The Last Flight

by Liefer, Gregory P. ; Liefer, G P;

  An obese middle-aged man behind them was leaning on his side against the cabin wall, still in his seat and clutching his lower back in obvious discomfort. Crouching beside him was a well-dressed, auburn-haired woman with bright-red lipstick, speaking softly to him with little effect. He was shaking his head in annoyance and glaring at the ceiling.

  On the other side of the aisle, a slim, middle-aged woman with sun-bronzed skin and ivory hair sat slumped in her seat, resting at an uncomfortable angle. Several small airline pillows were tucked around her for support. A bead of sweat rolled down her brow in spite of the cold air. She blinked the moisture from her eye before wiping her forehead with a well-manicured hand.

  Immediately behind her, an older woman with a thin, primrose hairdo, rested with her arms tucked under her legs. She appeared to be in shock and stared ahead with a frightened look on her face. Dark streaks of makeup were visible where tears ran down her cheeks. A small abrasion was evident on her forehead, partially covered by a strand of matted hair.

  Further back, a tall, male passenger with crew-cut hair was working with Kwapich, attempting to move some seats and a body blocking the exit. They were assisted by a young man with wavy, dark hair pushed behind his ears, standing near the door. He was bleeding slightly from a small wound on his thigh.

  Three other passengers were slumped in awkward positions and unmoving. Two were in seats against the rear bulkhead and the other in a broken seat, lying sideways on the floor.

  A fourth passenger was pinned in the middle of the aisle. Well attired, he displayed a thin mustache and slick obsidian hair, disheveled from the crash. He was either unconscious or patiently waiting for assistance.

  The sound of barking dogs was barely discernible as Sanders approached the first injured passenger. The rear wall was masking their attempts at drawing attention. He listened for a moment, unsure of the sound until realizing the noise was coming from the sled dogs in the cargo compartment. In the turmoil following the crash, he forgot about them. He wondered if they were injured, but for the moment they would have to wait.

  Sanders knelt beside the woman tending the man with the broken ankles. “Is there anything I can do?”

  The woman dug through the medical kit with a concerned expression. She looked up, then back at the man on the floor before diverting her attention to Sanders. Her petite size was in contrast to her sharp tongue. “Not unless you’re a doctor. By your uniform I would say that’s not the case unless flying airplanes is a part time job.”

  Sanders paused. He wondered if she was being sarcastic or trying to lessen the effect of the crash with an attempt at humor. He decided to ignore the statement and asked again.

  “Do you have everything you need?”

  She looked up again, searching his face before responding. “No, I don’t. These people need to get to a hospital, but I imagine it’s not an option right now. This medical kit is only for basic first aid and I need equipment for more serious injuries. Splints, backboards, and neck braces would be nice. A warm, clean room to work in, intravenous fluids, antibiotics, some strong pain medication, and a defibrillator would be even better. And that’s just to get started.”

  She paused, catching her breath, glancing at the passengers and then Sanders before continuing in a softer tone. “My husband’s ankles are broken and other passengers have serious injuries that need treatment. The man in the busted seat in back has a severe puncture wound. He will probably die if I can’t get to him soon. And I can’t until the aisle is clear.”

  Sanders hesitated before responding. She was obviously upset but doing the best she could with what she had. “I see. You have medical training then?”

  “Yes, I’m a nurse,” she said. “At least I was before retiring five years ago. My husband and I are on vacation—were on vacation, I mean.”

  “Well I’m glad you’re here,” Sanders said. “I’m afraid the medical kit will have to do for now, but I think I can make some splints. Would aluminum tubing or wooden boards be okay?”

  “Any strong material about a foot long and an inch or two wide would be preferable. We’ll need a half dozen or so if you can manage.” She blew a tuft of hair out of her eyes, keeping her hands in place around the fracture.

  Sanders glanced sympathetically at the man on the floor, then at the rest of the passengers. “What about the others? Is there anything else they need?”

