“Actually a sling will work,” Sanders said softly, embarrassed to admit his physical limitation. “I think my left arm is broken.”
Susan reopened the case and withdrew a small packet. A loud cry of pain from the back startled her as she stood to check the pilot’s arm. Soft moaning followed. Another loud voice cursed nearby.
Kwapich briefed Sanders in more detail on what he knew of the status of the passengers, while Susan felt gingerly along the swollen forearm. He explained the number of injured passengers and who was outside.
The situation wasn’t good but was better than Sanders originally feared. More moans resonated through the cabin.
“I better take the medical kit back there,” Kwapich stated. He didn’t wait for an answer, instead gathered up the canvas case and hurried away.
“I don’t feel any bones out of place,” Susan announced. “Nothing obvious, anyway. I’m not a doctor, but consider yourself lucky. The injury could have been worse.”
Susan took the nylon sling from the plastic wrapper and tied the ends around Sanders’ neck, using the pouch to support his arm at a ninety-degree angle. She then applied a rectangular bandage to his head wound, holding the sides in place with strips of medical tape. Taking a half step back, she looked him over.
“I think you’ll live. The bleeding stopped and now you can use your good arm instead of holding a dirty rag on your head. When we have more time, I’ll try to clean you up a bit. You have blood on your face and look terrible.”
For not being a doctor, she certainly knew what she was doing. Her warm touch added a sense of comfort. He felt better immediately.
“You seem to have experience doing this sort of thing. Thank you.”
She smiled weakly. “Raising three boys and a girl as tough as her brothers provided lots of experience. They had their share of cuts and broken bones growing up. I think most mothers learn first aid by necessity.”
“I never thought of motherhood that way, but I suppose you’re right.”
Susan was about to answer when another muffled cry of pain was heard from the back. The person sounded in agony. She looked in the direction of the noise, then back at the pilot.
“Are you ready for this? Some of them will blame you for what happened.”
“Blame goes with the job. Right now they need medical attention and reassurance. They can point fingers later.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Connor continued down the hallway past the vacant commander’s office and entered the doorway into the flight planning room. A water cooler and a small table holding a coffee maker rested in the near corner. The pot of recently brewed coffee was a quarter full, barely distinguishable against the stained glass.
The room was divided into two separate areas by a plywood counter—one side for flight planning and the other for operations. On a normal day at least three soldiers would be working the radios or sitting at desks inputting data into computers. Today there was only one.
Connor swirled the brown liquid inside the glass, inhaling the robust aroma, then set the pot back down. He contemplated brewing a fresh pot for a moment and instead filled a paper cup with water from the cooler.
“Sir, I didn’t expect you back until this afternoon. Everything okay?”
Connor recognized the booming voice of Sergeant Jackson, his operations sergeant, and turned toward the counter.
“Everything’s fine,” Connor lied. “My doctor visit was cut short. The lab results weren’t ready yet, so I rescheduled for next week.”
Lying wasn’t easy for Connor, even to a subordinate, but he couldn’t tell Jackson the truth. If he did, there would only be more questions and eventually more lies. As the operations officer and Jackson’s supervisor, he kept the operations sergeant informed of when he would be out of the office for various appointments. The specifics of his medical condition were kept to himself. Jackson, like everyone else, was unaware of the cancer.
Sergeant Reginald Jackson was a muscular, tough as nails black kid from East St. Louis, who joined the military to get away from the squalor and government dependency prevalent in his neighborhood. In spite of his imposing physical appearance, he possessed a friendly disposition and was the best operations sergeant Connor had worked with. A perfectionist when running operations, Jackson was both demanding and fair with his subordinates, as well as being a mentor. He was at the front of the promotion list for staff sergeant.
“In that case, sir, I have some flight records and weekly closeouts for you to sign. And as you’re aware, Specialist Jimenez is leaving us in a couple of weeks to join the rest of the battalion overseas. I’d like your input on recommending her for an award. I was thinking an Army Commendation Medal would be nice. She’s done a great job.”
A small stack of folders on the counter beside Jackson’s beefy right hand caught Connor’s attention. “I thought computers were supposed to reduce the amount of paperwork. Doesn’t seem to be working, does it?”
“No, sir.” Jackson smiled widely. “I can bring these to your office along with the award recommendation if you like?”
“Give me those and bring the rest in a few minutes,” Connor said, reaching across the counter. “And I agree with your recommendation. Jimenez deserves the award. Write it up and I’ll sign it. Your grammar is better than mine.”
“Already done, sir. I hope you don’t mind, but I already went ahead and wrote the recommendation, per your approval of course. I’ll have the document on your desk shortly if you want to make any changes.”
“I’ll take a look.” Connor doubted there would be any errors. “The first sergeant will be pleased. He mentioned a few minutes ago he wanted the paperwork by the end of the week.”
Jackson nodded and stepped away from the counter as Connor turned toward the doorway. Connor trudged down the hallway to his office, being careful to not aggravate his back or show signs of discomfort.
