The Last Run: A True Story of Rescue and Redemption on the Alaska Seas – Coast Guard Aviators and a Hellish Arctic Tempest - Softcover

Lewan, Todd

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0060956232 ISBN 13: 9780060956233

Publisher: Harper Perennial, 2005

Synopsis

It was a desperate mission that made front-page headlines and captured the attention of millions of readers around the world. In January 1998, in the dead of an Alaskan winter, a cataclysmic Arctic storm with hurricane-force winds and towering seas forced five fishermen to abandon their vessel in the Gulf of Alaska and left them adrift in thirty-eight-degree water with no lifeboat. Their would-be rescuers were 150 miles away at the Coast Guard station, with the nearby airport shut down by an avalanche.

The Last Run is the epic tale of the wreck of the oldest registered fishing schooner in Alaska, a hellish Arctic tempest, and the three teams of aviators in helicopters who withstood 140-mph gusts and hovered alongside waves that were ten stories high. But what makes this more than a true-life page-turner is its portrait of untamed Alaska and the unflappable spirit of people who forge a different kind of life on America's last frontier, the "end of the roaders" who are drawn to, or flee to, Alaska to seek a final destiny.

About this title

About the Author

Todd Lewan joined the Associated Press as a correspondent in 1988. In 1996 he became an editor on AP's international desk, and later a national features writer. In 1998 he received several feature-writing prizes for this story.

From the Back Cover

It was a desperate mission that made front-page headlines and captured the attention of millions of readers around the world. In January 1998, in the dead of an Alaskan winter, a cataclysmic Arctic storm with hurricane-force winds and towering seas forced five fishermen to abandon their vessel in the Gulf of Alaska and left them adrift in thirty-eight-degree water with no lifeboat. Their would-be rescuers were 150 miles away at the Coast Guard station, with the nearby airport shut down by an avalanche.

The Last Run is the epic tale of the wreck of the oldest registered fishing schooner in Alaska, a hellish Arctic tempest, and the three teams of aviators in helicopters who withstood 140-mph gusts and hovered alongside waves that were ten stories high. But what makes this more than a true-life page-turner is its portrait of untamed Alaska and the unflappable spirit of people who forge a different kind of life on America's last frontier, the "end of the roaders" who are drawn to, or flee to, Alaska to seek a final destiny.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Last Run

A True Story of Rescue and Redemption on the Alaska SeasBy Todd Lewan

HarperCollins Publishers

Copyright © 2005 Todd Lewan
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780060956233

Chapter One

The body came in with no eyes or ears. There was no nose, either. Nochin, no teeth -- not a single, distinguishing facial mark. There was, in fact,nothing to work with from the neck up, except for a few strands of brittle,soiled hair.

"This is all?"

"That's it."

"Where did the kids find him?"

"In a bear den."

"What?"

"That's right."

"What the hell were they doing in a bear den?"

"Hunting."

"Some kids."

It was chilly in the room. The air-conditioning might have been set toohigh. The air hung stagnant and smelled faintly of ammonia. Under thehard, fluorescent lamplight, the weathered bits of what once had been aman looked insignificant in repose.

The investigator rubbed the gooseflesh on his arms. "Well," he muttered,"let's get this show going."

"All right," the pathologist said. "Where's that recorder?"

"Here."

The pathologist leaned over the examining table. He wore thick glassesover red-rimmed, blue eyes; a white mask covered his mouth and nose. Hehad long, bony fingers gloved in latex. He pressed the record button.

For the record he gave his name, Dr. Michael Propst, the date, August14, 1998, the time, 2:14 P.M. He cleared his throat and began describingwhat he saw. There was noteworthy biological material. Specifically, bonefragments, hair and skin. The bone fragments showed predation?a largebear, most likely, judging by the depth of the marks. The bones, from an arm, a rib cage, a leg, appeared to be human. So did several of the hairs,although some of it had likely once belonged to a deer or a seal. Therewere fragments of a neoprene wet suit, also very much predated, amongthem a sleeve, a right mitten, a trouser leg and a large section of the upperchest. And there was clothing: two white socks, briefs, a T-shirt, sweatpantsand a Casio watchband.