  The nurse nodded. “More blankets or jackets—anything warm will help. Fluids, too. Water would be best if you can find some. And get that aisle cleared.”

  The woman was used to giving orders. She obviously knew what she was doing and Sanders took her instructions without insult. “I’ll get right on it.”

  He stood, realizing he still had the leather jacket on his arm. “Here, take this. Your husband can use it. I’ll see what I can do about getting more clothing from the luggage in the cargo compartment.”

  “Thank you,” the nurse said. She smiled for the first time and placed the jacket on her husband’s chest.

  Sanders caught Kwapich’s attention and motioned him forward. The man nodded in reply and maneuvered carefully through the maze of injured passengers and debris.

  “Any luck getting through the cabin to the rear exit?”

  Kwapich pointed in the direction of his partner and the young man. “Hank and Danny are still working on clearing the aisle. The problem is the injured guy stuck in the middle. We’re afraid one of the broken seats is cutting into him. There isn’t enough room to free him until we move more debris and the other injured out of the way.”

  Sanders considered his explanation. “Maybe if we get the rear access door open from the outside, someone can enter and help move the debris through the exit.”

  Kwapich was about to respond when Sanders continued. “There’s also a pallet loaded with mail sacks in the aft cargo compartment. The slats can be broken into splints we need for the injured. Using the wood will be easier than dismantling the aluminum tubing from the seats.”

  “Okay, I’ll take care of it myself.” Kwapich shifted his weight, keeping a hand on an overhead bin for support.

  “If you can get in there, check on the two dogs,” Sanders added. “Be careful. They’re in cages, but they might lash out and bite. Most of the luggage is in there, too. Hopefully, everyone packed a jacket and some warm clothing.”

  Kwapich cleared his throat before motioning toward the rear door. “Danny, the young kid in back, already tried the door. He said it wouldn’t open. Something about the frame being bent and wedged in place.”

  “All right,” Sanders sighed. “Let’s try pulling from the outside while he pushes from the inside.”

  “Yeah, it might work. Worth a try, anyway.”

  Kwapich explained the plan to Hank Bidwell, his tall hunting partner, who followed them to the access door in front. Susan was exiting the cockpit as they approached.

  “Anything I can do?”

  Sanders paused at the door. “We’re going to try to get the rear door open so we can get inside from the back.” He noticed the bundle of blankets left beside the cabinet door and nudged them with his foot. “Can you take the blankets and pass them out to the others?”

  Susan nodded. Before she could speak Sanders turned to the two men and asked them to go ahead and try the cargo door. They exited quickly, realizing he was no help with his injured arm.

  “How is Illiamin, the first officer?” Sanders said, motioning with his head toward the cockpit.

  “I don’t know what else to do. He’s still unconscious and his breathing is labored. He might have a punctured lung, but I can’t be sure.”

  Sanders hung his head. “Maybe the retired nurse can take a look when she gets a chance. Can you ask her while I help outside?”

  “There’s a nurse onboard?”

  “Yeah, she’s the one kneeling beside the man with the broken ankles.”

  Susan’s eyes lightened up. “Thank God. What a relief. I was over my head with anythi
ng more than a bandage.”

  “You’re doing great,” Sanders assured her. “You might be surprised, but even kind words and a caring smile make a big difference in these situations.”

  “I’m doing the best I can, just like the rest of us,” Susan said. She paused and looked back toward the cockpit.

  “I wrapped the first officer’s head with gauze. The bleeding stopped, but I’m worried. He doesn’t look good.”

  “I know. The nurse might have an idea what to do,” Sanders said. He noticed the concern on her face. “He’s a tough kid. He’ll pull through.” Sanders hoped the statement was true.

  The words seemed reassuring. Susan smiled weakly as he carefully exited through the open doorway. He stepped down and pushed the door shut behind him.

  The wind caught Sanders, cutting through his thin clothing. His hair was blown in disarray and his face stung from the cold blast of air. Turning sideways, he jarred his broken arm in the sling and grunted in agony, fighting to hold a curse under his breath.

