Steiner looked over at him suspiciously as they entered the office. “A fifteen? What exactly is a fifteen, Bril?”
The smile on Bril’s face widened, but he glanced around the office before answering, confirming there were no females present who might be offended. “That’s exactly what the bartender said. So the blonde rolled her eyes at the bartender and spoke slowly. ‘Fiiif-teeen! A seven and seven, duuuh!’ As if he was a complete moron.”
He looked at each of them and laughed good-naturedly, his eyes sparkling with humor.
Steiner groaned and rolled his eyes in disbelief. “You owe me two minutes of my life back for listening to your bullshit story. I should have known any account of you and a blonde in a bar had to have a punch-line.”
Shultz tried suppressing a smile and handed the mission sheet over to Steiner. “Here’s all we know so far.” He motioned Ferguson over to the area wall map and pointed to where the coordinates corresponded to locations on the glacier.
“This is where we’re going. We’ll only be on a search mission to confirm the signal. We have no information other than the satellite coordinates. Could be a real emergency or a false alarm. Questions?”
Ferguson shook his head no.
Steiner was the first to respond. “Looks pretty routine, sir. Probably some bush plane made a hard landing and activated his ELT. Even if the plane was damaged, there won’t be more than a couple guys to pick up.”
“Probably, but maybe an aircraft really did smack into the glacier.” Shultz made eye contact with each of his crew while continuing to speak. “Wouldn’t be the first time. What do you say we go find out?”
A relaxed smile creased Steiner’s mouth. He loved the exhilaration of a real mission, especially the potential for a medical emergency. He was often the first responder, providing critical care for a patient and their only hope of staying alive. Bad weather, harsh terrain, and sometimes enemy fire only added to the risk. The hazards somehow made the lives he saved more meaningful, as if death had thrown everything possible at him and failed. Being a medic was what he lived for.
During a mission the pilot-in-command was responsible for the crew and aircraft, while the flight medic was responsible for patient care. The medic’s assessment for treatment and priority of transport played an integral part in the overall decision-making process.
On missions where no patients were involved, the medic still served as an important member of the crew and as another set of eyes during search operations. Aside from medical training, their flight experience was a valuable asset.
“How soon before we launch, sir?” Steiner raised his wristwatch to note the time. “I need to grab something before we go.”
He caught the questioning looks of his fellow crew members and offered an explanation. “I left my jacket in the medic office. If we’re heading in the mountains, it might come in handy.”
“Okay. We’ll launch as soon as everyone’s onboard.” Shultz shifted his gaze to Ferguson, thinking it would be quicker to have the copilot start the APU, the helicopter’s auxiliary power unit, while waiting on the rest of the crew. “You and Bril head down and go up on the APU. Get everything running, short of starting the engines. I’ll be there as soon as I call for a weather update. We can file a flight plan over the radio.”
“Should we top off the external tanks?” Ferguson thought additional fuel might be a good idea with the potential for a long flight.
Shultz had already figured the fuel required for the mission but went over the mental calculations again as he looked back at the map. A normal mission configuration was flown with the internal fuel tanks filled to capacity and the two external long-range tanks only partially filled with a hundred gallons each. This provided roughly three and half hours of flight time, depending on environmental conditions and gross weight.
Shultz figured twenty-five minutes to reach the glacier flying a direct course between Fort Wainwright and the mountains. Factoring in time for the return flight left two hours and forty minutes on station, more than enough time to find the source of the signal and rescue possible survivors. Provided, of course, there were no unforeseen problems.
“Let’s go with the fuel we have. I’m thinking worst-case scenario. If we have to conduct a rescue at high altitude, the additional fuel will increase our gross weight and limit our hovering capability. Once the RCC sends updated information, we can reduce the size of the search area and won’t need as much fuel. Operations can pass any new information while we’re en route. The off-duty crew can be called in to launch if we start running low on fuel.”
Steiner and Bril stepped into the hallway as Ferguson nodded in reply and followed. They looked at each other without speaking, each thinking of the mission ahead.
Shultz moved toward a telephone on a nearby flight-planning table. He hesitated before lifting the receiver. Something was nagging at him. An intuition he developed over the years, telling him this would be anything but a routine mission. He ignored the warning and dialed the weather office.
The operations and planning area were located in the same room, separated by a long wooden counter. The design was similar to other operation offices on the airfield. Flight publications and aircraft manuals were stored in a long metal bookshelf near the window. A large wooden desk was situated in the center of the floor for plotting routes and filling out flight plans and weather briefing sheets. Maps of the local training areas and charts of Interior Alaska hung from the walls for easy reference, clearly marked with updated hazards.
An updated briefing from the Air Force Weather office only took a minute. The forecaster was happy to break the monotony of boredom. Medevac missions had priority anyway. En route conditions were basically the same as forecast earlier, except for an approaching frontal system over the southern mountain range. The storm was moving faster than originally predicted, with moderate to severe turbulence developing over rough terrain. Rain was forecast with possible snow at higher elevations. Icing in clouds was expected above six thousand feet.
