insist even more, he had also said: If you agree to these conditions, I will double the fee already agreed upon. Are we clear?

What was the reason for all these specific requests? Dufort had asked himself, while images were racing through his mind. Several questions remained unanswered. Should he agree? What were the risks? Who were these men? What about the money? He really needed it. What was in those bloody boxes? The words I’m waiting for an answer had brought him back to reality. He had surprised himself, hearing his reply.

—All right, get in.

It was these events that had led the King Air and its occupants to a point near Granby, where the weather conditions had suddenly worsened.

Up until then, Dufort had manoeuvred the aircraft at a speed of about 200 knots, without too much difficulty, but as the visibility had suddenly lowered, he decided to slow down in order to facilitate navigation and to give himself more reaction time. So he pulled back on the throttles and reduced his speed to 140 knots, also adding one notch of flaps, which increases the effectiveness of the airplane's wings, generating more lift at lower airspeeds.

—What are you doing? Matteo asked him at once, from his position in the right seat.

—What do you think I’m doing? Dufort answered coldly, a hint of sarcasm tinting his voice. I am slowing down so I can see where I am going. Would you rather I turned around?

The message had been received loud and clear. All of a sudden, the three passengers seemed less sure of themselves. They were looking outside, their eyes scanning the scenery, as if trying to distinguish a horizon. The way they sometimes looked at each other denoted what could have been anxiety. When turbulence was rocking the aircraft, the two men in the rear cabin were glaring at the cargo, seemingly worried that it would come loose and be thrown about inside the fuselage.

—No need to be afraid, gentlemen! I have over 5,000 hours of flying time. No problem! No problem! Dufort muttered.

He had said these words of encouragement, as much for his passengers as for himself. A quick glance at the engine instruments was enough to confirm that all was fine mechanically. Concentrating again on navigating, he could see, a short distance to his right, the Eastern Townships Highway.

Coming out of his momentary lethargy, Matteo put a finger on the navigation system’s screen.

—You’re about to see a valley with Mount Shefford on one side and Mount Brome on the other. Head south from that point.

Somewhat surprised by the turn of events, the pilot complied. The visibility was about three kilometres, and a short time later Dufort identified the valley in question. The terrain was becoming increasingly hilly, and frequent adjustments to the engine’s power were required because of the turbulent conditions, in order to maintain airspeed and altitude. As soon as he saw what he believed to be Mount Brome, he banked the aircraft in a slow right turn.

It was at this precise moment that things began to turn for the worse. To begin with, the snowflakes became bigger and bigger, their effect blinding as they were zooming by on all sides. Except for the vivid whiteness of the conditions, it was as if they were in a spaceship travelling madly through space, the snow standing in for passing stars. The forward visibility now reduced to less than a kilometre, the pilot had no other choice but to decrease his speed again and select more flaps.

—Unbelievable! he said impatiently, with all his attention focused out the window, there was no time for him to look at the GPS in this muck. As he was talking, he motioned to the navigation system.

Listen! We’re just south of Bromont. Try to keep an eye on our route until the weather conditions improve. And you two back there, make sure your seat belts are fastened.

He realized at once the fix he was in when his passenger looked at the navigation screen, a bewildered look on his face, frowned, glanced outside, peered at the screen again, mouth agape, and repeated the sequence.

As turbulence was increasing in strength, Dufort had to concentrate intensely in order to maintain speed and altitude. They were overflying a small country road, at an altitude that was below the surrounding hills. He was wondering when they would come out of this snow shower. As the visibility decreased even more, he selected yet more flaps in order to further reduce his airspeed. He was fulminating against his client for having such strict requirements, at the same time beating himself up for having accepted them.

When a small lake, not yet ice covered was passing on their left, there was an abrupt change in the sound of the right engine. Caught off guard, the pilot, with a quick glance at the instrument panel, confirmed that all of that engine’s gauges, without exception, were rapidly falling toward zero. At the same time, the slowing propeller induced a sudden loss of airspeed and noticeable yaw to the right.

Once the initial shock passed, Dufort’s reflexes and experience came into play. He hit the left rudder pedal and slammed the other engine throttle forward. He also feathered the propeller of the failed engine rendered useless. Tragically,