  Holding his injured arm and shifting his legs slowly over the uneven surface, Sanders turned in a complete circle, gaining a better perspective of the crash site and the dangers they faced. Their predicament looked grim. With the terrain and approaching weather, survival for many of them depended on a quick rescue.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sergeant First Class Mayo sat rigidly in his chair in the maintenance office. A sour expression reflected his attitude toward paperwork. His office was located on the lower floor of the hangar and as usual was cluttered with boxes of old parts and equipment. His desk was in similar disarray, littered with notes and scattered papers in a semblance of order only he understood. Although the appearance was disorganized, he knew the precise contents of every box and the exact figures on each scrap of paper.

  Mayo had decided to catch up on some daily maintenance forms after leaving the first sergeant’s office. Beginning with the aircraft repair logs, he confirmed the timetable for each helicopter was on track for turn-in to depot. Once they were completed, he scheduled a weekly training class around the daily maintenance requirements. Even though maintenance was a priority, his job also entailed juggling numerous administrative issues for his platoon, ranging from leave requests and medical appointments to physical training and classroom instruction.

  Sergeant Mayo considered life behind a desk almost as displeasing as the wound he received during his first combat tour. The injured shoulder still bothered him, especially during the winter. At the time, he was a private in an infantry platoon, supporting an armor unit during the first Gulf War.

  Like his father before him, Mayo was drawn to the military at a young age. His father served in Vietnam as an infantry officer, receiving a silver star for valor and a career ending disability. Mayo was a reckless kid growing up and being a soldier appealed to him, especially the challenge of being a grunt on the front lines. Four years of slogging through mud, rain, and scorching heat changed his perspective.

  After finishing his enlistment in the infantry and a year pursuing an unproductive civilian career, he re-enlisted as a UH-1 Huey helicopter mechanic. His first assignment in Germany was almost his last. A bad breakup with his stateside fiancé left him depressed and angry. Drinking and fighting soon resulted in disciplinary action by his company commander, requiring extra duty and a one-month reduction in pay. The penalty did nothing to ease his hostility. He was arrested for assault and battery a short time later.

  At the time, Connor was in the same unit, tasked as the post duty officer the night Mayo was taken into custody. He received the late night call from the military police station and recognized Mayo’s name. The telephone call was annotated in the duty log, and he was supposed to notify the chain-of-command. Nothing else was required. Depending on the charges, a soldier would either be signed over to his unit or held in custody to face arraignment for court-martial proceedings. Mayo was facing the latter category with a strong possibility of a prison sentence. His short career would be over.

  Connor held off notifying the chain of command, deciding instead to visit the military police station where the desk sergeant was a former grunt he pulled off a hot LZ in Vietnam. They had a short conversation, ending with the NCO agreeing to let Connor try to talk some sense into Mayo before filing any paperwork.

  Mayo was sitting on his bunk, still mad at the world, when Connor entered the cell. The last thing he wanted was a lecture. He told Connor to go screw himself, expecting the warrant officer to be furious and add more charges to his growing rap sheet. Digging a deeper hole was becoming a pattern he couldn’t seem to avoid.

  Instead, Connor nodded his head as if expecting the response, for he understood more than anyone what Mayo was going through.

  “You get it out of your system yet?”

  Mayo stared at Connor and smirked sarcastically, testing how far he could push his act of defiance. “What? The taste of your wife’s puss …”

  Before Mayo could finish, he was hit so hard his head slammed against the wall. He shook it off and came back fighting, but Connor hit him with two quick blows to his throat and stomach, collapsing Mayo’s big Samoan body onto the floor. He lay there gasping for breath, eyeing the warrant officer with disdain.

  “Now you’re going to listen.” Connor sat on the cot and spoke in a firm, yet forgiving voice. “You think you’ve got it bad, Mayo? You think your life stinks and everyone is out to get you? Bullshit! I’ve been in your shoes more times than I can count. I know what you’re feeling. Life isn’t fair. No one ever said it was supposed to be. The booze, the fighting, the anger, they only make what you’re feeling worse. Whatever you’re going through, get over it and move on.”