Managing the company’s flight operations program was Connor’s main responsibility. For the most part, he left the day-to-day requirements in the hands of Sergeant Jackson. His other primary duty was as an instructor pilot, which he enjoyed far more than sitting behind a desk. Unfortunately, with most of the battalion deployed overseas and his medical condition keeping him grounded for the past several weeks, flying hadn’t been an option. Today would be different.
The cushioned chair behind his metal desk provided some relief as he sat down. Connor wanted badly to take one of the stronger codeine pills prescribed by the doctor, but the side effects would end any possibility of flying.
Instead, he retrieved a small plastic bottle from his desk drawer and washed down four tablets of ibuprofen with water, hoping they would be strong enough. If not, he was determined to endure the pain as best he could. In a few hours the pain wouldn’t matter anyway. All he needed was a helicopter.
Sergeant Jackson entered with another stack of papers while Connor finished reviewing the daily flight schedule.
“Here you go, sir. The award recommendation is on top. After you review the write-up, I’ll get the paperwork over to the first sergeant. We should have an approval from battalion and be able to award the medal before Jimenez leaves.”
“Not a problem. I’ll look it over and add my signature before lunch.” Connor glanced briefly back at the flight schedule. “I see both helicopters are scheduled for flights today. Have they taken off yet?”
“Only one, sir. Lieutenant Hovan and Mister Thompson left on a support mission in nine-two-seven a couple hours ago. A training flight with eight-three-zero was postponed until later this afternoon. Captain Hiroldi is busy at battalion, and since you’re medically grounded, there wasn’t another pilot to fly with Mister Sanchez.”
“I see. Well as of this morning I’m back on flight status.” Connor lied for the third time that day. “If Mister Sanchez can sneak away from his maintenance duties for a couple of hours, I can take him up on a training flight.”
He had no intention of flying Mist
er Sanchez. Once the aircraft was ready for takeoff, he would simply make an excuse to send the unit’s maintenance pilot back in the hangar and depart without him.
“Give me about ten minutes so I can finish signing these records, Sergeant Jackson. Would you mind getting a hold of Mister Sanchez and let him know I would like to depart as soon as possible?”
“Of course, sir. Mister Sanchez should be in the maintenance office. I’ll give him a call right away.”
“Thank you. And just track the flight internally. We’ll be staying local, so there’s no need to file an official flight plan.”
Sergeant Jackson thought the request odd. Internal tracking sheets hadn’t been used for years. There was no regulation prohibiting their use, but why the change?
After Jackson returned to his desk, Connor flipped through the flight records and paperwork requiring a signature. He could hear Jackson on the phone in the next room and began formulating a plan. Getting rid of the other pilot and taking off alone would be easy. What to do then was unclear.
His thoughts drifted to an earlier time. Connor opened the bottom drawer and carefully retrieved a worn photograph in a wooden frame void of glass. He studied the image intently. The scene became sharper in his mind, refreshing the memory of past exploits and a cool mountain breeze he could almost feel against his cheek. For a few minutes the pain in his back was forgotten.
The picture showed a small Army scout helicopter in the foreground, resting on a finger of rock and closely surrounded by high mountains. The small pinnacle jutted from the end of a steep, razor-back ridge, nearly a mile above the valley floor. Ice covered peaks reached skyward in the background. Several hundred feet below, a narrow pebble creek opened into a grassy basin. The precarious location appeared tranquil, overshadowed by the panorama of mountains and vibrant colors dotting the lower terrain, hinting at the skill of the pilot who landed there.
Yes, it would suffice, Connor decided. He couldn’t think of a better location. The pinnacle was deep in a remote valley of the Alaska Range, at least sixty miles south of the airfield. Seventeen years had passed, but he was certain he could find the site again.
He well remembered past flights in the mountains. Serious mountain flying was done on a much larger scale then, which was surprising considering the older generation helicopters were less powerful and not nearly as capable. Flying those helicopters was always a challenge, especially at high elevations.
Connor didn’t appreciate the modern standard of increased regulation. A simple focus on risk assessment and safety had evolved into ridiculous and overbearing requirements, reaching the point where they actually hindered mission accomplishment. Flying wasn’t at all like the old days when pilots could push the element of risk, learning the limitations of the machines and their own capabilities. Those days were long over. An era had passed, leaving him behind.
The scene in the photograph had taken place during Connor’s first assignment in Alaska. The remote and challenging environment was a welcome change after his second divorce and years of less hazardous assignments following the aftermath of Vietnam. In many ways, the aura of the land mirrored his rigid personality. Mysterious and dangerous, charming and enticing at the same time, Alaska was everything an adventurer dreamed about.
Connor’s career was almost a blur, the thirty-plus years having passed all too quickly. He placed the framed photograph back in his desk drawer and thought about the other pictures propped on the bookshelf. One showed his beautiful, dark-haired daughter shortly before her death, sitting happily on his lap with her arms around his neck, their cheeks together, smiling happily at the camera.
Another was of his son, standing proud and tall in full dress uniform before being shipped off to Iraq. The intensity in the steel-blue eyes was identical to his own. But if you looked closely, there was a shade of gentleness, too, a warm sense of kindness that came from his mother.
A third photograph showed a younger Connor during a tour in Vietnam, standing beside a dusty helicopter with his crew, each of them displaying a tired, determined look, much older than their age.
