Playing Solitaire
Copyright© 2026 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 4
Dragon Peaks Hotel.
The conference room slowly emptied around me. Folders snapped shut. Laptops disappeared into backpacks.
Coffee mugs, long since emptied, were abandoned on the tables as chairs scraped across the wooden floor. The low hum of conversation that had filled the room all afternoon drifted towards the door before fading into the corridor outside.
I gathered my own notes into a neat pile, slipped them into my well-worn leather portfolio and tucked it under my arm. For a moment I remained where I was.
We’d made good progress. Better than I’d expected. The mountain had surrendered a surprising number of answers during our first day, but like every accident investigation, each answer seemed to produce two new questions.
That was the nature of the job. You never solved an aircraft accident. You simply kept removing impossibilities until whatever remained became the truth.
I switched off the projector before following the others outside. The change was immediate. The warmth of the conference room gave way to the cool stillness of early evening. Dusk had quietly settled over Dragon Peaks.
The last rays of sunlight still clung stubbornly to the upper cliffs of Champagne Castle, painting the sandstone in deep shades of gold and amber, while the valley below had already surrendered to long blue shadows.
The little dam beside the conference centre had become a mirror, reflecting the fading sky so perfectly that it was difficult to tell where the mountains ended and the water began. Only a pair of Egyptian geese, paddling lazily towards the reeds, disturbed the reflection.
I paused for a moment. After spending hours staring at photographs of twisted aluminium and broken lives, the peacefulness of the valley felt strangely out of place. Nature has an uncanny ability to carry on as though nothing has happened.
Oddly enough, it wasn’t particularly cold.
The towering peaks surrounding the resort trapped much of the colder mountain air higher up, while the valley floor still held onto the warmth gathered during the day. I’d seen it countless times over the years. Sometimes climbing a thousand feet was enough to leave shirt-sleeve weather behind and step straight into winter.
I started across the wooden boardwalk that linked the conference centre with the main hotel complex.
The timber creaked softly beneath my boots as I crossed the narrow stretch of water. Ahead, warm lights glowed through the restaurant windows, promising supper and another much-needed cup of coffee.
Or perhaps something stronger.
Our accommodation lay beyond the lake in the Lakeside Suites, and my plan was simple. Drop off the portfolio. Wash the mountain dust off my face. Return before somebody demolished the buffet.
As I stepped onto solid ground and turned towards the reception area, a familiar voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Running for cover, Colonel?”
I looked across the lawn.
Under one of the thatched parasols overlooking the water sat André Wilson and Ruan Fourie.
Both had traded conference-room seriousness for relaxed postures and cold beers.
Ruan raised a hand and beckoned me over.
“Nah,” I laughed, changing direction. “I was heading for my room to dump this lot before coming back to look for grub.”
“There’ll still be grub,” André said. “Sit down first.”
I dropped my portfolio beside an empty chair and lowered myself onto it.
The waitress appeared almost immediately.
“The usual, Colonel?”
“Please.”
She nodded and disappeared again.
Ruan leaned back in his chair.
“You know...” He glanced towards André before looking back at me.
“We’ve been chewing over something from the meeting.”
I smiled. “I had a feeling this wasn’t about supper.”
“It isn’t.”
He took another sip of his beer. “I still don’t completely buy the explanation about the missing fire.” André nodded in agreement.
“I understand everything Doctor Forsyth explained.” He paused. “Well ... almost everything.”
We laughed.
“But surely,” he continued, “with all that aluminium tearing apart, steel grinding against rock and metal smashing into metal ... something should have produced enough of a spark to light the fuel.”
I rested my elbows on the table. “Let me ask you both a question.”
They looked at me.
“How much oxygen is there at ten thousand eight hundred feet?”
André frowned. “Well...” He scratched the side of his head. “Air is air. We breathe it. We don’t fall over dead.”
Ruan grinned into his beer.
He already knew where this conversation was going.
“True,” I replied.
“But you’re thinking about composition.”
I pointed upwards. “I’m thinking about density.”
Neither of them said anything.
“The composition of the atmosphere hasn’t changed.”
I picked up a paper serviette and drew three simple circles.
“At sea level...” I shaded them in. “ ... the atmosphere is roughly seventy-eight percent nitrogen, twenty-one percent oxygen, just under one percent argon and a tiny fraction made up of carbon dioxide and trace gases.”
I drew another three circles beside them. “At ten thousand eight hundred feet...” I left one circle partially shaded. “ ... it’s exactly the same recipe. The percentages don’t change. “What changes is how tightly those molecules are packed together.”
I looked at André.
“Imagine this table represents a cubic metre of air.”
He nodded.
“At sea level it’s crowded.” I removed an imaginary handful with my fingers. “Now remove roughly one out of every three oxygen molecules.”
I shrugged. “The air still contains twenty-one percent oxygen.”
“There’s simply less air.”
Ruan nodded slowly. “So there are fewer oxygen molecules available to support combustion.”
“Exactly.”
The waitress returned with my coffee.
I thanked her and waited until she’d moved away.
