"I think that's it up ahead!"
You peer in the direction Stevo is pointing and take in the view. There's a large east-facing plateau surrounded on three sides by sheer drops. The plateau is at the foot of a high pass snaking northwest into the mountains, a little below the heaviest snowfall but still lightly dusted with white. You make out a runway and a cluster of prefab buildings, a couple of small hangars, a control tower, and what looks like some kind of barracks block. It's a temporary Chinese military airbase, established during the recent war here and later abandoned.
A few tiny human figures are moving about down there, wrapped, like you are, in all-consuming fur. Several large, shaggy domesticated yaks shamble alongside them—the sort that the Tibetans use as pack animals when heading off on dangerous journeys into the mountains.
"You better grab a hold of something," shouts Stevo. "I've never been good at the landings!"
He's not kidding. He wildly oversteers, then gets completely out of alignment with the runway as he corrects himself. He leaves the descent much too late, and pulls, last second, into a terrifyingly rapid plunge. The wheels slam hard into the asphalt, bounce off again, and then reconnect, and the plane skids beyond control toward the edge of the plateau.
"Come on, you little beaut!" Stevo growls at Ruby as her entirely inadequate brakes lock in with a gut-wrenching squeal. The plane keeps going, and keeps going, and the edge of the cliff gets closer and closer and closer.
And then you stop, well past the end of the runway and significantly off to the side, the plane's landing gear almost hanging over the edge. The engine dies with a flatulent shudder.