![]() Will contact local forest rangers for assistance. No one injured here, but we need immediate assistance. We hit some ice and went off the main road. STRICKLAND: Two of us are stranded about five miles past Bridgeport, off Highway Three-ninety-five, just south of Devil’s Gate. I copy your transmission, Mountain Machine. VOICE: This is Eagle Eye over at the Bridgeport Reservoir Lookout. Story Continues Below Related Works for Further Study and Research ![]() STRICKLAND (CONT’D): I repeat this a mayday. This is Mountain Machine in need of assistance. Strickland switches off the wiper blades and grabs the CB microphone. What in the hell just happened? Did you fall asleep at the wheel, or what? Strickland pauses, searching his mind for a plausible explanation. McLane, this had nothing to do with my driving. What the hell just happened? You’re supposed to be a crack driver. Slowly, the two men begin to stir in their seats. For the longest time, the only thing moving in their snow-bound vehicle are the wiper blades, swishing back and forth, back and forth. The truck abruptly looses control on a patch of ice, and lurches toward the embankment, CRASHING violently through the guard rail. The truck drives right through the figure as if it were a ghost. Suddenly, appearing from out of the flurry of snowfall just ahead of the vehicle, a solitary figure, wearing a military parka, stands in the middle of the road, waving its arms. McLane, a lesson that could only be conceived and carried out in. But one day, power decided to dispense a little lesson of its own to Mr. A self-made man, McLane prides himself on knowing what is really important in life, and on being single-minded enough to carry out any plan deemed necessary in his quest. shrewd business man, cunning entrepreneur, a rising star fast on his way up the ladder toward that most sought after prize of man. Strickland, in the driver’s seat, both hands on the wheel, drives on, while McLane, his passenger, drearily closes his eyes.
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