  Mayo coughed, hacking in air, keeping his eyes trained on Connor. His voice was almost a whisper as he spoke, but the sarcasm had disappeared. “And why should I listen to you?”

  “Because this is your last chance. You can swallow your pride and walk out of here with a fresh start or hold the hate inside and keep traveling down the same road. The destination is far worse than you think. I’ve been there.”

  There was a measured change in Mayo’s expression, a hint of self-doubt followed by a flash of suspicion in his dark eyes.

  “You’re a good crew chief,” Connor continued. “The pride shows, whether you intend it or not. I could see you enjoyed what you were doing when we flew together. Let the good things in life guide you, kid. Don’t let the bad things be a distraction. They’ll eat at you until you’re nothing but a wasted shell.”

  Mayo struggled to his feet, leaned against the wall, and massaged his bruised throat. “You’ve got a powerful punch for an old man.”

  Connor met his stare without showing any antagonism. “I had my share of fights, usually when drunk and hating the world. Hate is a constant battle you’ll never win.”

  There was a long moment of reflection from Mayo. He suddenly realized Connor was sincere and respected him for the advice, and his left jab. Unlike anyone else in recent memory, Connor had knocked some sense into his thick skull.

  “I’m in deep shit, sir.” He hung his head and looked at the floor.

  “Yeah, you are. Now here’s the deal.” Connor pointed at the door. “I’m going to talk with the desk sergeant out there. He’ll be back to see you in a few minutes. If he gives you the option of walking out of here tonight, I suggest you take it. The decision is yours. I’ll be waiting outside.”

  The desk sergeant was a head shorter than Mayo but fifteen years his senior and far tougher. He opened the cell door and waved him out.

  “You don’t know how lucky you are, soldier. That warrant officer went out on a limb for you. I owed him a favor—a big one—and he just collected.”

  “You mean I’m free to go?” Mayo stood outside the door, surprised in spite of what Connor told him. “What about the charges?”

  “The charges have been dropped. The other three punks changed their mind when I told them they could be cited for bei
ng drunk and stupid. The MP you took a swing at will be pissed, but I’ll convince him my decision is in everyone’s best interest. The pub owner said he’ll withdraw his complaint as long as the damage is paid for.”

  There was an expression of relief on Mayo’s face he didn’t try to hide. He wiped some dried blood from the corner of his mouth. “Why? I mean why did Mister Connor go out on a limb for me?”

  “Damned if I know.” The sergeant’s eyes narrowed as he looked Mayo over. “I’ll tell you this though. You screw up again and he’ll be dragging you back himself. Now tuck in your shirt and get on your way. I see you in here again and you’ll be answering to me.”

  Mayo didn’t screw up again. He turned his life around and his career, becoming a well-respected maintenance NCO. A wife and several kids helped him along the way.

  Years later Mayo found himself in Alaska serving as the maintenance platoon sergeant. He was coordinating the transfer of the unit’s remaining UH-1 helicopters while the rest of the battalion was overseas.

  Mayo looked up as Connor entered the office, pleased he stopped by. They remained in contact after their tour in Germany. Connor often kept a watchful, if distant, eye on him, at times offering advice but never again intervening in his career. Mayo considered him both a mentor and a friend.

  “Pull up a seat. You look a little tired.” Mayo motioned to a nearby chair. “How’s the morning going?”

  Connor decided being downstairs was a better location for carrying out his plan. After finishing the paperwork in his office, Sergeant Jackson informed him the mission helicopter would be returning within the hour. He was still contemplating how to take the Huey without arousing suspicion when he found Mayo.

  “The usual. How’s the family?”

  “They’re great,” replied Mayo. “Stop by sometime. Maria and the kids would enjoy seeing you. The old dog misses you, too. The kids are wearing him out.”