Shultz took the information in stride. The forecasters were usually on the money with their analysis. Flight conditions were deteriorating and could get downright nasty, but he wasn’t overly concerned. The helicopter was capable of flying in almost any weather, and if necessary they could turn back should the situation worsen. Flying in the mountains was a dangerous business, a business in which he was well experienced. In the mountains, the winds could be a pilot’s worst enemy, unpredictable and deadly.
Sergeant Donovan was looking out the window at the mission helicopter on the tarmac when Shultz got off the phone. He turned to see Shultz staring at the large wall map again.
“Weather good, sir?”
Shultz didn’t respond for a few seconds before glancing back at the Donovan. “Good enough for a couple of hours. Then conditions will get a lot worse. We should be able to identify the ELT signal by then.”
“New satellite fixes should be coming through soon.” Donovan crossed his arms over his chest as he spoke. “I already informed the RCC you’re launching.”
“Roger,” Shultz said. “Right now the search area is well over three square miles, assuming the coordinates are accurate. The transmission was probably bouncing off the surrounding mountains and distorting the signal. The source could be outside the three-mile area, but I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
“Yes, sir. Would you like me to notify the off-duty crew, just in case?”
Shultz scratched his chin and looked at his watch. “No. Don’t bother until we have more information. The mission could be a false alarm. I don’t want them coming in for nothing. If the RCC doesn’t send an update by the time we reach the search area, I’ll reconsider.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll notify battalion, so they’re aware of the mission.” Donovan began dialing one of the phone numbers stenciled on a sheet of paper under the Plexiglas cover on his desk.
Shultz waved in reply and headed out the door.
As
the phone on the other end began ringing, Donovan yelled in his direction. “Good luck, sir.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sanders confirmed his earlier assessment of the crash site. The ridge was far too uneven and strewn with large obstacles for even a small bush plane to land. He didn’t know much about helicopters but guessed even the most capable would have problems with the high, surrounding slopes and swirling winds. Hoisting the survivors off the ground seemed the only possibility. He saw the procedure performed at an air show once, but it was on a fair weather day at a much lower altitude. With the current weather and terrain, the possibility of a quick rescue was slim at best. He decided to plan for the worst.
Sanders watched as Kwapich and Bidwell pulled hard on the rear access door. Immediately behind them the tail section had bowed upward and sideways at an abnormal angle. The wing was also heavily damaged. Large sections of aluminum skin were deeply dented and the engine cowling was broken, twisted away on one side. The propeller blades were curved sharply backward from the tips contacting the ground.
Sanders let out a slow breath and shook his head. His company’s multi-million dollar aircraft was now a pile of twisted junk.
The noise of the wind was interrupted by a dull groan of metal as the rear access door slowly opened. One problem solved, Sanders thought. The two men had the situation under control, and he moved toward the wing for a closer inspection.
There was no sign of leaking fuel. The self-sealing bladder had remained intact. He ran his hand over the wing affectionately. Fire was still a possibility, although remote, and he made a mental note to remind everyone about not using lighters or open flame.
Tufts of hair blew across his face as he turned away from the biting wind. Off the front of the aircraft, he could see a woman and four girls clustered behind a pile of rock. They were all wearing similar sweat jackets. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, they seemed protected from the worst effects of the wind.
There was little he could do for them at this point. Even so, he wanted to check their condition and assure them the situation wasn’t as terrible as they might assume. Actually, the situation probably was, maybe even worse, but he wasn’t about to scare them further with the truth. At least not until he knew for sure a rescue wasn’t imminent. Until then, there was always hope.
The woman and all but one of the girls stared at Sanders meekly as he approached. One of them, who appeared to be the youngest and yet most composed of the group, rose to meet him when he was a few feet away. Her eyes were bright and unafraid as if a crash on a high mountain in the middle of nowhere was a typical day at school.
He extended his good arm in an attempted hug, forcing a smile and introducing himself, trying to appear fatherly as if everything would be all right. The young girl seemed surprised by the gesture and instead of falling into his arms, took his hand and looked at him reassuringly.
“I’m Lisa,” she explained, stepping beside him to face the others. “That’s Sheryl, Becka, Mary Beth, and our coach, Miss Regan.” She pointed to each of them by name.
The three girls appeared more scared than in shock, awaiting guidance Sanders supposed since they were outside the wreckage with only the wind and each other for company. Their coach concerned him the most. She had a look of hysteria on her face as her eyes darted back and forth between him, the girls, and the surrounding mountains.
“Miss Regan?” Sanders asked. “I need you and the girls to do something for me.”
Her expression didn’t change at first until he repeated her name more forcefully. She tilted her head and recognition slowly returned. Her lips quivered as she spoke, and the sound of her own voice seemed to focus her attention.
“Yes? … what? … okay.” Donna’s mind seemed to prioritize her thoughts before she returned to a positive state of awareness. Self-preservation was her main concern. The girls were secondary.
“But the plane … shouldn’t we stay here? We were told to stay here.”
Sanders was about to answer when Lisa squeezed his hand and began speaking. “Mrs. Douglas, the nice lady sitting behind me on the plane, told us to wait here until it was safe. I wanted to help, but she insisted. Can’t we do something? It’s hard not knowing what’s going on.”
