With aching hands, Errol gripped the yoke of his aging Junker, checking the instrument panel with obsessed frequency. Winds whipped white with snow from all directions. Immense shadows loomed ahead of him to the left and right, stolid mountain peaks higher than his Junker could hope to climb.
It was a good plane, in excellent repair; Junker was the brand name, a German transport plane bought cheap in the wake of the war. Those Nazis were horrible people but cracker-jack engineers. Still, good plane in good repair or not, flying over this range was out of the question. Errol’s only hope was a narrow pass he’d been anxiously guiding his plane towards, fighting crosswinds and his own nerves all the way.
“There is not pass,” a voice whispered inside his head.
Eyes wide he answered, “There has to be a pass.”
“You must turn,” the voice said.
“I’ll crash!”
“There is no safe passage,” the voice said somehow reassuringly, “Crashing is your fate. You can only choose where”
“But the pass?”
“There is no pass.”