“Now add a temperature well below freezing. One aircraft breaking apart at two hundred and forty knots. Jet fuel being atomised into an incredibly fine mist. And several tons of snow covering everything almost instantly.”
I wrapped both hands around the warm mug.
“The conditions become surprisingly poor for sustained ignition.”
“The engines themselves were hot,” André said.
“They were.”
“But only briefly.” I pointed towards Champagne Castle, now almost completely swallowed by darkness. “The combustion chambers were crushed. The rotating assemblies came apart. The airflow stopped. The snow absorbed what little heat remained. There simply wasn’t enough concentrated heat left to ignite the fuel before the vapour dispersed.”
André slowly leaned back. “So what you’re saying ... is that the fire lost the race.”
I smiled.
“That’s one way of putting it.”
He looked across at the mountain.
“It still feels wrong.”
“It does.”
“Most people expect a Hollywood fireball.”
I took another sip of coffee.
“Real accidents rarely read the script.”
Ruan had been listening quietly.
He finally spoke.
“What about the wreckage on the cliff?”
“I’ve been thinking about that.”
“So have I.”
I nodded towards the mountain.
“The impact happened above where we were working today.”
“Not by much.”
“Perhaps eighty metres.”
“The aircraft struck the cliff higher up, then the cockpit, part of the cabin and the right engine slid down the rock face before becoming hooked on that narrow ledge.”
“The rest?”
“The left wing had already separated.”
“It never hit the cliff.”
“It simply missed the ledge altogether and continued all the way down to the snowfield.”
Ruan slowly nodded.
“That actually fits what we recovered.”
“And if that ledge hadn’t been there?”
I looked towards the mountain again.
“We’d probably have found the entire wreckage where we were standing this morning.”
For a while none of us spoke. The last light finally disappeared from the summit of Champagne Castle. Only its dark outline remained against the evening sky.
André broke the silence.
“You know...” He shook his head. “I still can’t get over the fact there wasn’t a post-impact fire.”
I smiled into my coffee. “Be thankful.”
He looked at me.
“Fire is every accident investigator’s worst enemy.”
Both men waited.
“People think fire tells you something.”
“It doesn’t. It destroys evidence.”
I counted them off on my fingers. “Wire insulation melts. Aluminium loses its temper. Hydraulic lines disappear. Cockpit instruments become unreadable. Control cables burn away.” I shrugged. “If that King Air had burned ... we’d probably spend another two weeks trying to answer questions we’ll solve tomorrow.”
Neither man argued. They didn’t need to. The point had made itself.
Ruan drained the last of his beer before standing up. “Enough science.” He stretched lazily. “My stomach has officially declared a state of emergency.”
André laughed as he pushed his chair back.
“I second that motion.”
Ruan looked at me. “Come on, Colonel. Let’s go find some grub before the tourists beat us to it.”
I picked up my portfolio and stood.
One last glance found the dark silhouette of Champagne Castle watching silently over the valley.
Somewhere up there, hidden once more by darkness, the mountain was still keeping a few secrets to itself.
Tomorrow we’d climb back up there. I had a feeling it wasn’t quite finished telling us its story.
By the time we reached the restaurant, Dragon Peaks had taken on a life of its own.
The wide timber doors stood open, inviting guests inside with the comforting smell of wood smoke, freshly baked bread and grilled meat. Somewhere beyond the reception area a fire crackled in a massive stone fireplace, competing with the murmur of dozens of conversations. Glasses clinked, cutlery chimed against crockery and every now and then a burst of laughter rose above the general hum before disappearing into the high wooden rafters.
The place was packed.
Families returning from hikes mingled with business travellers, while couples sat beside the large windows watching the last traces of daylight disappear behind the dark silhouette of Champagne Castle.
After the long day we’d had, it felt almost surreal that life outside our investigation continued as though nothing had happened.
Ruan led the way towards the pub section, where several of our team had already gathered.
Cecil, Aubrey, Percy and Alfred looked up as we approached.
“There they are,” Percy announced. “The mountain goats have finally arrived.”
Two waiters, seeing our growing numbers, quickly pushed three square tables together until they formed one long setting with nine chairs.
We claimed seven of them.
By pure chance I found myself sitting near the end at my own table with two empty chairs, one opposite me, and one at the head of the table.
Except for the two pilots and one flight engineer of the SAAF Oryx that went for coffee, the rest of the guys went for an assortment of beers.
“We’re flying at first light again,” one of them explained apologetically.
“Coffee is probably the smarter choice.”
“The rest of us,” Ruan declared, lifting the drinks menu, “have no such responsibilities.”
That earned an approving chorus.
Within minutes an assortment of beers began appearing around the table.
Cecil looked across at me.
“So, Tim...” He tapped the menu. “What’ll you be having?”
“Food or liquid?”
“That too,” he laughed. “And why so much food?”
I scanned the menu.
“The slow-cooked oxtail has my attention.” I looked up. “They claim it’s been braised in red wine and herbs until it falls off the bone. Comes with vegetables, rice and your choice of mash or chips.”
“That,” Percy announced dramatically, “demands a rum and Coke.”
