Slaton set a quick pace, realizing that business hours for the day were nearing an end. The directions took him away from town, and he was soon drifting under long shadows in the low western hills. Evergreen walls swallowed a road that went from asphalt to crushed gravel, and finally, rutted dirt. Rounding a switchback turn, he broke into a clearing and saw the place he was looking for, a lone clapboard building, weathered and gray, and labeled with a hand-painted sign—MAGNUSSEN AIR CHARTERS. Above the sign he saw a second floor that likely doubled as a residence.

There were two small seaplanes. One was secured to a floating dock and bobbed aimlessly back and forth on tight mooring lines. The second craft was of the same type, a Cessna he thought, but this one stabled landside beneath an unwalled shed. The second craft was missing its engine, wheels, and the port float. Its innards had clearly been stripped, and open access panels swayed in the breeze. The approach seemed simple enough. One airplane was a flyer, and the other derelict and grounded, scavenged for spare parts like a wrecked car in a salvage yard.

Slaton walked to the building and knocked on the only door in sight, a wooden item in a bent frame that rattled under his knuckles. There was no answer, but he heard a small dog bark from the upstairs unit. Then from behind, “Can I help you?”

He turned to see a woman no more than five foot two. She was probably late fifties, blond hair giving to gray and a firm gaze that didn’t give a damn. She had a wrench in one hand, and grease stains on the sleeve of her navy coveralls. She looked like a diminutive Rosie the Riveter.

Keeping to the Swedish she’d begun, he said, “Yes, I’d like to inquire about a charter.”

“You’ve come to the right place.” She came closer, wiped her hand on a rag, and they shook hands. “Janna Magnussen.”

“Nils Lindstrom,” he said. “Are you the owner?”

“Owner, pilot.” She lifted the wrench and added, “Occasional mechanic.”

Her blue eyes were spirited and lively, and Slaton grinned as he corrected himself. A diminutive Amelia Earhart.

“Are you and your airplane available tomorrow?”

“We are. This time of year is slow. I don’t have anything until a supply drop to an island near Arholma on Wednesday.”

“Excellent. I represent CLT Associates. We’re a small company that contracts for private geological surveys. I need to reach an area near Bulleron Island tomorrow morning. I’d like to be dropped there for a day, then picked up and flown out the next morning.”