The other girls nodded their heads in agreement. They were content to accept Lisa as their spokesperson. The excitement of doing something was suddenly more important than staying out of the wind, although Sander’s noticed one of the girls appeared less excited than the others.
“We should stay here,” Donna stated weakly. “For the girls’ sake I mean. This is the safest place, right? These girls are my responsibility. I’m their coach.”
Having the girls remain where they were was Sanders intention all along. The trauma inside the wreckage wasn’t something they should be exposed to more than they already had been. But Lisa’s offer had merit. She was persuasive. Her maturity was far more reflective of an adult than a child.
“This is the safest place for the moment,” Sanders acknowledged. “I could still use some assistance though if you’ll allow it, Miss Regan?”
She was shaking her head as Sanders ignored the gesture and continued. “Perhaps a couple of the girls could help with the baggage? Sort through them for warm clothing, jackets, sweaters, and such. There might be some food as well. The items might make our situation more comfortable until help arrives.”
Donna’s expression changed as the thought of warmer clothing and food appealed to her. She pretended to think about the offer for a few seconds. “Oh, I guess it would be okay. Just a couple of the girls?”
“Two or three should be enough. The rest can stay here with you, where they’ll be more comfortable.” Sanders felt Lisa squeeze his hand again.
“I’ll help.” Lisa was the first to offer, then Sheryl and Becka. Mary Lou hesitated and Sanders could tell she was reluctant to offer.
“You three will be enough. There aren’t many pieces of luggage. Mary Lou and Miss Regan can stay here so the rest of the passengers will know where to meet.”
There was a visible show of relief on Mary Lou’s face as she looked at the ground. Donna smiled slightly as if getting the best of Sander’s without him knowing.
“Okay, girls, this is what I need you to do.” Sanders turned and, out of reflex, attempted to raise his broken arm. The pain made him grimace and stop. He released Lisa’s hand, motioned toward the rear of the wreckage with his good arm, and gingerly repositioned the sling.
“Most of the luggage is in the compartment behind the wing, further back from the exit door. Open the bags and take out the things I mentioned. Keep the loose items in the cargo compartment so the wind doesn’t blow them away. When you’re done, reclose the bags and set them on the ground under the tail. If they’re too heavy, leave them. Someone can move them later. Any questions?”
Sheryl and Becka shook their heads, each answering in the negative. Only Lisa had a question. “Can I let the dogs out? They might be injured.”
Sanders realized he forgot about the dogs again. Their occasional barking was heard over the wind, yet he had been ignoring the sound since exiting the wreckage.
“Leave them alone for now, Lisa. The dogs will be frightened, maybe aggressive. They could bite or attack you. One of the other passengers will check on them.”
Lisa noticed the sling when Sanders’ first approached and saw his grimace of pain. She gently grasped his wrist and placed the fingers of her other hand lightly under the injured arm. Her words carried a gentle strength.
“The dogs won’t hurt me.”
She held his arm for a few moments longer. He didn’t answer, but he believed her. There was a reassuring smile on her face, as if she knew what he was thinking. He’d never met such an insightful young girl. Before he could reason a response, she was talking with the other girls as they drifted away.
He watched them go for a moment, then nodded at Donna and headed toward the nose of the plane. Already focused on something els
e, he didn’t notice the pain in his arm was almost gone.
Without the landing gear extended, the top of the windshield was no higher than Sanders’ head. He could see the cockpit through the broken, spider-webbed glass and Illiamin in his seat, still unconscious. His chest was moving, discernible by the fabric of his shirt flexing with each labored breath. The narrow cockpit door was half open. Someone was standing, facing away on the other side, but he couldn’t tell who the person was.
His eyes moved over the fuselage. The starboard side of the cockpit sustained the heaviest damage, pushed inward by the impact. Directly below the windshield the nose was misshapen from scraping over the rough ground. Less than five feet away, a sedan size boulder lay partially embedded in the ground. If the plane hadn’t stopped where it did, the collision would have crushed the cockpit, killing both pilots.
Sanders studied the damage, thankful he survived. He said a silent prayer for the injured. He remembered reading a story where someone said there were no atheists in foxholes. Considering what had transpired, he doubted there were any atheists after an airliner crash either.
He moved around the nose to check the starboard wing—or what was left of it. Only a few feet of broken metal remained attached to the fuselage. The rest of the wing remained twisted around a rock formation behind the tail. Its aluminum skin was bent and torn open, leaving a broken spar pointing upward at an odd angle. The engine was still attached, dangling by a single mount with the propeller hub stuck in the ground. The cowling was missing, torn loose sometime during the crash.
Sanders could smell fuel as he neared the jagged section attached to the fuselage. The combustible liquid was dripping from a ruptured line and seeping into the ground. Using his good hand, he bent the end of the tubing, pinching it tight to stop the leak. He finished by wrapping the line with a strip of torn handkerchief. The fix seemed to work. For the moment at least, he was satisfied.
Hydraulic fluid and oil were another potential hazard. He checked the broken lines, but other than a few drops, there was no obvious accumulation. He plugged the lines anyway.
The Last Flight Page 12