“No chance.” I turned the wine list over. “They’ve got Beyerskloof Pinotage.” I smiled. “A glass of that will do me nicely.”
Cecil looked surprised. “You’re a wine man?”
“I grew up in the Cape.” I shrugged.
“Hard to avoid wine when half your neighbours own vineyards.” Aubrey laughed. “They don’t raise babies on mother’s milk down there. They raise them on Vaaljapie.”
I pointed a finger at him. “Vaaljapie is mother’s milk.” I mocked the cheap farm wine of the Cape Winelands that’s consumed in gallons by the farmhands.
The table erupted in laughter. The tension that had hung over us all day finally began to dissolve. For the first time since sunrise, nobody was talking about body recovery or shattered aircraft. It felt good.
Ruan took a sip of his beer before leaning forward. “Not to spoil the evening...” He smiled. “But where are you thinking of taking the wreckage now that we’ve got it off the mountain, Tim?”
“I’ve been weighing up two options.” I reached for the bread basket. “Virginia Airport or King Shaka International. Both have enough hangar space for a detailed strip examination.”
“And accommodation?” Alfred asked.
“No shortage.”I replied.
Ruan scratched thoughtfully at his beard. “Why move at all?”
I looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“What if we could keep the whole investigation right here?”
I raised an eyebrow. “The limiting factor is facilities. If somebody can give us a secure hangar and enough office space...” I spread my hands. “ ... I’d happily stay in the Berg. But Facilities will dictate where we go. If there was space for us, I’ll be happy to stay right here. The Mountain air is freshening...”
“What if I tell you that I can get us one of the empty SAAF hangars right here at AFB Dragon Peaks?”
More laughter rolled around the table. Inside, though, I couldn’t help smiling. Nobody on this team was watching the clock. Nobody was looking for excuses to leave. Quite the opposite. They were already finding ways to make the investigation easier. That was exactly the sort of commitment I’d hoped for.
“So, why not stay right here in the Champagne Valley?” Ruan repeated.
“Perfect! And the Department of Transport can cough up for the accommodation and facilities rent for the next month,” I concurred.
Inwardly I was smiling. These guys in the team were really into the investigation.
But I also had to chuckle at the mention of “AFB Dragon Peaks” name dropping. The airfield is in fact private. The SAPS and the SAAF just use it for mountain flying training once or twice a year or when required. The Airport is really named “CL Van Wyngaard Airfield”. That someone sometime slapped a SAAF Eagle and a “AFB Dragon Peaks” onto the control tower was the running joke at 87 Helicopter Flying School, and with the locals here in the Champagne Valley.
It was then that movement near the entrance caught my eye. Megan had just walked into the restaurant.
She paused inside the doorway. Not because she seemed uncertain. Because she was assessing. The restaurant was almost full. Every table appeared occupied. Families. Tourists. Our own team.
Her eyes moved slowly from one group to the next, quietly calculating where she could sit without imposing on anyone else.
For someone capable of reading the story hidden inside a wrecked turbine engine, choosing a dinner table seemed remarkably difficult.
Before I could wave, Cecil spotted her.
“Hey, Blossom, come dine with us!”
The name rang across the restaurant far louder than he intended. Several heads turned. Time seemed to pause. I saw it immediately. Not embarrassment. Not annoyance. Something much deeper.
The colour drained from her face before returning almost instantly as a deep crimson blush crept up her neck and into her cheeks.
Her shoulders stiffened. The warmth that had briefly appeared during the afternoon meeting vanished behind a wall of ice.
For one fleeting second I honestly thought she was going to turn around and walk straight back out.
Almost as though accepting the invitation required more courage than spending the morning hanging off a cliff.
I stood up, pulling the empty chair opposite me away from the table, I smiled.
“Come and join us.” I offered.
Her shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly.
“Thank you, Colonel.”
As she reached the table, I held the chair for her until she sat down.
“You’ve earned the right to call me Tim.”
She looked up at me.
“Or Timothy.” I smiled. “If you’re feeling particularly formal. The rest of the team usually settles for ‘Hey, You.’”
A tiny smile appeared. Not much. But enough.
“Thank you ... Tim.”
I handed her the menu. “I can recommend the oxtail.”
She scanned the page.
“I think I’m in the mood for something fishy.” Her finger stopped. “The stuffed trout.”
“Excellent choice.” I replied. “And to drink?”
She glanced towards my wine glass. “I see you’ve gone with red.”
“I have. They’ve got a lovely Cathedral Peak Pinotage.” I pointed towards the wine list. “Dark berries, a little spice ... very Cape.”
She laughed softly.
“Oxblood.”
I blinked.
“What?”
She nodded towards my glass.
“Red wine. Oxblood.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
“That’s a new one.”
“I enjoy red wine.” She closed the menu. “Just not with fish. And besides...” She adjusted her glasses. “The tannins and histamines in some red wines don’t agree with me. I’ve got instrument data to recover tomorrow. I’d rather not analyse microchips with a headache.”
“I can’t argue with that.” I folded the wine list. “I was about to suggest sharing a bottle.”