it now.  A tangible object with mamnade straight lines imperceptibly

appeared in the gloom ahead. Then they were on top of it.

There was a sad and ominous appearance about the crumPlead aircraft. One

wing had completely ripped off and the other was twisted back against

the fuselage.  The tail section was buckled at a pathetic angle. The

remains had the look of a mashed bug on a white carpet.

... The fuselage sank through the ice and two-thirds of it is immersed

in water," Pitt observed.

"She didn't burn," said Giordino.  "That's a piece of luck."

He held up his hand to shade his eyes from the dazzling reflection as

the helicopter's lights swept the airliner's length. "Talk about highly

polished skin.  Her maintenance people took good care of her.  I'd guess

she was a Boeing 720-B.  any sign of life?"

"None," replied Pitt.  "it doesn't look good."

"How about identification markings?"

"Three stripes running down the hull, light blue and purple separated by

a band of gold."

"Not the colors of any airline i'm familiar with."

"Drop down and circle her," said Pitt.  "While you spot a landing site,

I'll try and read her lettering."

Giordino banked and spiraled toward the wreckage.  The landing lights,

mounted on bow and tail of the helicopter, exposed the half-sunken

aircraft in a sea of brilliance.  The name above the decorative stripes

was in a slanted-style instead of the usual easier to read block-type

letters.

"NEBULA," Pitt read aloud.  "NEBULA AIR."

"Never heard of it," said Giordino, his eyes fixed on the ice.

"A plush airline that caters to vips.

"What in hell is it doing so far from the beaten track?"

"We'll soon know if anybody's alive to tell us."

Pitt turned to the eight men sitting comfortably in the warm belly of

the chopper.  They were all appropriately clothed in blue Navy Arctic

weather gear.  One was the ship's surgeon, three were medics, and four

were damage-control experts.  They chatted back and forth as casually as

if they were on a bus trip to Denver.  Between them, tied down by straps

in the center of the floor, boxes of medical supplies, bundles of

blankets and a rack of stretchers sat stacked beside asbestos suits and

a crate of fire-fighting equipment.

An auxiliary-powered heating unit was secured opposite the main door,

its hoisting cables attached to an overhead winch. Next to it stood a

compact snowmobile with an enclosed cabin and side tracks.

The gray-haired man seated just aft of the cockpit, with gray mustache

and beard to match, looked back at Pitt and grinned.  "About time for us

to earn our pay?" he asked cheerfully.

Nothing, it seemed, could dim Dr. Jack Gale's merry disposition.

"We're setting down now," answered Pitt.  "Nothing stirring around the

plane.  No indication of fire.  The cockpit is buried and the fuselage

looks distorted but intact."

"Nothing ever comes easy." Gale shrugged.  "Still, it beats hell out of

treating burn cases."