Most were gone now. He still remembered them, but over the years had accepted their passing. Letting go was easier with them. They were men, warriors like himself who shared the same experiences and the same suffering. He missed them, too, but at least understood why they were gone.
Connor stared at the pictures for a moment longer and then turned his face toward the window, acknowledging the individuals silently by name. Soon he would be with them again. His life’s journey was longer, but the destination would be the same.
Connor was leaning back in his chair, gazing outside at the empty airfield, when he was caught off guard by a knock on the open door. He heard Sergeant Jackson enter the office but remained unmoving for a few seconds before turning and clearing his throat.
“What have you got Sergeant Jackson?”
There was a strange look of finality on Connor’s face, which surprised Jackson, but also a glint of peacefulness that had been lacking for some time. Jackson was pleased and suspicious at the same time.
“Just an update on the training flight, sir. The aircraft won’t be available for several hours. I just got off the phone with Mister Sanchez. After the flight was delayed, he had the crew chief start an engine inspection.”
Connor leaned forward on the desk and rubbed his chin, trying to hide his irritation. He didn’t want to delay his plan longer than necessary and quickly formulated another option.
“All right. What about the other helicopter, nine-two-seven? Any communication with them?”
“No, sir. The mission was scheduled for four hours, which should have them back before noon, but you know they usually run long.”
“Damn, I guess that will have to work.” Connor stared at the floor, talking to himself.
“Sir?”
Connor realized his mistake and quickly recovered. “Nothing. I need to speak with young Mister Thompson when he returns, is all. I need to schedule him for his annual evaluation.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll let you know when I get an update on their mission status.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Jackson.” Connor returned his attention to the papers on his desk.
Jackson saw Connor’s diversion as a dismissal but sensed some urgency in the deliberate lack of conversation.
“Sir, everything okay? You want me to bring you anything?”
Connor wanted him to leave but knew he meant well by asking. He looked up slowly, staring into Jackson’s eyes, trying to deflect the sergeant from the truth.
“I’m fine. A little antsy about getting back in the air, is all. Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” Jackson met the senior warrant officer’s stare for several seconds before shifting his gaze toward the empty paper cup and bottle of ibuprofen on the desk.
Probably just a headache, Jackson thought. Maybe that was why Connor was acting strange. No reason to pry on a silly suspicion. He excused himself and returned to his office, unable to shake a nagging feeling that something else was going on.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The fuselage groaned from another strong onslaught of wind. The thin metal offered the only protection as gusts swirled over the mountain ridge. At times the air felt warm, then changed to shivering cold as flurries raced off the icy peaks through the glacier-cut valley, drafting through the narrow entryway. Outside, a few of the passengers huddled around a mound of rocks. The barrier provided enough protection to block the worst of the wind.
Sanders felt a sudden chill. The adrenaline from the crash was wearing off. His company uniform of a white, short-sleeve shirt and dark slacks was only a slight deterrent to the wind.
Susan Douglas was standing beside him, and he noticed she was dressed warmer than he was but not by much. A thin jacket, jeans, and slip-on boots appeared comfortable, but they weren’t intended for a high mountain environment. Most of the others were dressed comparatively, having e
xpected a routine flight with temperatures in the seventies upon arrival in Fairbanks. Without additional protection, hypothermia could be a serious problem.
A shiver shook Susan’s body. Sanders noted her discomfort. “You’re cold. Help me close this entry door. We can at least cut out the draft. I have a leather jacket in the cockpit. You should put it on.”
“No, please. It’s okay,” she answered, shaking her head. “I’m really not very cold. I just need to stay busy. Besides, with only a shirt on you need a jacket more than me. I’ll help with the door.”
The sound of the wind immediately faded as she helped him pull the access door shut. Unlike some of the others, Susan was still able to function. She ignored the urge to cry, refusing to be distracted by the trauma around her.
Captain Sanders was concerned about the passengers, especially the severely injured. They were all his responsibility, and he had failed them. In spite of his feelings of guilt, he realized there was no time for self-pity. All he could do was save the ones who were left.
“Could you help with the first officer in the cockpit? He’s unconscious and has some bad injuries.” Sanders’ voice sounded less assured than before.
“Yes, of course,” Susan replied. She looked past him with a worried look. “When I saw you here I assumed he was outside with the other passengers.”
Sanders stepped away from the cockpit door, gently touching her shoulder. “I’m afraid to move him, but I would sure appreciate your checking on him.”
Susan nodded before looking inside more closely. The first officer was slumped against the seat. His appearance made her think of her dead husband, whose charred body was found in almost the same position. She gasped, hesitated, and then grabbed Sanders’ jacket off the floor. Draping the leather coat over his arm, she returned his gaze. “I’ll see what I can do while you check on the others.”
A balding, older male passenger was lying in the aisle, clenching his teeth in pain as Sanders approached from the front of the cabin. Someone had placed a thin airline blanket over his chest. A petite, older woman with ebony dyed hair was kneeling at his feet. The medical kit was open beside her. She was carefully wrapping gauze around a fractured ankle. The other ankle was swollen and bloody and appeared broken.
The Last Flight Page 9