Propst coughed.

The box, he went on, also contained a fair amount of dirt, spruce needlesand other organic debris from the crime scene. He paused the tape.

"They bagged this stuff in a hurry," Propst said. "Can't say I blamethem."

"Anything else?" the investigator asked.

"Yes."

Recording again, Propst made note of five skin fragments. Some haddecomposed more than others. One had had a fingernail still attached toit. The nail, he said, was most likely human.

He stopped the tape and pulled down his mask.

"Man didn't clean under his nails."

"No. What else we got?"

"Look here."

Now the investigator, whose name was David Hanson, leaned over thetable. On the chest of the suit was an emblem, a penguin, and the brandname IMPERIAL stitched across it.

"The manufacturer," Hanson said.

"Apparently."

Hanson ran his forefinger along the inside of the collar and pulled outa tag. On it was a serial number, a lot number and a date of manufacture:March 23, 1989.

"Not new," he said.

"No."

"And still wet," Hanson said. The material had a loamy smell, likedecaying wood chips. "Hang all this stuff in the back room," he said to thelab assistant. "Let it dry out."

As the assistant collected the shreds, Hanson worked his lip with histeeth. He was wearing his navy blue suit, with starched white shirt, tie andblack leather shoes. He was neat, clean, shaved and stern. He'd been a cop six years but a member of the Anchorage crime unit just twenty-two days.He was twenty-eight and this was his first case. It would be nice to get it togo somewhere besides a missing persons file cabinet.

He sighed.

"Is this really all we've got?"

"There is the skin," Propst said.

"Right."

Of the five skin fragments the biggest was no larger than a dime. Threeothers were brittle, yellow, and the last two as sturdy as wet newspaper.

Hanson squinted at them.

"So?"

Propst scratched a fleshy jowl. "Well," he said, "they're human. Remember,they came from inside a survival suit."

"I remember."

"If the fingerprint lab could make prints from these fragments, thenyou could check the prints against what's on file."

"And you think we could make prints from these little things?"

Propst snapped off the latex gloves. "Ask Walter MacFarlane that."

Walter MacFarlane laughed a smoker's laugh, coughed a smoker's coughand then smiled. A big, Savannah smile.

"You've got to be kidding," he drawled.

Hanson smiled back. "No."

MacFarlane's smile soured. He sighed. "All right, what am I supposedto do with this?"

"Make prints," Hanson said. "Or a print. Then ID it."

MacFarlane reached for the magnifying glass. "What makes you thinkthese came from fingertips?" He was examining the fragments now.

"The fingernail."

MacFarlane motioned to his apprentice, Dale Bivins. Bivins was short,with dark hair buzzed to the scalp, a prickly complexion and the eager eyesof a freshman on his way to his first college football game. He'd been at thecrime lab almost a whole week.

"Say, Dale," MacFarlane said, "why don't you take a look at some realold, real dried-out, real decomposed skin?" He removed his glasses, rubbedhis eyes with his palm and took a step back.

"David," he said, "you're asking me to ID a guy who's got enough skinleft over to fill half a matchbox. Normally, that might be tricky. In this case,it'd be like winning the lottery. Look at this skin. As soon as we touch it, it'sgoing to crumble like a cheap cookie."

Propst said, "Walter?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you see this fragment?"

"Which one?"

"This one."

MacFarlane put his glasses back on and squinted at the specimen onthe table. "I did."

"Could you work with it?"

MacFarlane paused. He was trying to figure out if Propst was kidding.No, obviously not. MacFarlane shook his head.

"All right," he said. "Send it on over. I'll give it a shot. But this onehere's a million-to-one horse."

Hanson nodded.

"No promises, now," MacFarlane said.

"No promises," said Hanson.

Continues...

Excerpted from The Last Runby Todd Lewan Copyright © 2005 by Todd Lewan. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Harper Perennial
• Publication date: 2005
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0060956232
• ISBN 13: 9780060956233
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 400