The small nose compartment was the last thing Sanders examined. The surface was heavily damaged, but the door opened with a sharp tug. A separate access panel was built into the wall. Mounted inside on a rail was a bright red, brick-size ELT with an antenna attached. He retrieved the metal box and checked the three-position toggle switch, verifying the position was ON and the power light illuminated.
Knowing the device was operating correctly was a relief. The ELT activated automatically when the plane crashed. An orbiting satellite would eventually pick up the transmission, forwarding the signal location to a rescue coordination center where the information would be passed to search and rescue facilities. Unless someone heard their earlier radio calls, the emergency locator was the only hope they had of a timely rescue.
Sanders placed the ELT back on the rail, leaving the small access door open. He repositioned his head and arm so he could retrieve the few lightweight bags stored inside. They might be useful.
A scuffle of boots across the rough surface was indiscernible above the sound of the wind. Sanders’ head was still in the compartment when he recognized Kwapich’s voice.
“There you are. We managed to get the rear cabin door open. Hank is helping Danny free the passenger entangled in his seat. The aisle should be free of debris soon.”
Sanders pulled his head clear, holding the last bag. “Good. Nice job. Some of the passengers might require help getting outside if they find the urge. And there’s the dead to consider. We should move them as soon as possible. Did you check the cargo compartment?”
“The pallet is there. The dogs, too, and they seem uninjured. I left them in their kennels, but one of the girls going through the luggage insisted it was all right to let them out. She’s very persuasive.”
“Yes, she is.” Sanders was grateful for the help he was getting from many of the passengers.
“Figured I’d let you know what was going on before breaking apart the pallet. The girls are busy getting the suitcases open. They’ve already found some jackets and sweaters. Moving the bags outside when they’re finished shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll go back and give them a hand in a minute after I check on the injured. Maybe we can move the bodies into the cargo compartment.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Sanders replied.
Kwapich stared through the side window at Illiamin’s body. “The retired nurse and Susan Douglas are patching up the injured, but some of them are in pretty bad shape. A few might not make it.”
Sanders let out a sigh. “I know. The thought has been on my mind since the crash. I guess I’ve been avoiding the injured by trying to stay busy. I’m the one at fault.” He hesitated before continuing. “I’ll check on everyone in a minute.”
There was no blame on Kwapich’s face, only a sad expression of understanding. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought we might need these bags. I also wanted to check our emergency locator to ensure it was sending out a distress signal.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah,” Sanders said. “The battery’s strong. Someone should be looking for us before long.”
Kwapich raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean? You said earlier search and rescue had already been notified.”
Sanders hesitated but looked directly at him. “Yes, I did. I didn’t want to alarm the passengers any more than necessary. Giving them hope of a quick rescue seemed the right thing to do at the time.”
“I see,” Kwapich said, shifting uncomfortably. “Then we might be here awhile?”
A thick layer of clouds was clearly visible among the distant mountains, obscuring the high, rugged peaks as the dark mass slowly advanced toward the crash site.
Sanders watched and gauged the storm’s approaching speed, estimating they only had a couple hours at the most before the weather was upon them. He turned back to Kwapich and noticed his questioning expression. Sanders couldn’t lie about their predicament. They would all find out soon enough.
“Let’s hope not,” he said. “If no one finds us by the time the storm arrives, we could be here for days.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A blast of hot air swirled outward in a surrounding wave of dust as the helicopter approached the hangar. The UH-1 flared, slowing to a stationary hover over a faded yellow line on the parking ramp. As it turned to face the hangar, the tail caught the wind, causing the fuselage to wobble and dip before regaining position. The helicopter slowly settled, touching down with a gentle bump.
Two pilots sat in the cockpit, an expression of cocky enthusiasm partially hidden by the dark visors of their helmets.
A third helmeted figure jumped out of the rear cargo door as the engine spooled to idle. The deafening roar of the turbine engine changed to a low rumble as the harmonic beat of the rotor blades softened in the fresh morning air.
The crew chief stood close to the fuselage, attached to the intercom system by a long cord for communication. He looked on both sides of the helicopter, ensuring the area was clear and no one approached the tail rotor. A small door in the cowling of the engine compartment was then pushed open as he checked for fluid leaks. He could hear the pilots talking through the intercom, one reading from a checklist as the other confirmed each step.
The UH-1 Huey had been in military service for over fifty years. An iconic symbol of the Vietnam War, the UH-1 earned a well-deserved reputation for an ability to perform any mission, setting a high standard for several decades. Even after being replaced by the more advanced UH-60 Black Hawk in the 1980s, the Huey remained in service with various military units for another twenty years. The Army in Alaska was one of the last active commands still using them.
Medical evacuations, or medevacs, had always been one of the most important missions. During the Vietnam War, the Huey, in particular, was regarded as an angel of mercy. Thousands of wounded soldiers were rescued from death’s door—a legacy that continued throughout its lengthy service.
All Army pilots were aware of the UH-1’s storied history. Many of the older pilots had flown them during their career, but Connor was one of the few still on active duty who had flown in Vietnam.
None of those facts mattered to Connor as he listened to the helicopter approach the hangar. He waited until the engine decreased to idle, then exited the hangar through a small side door. Standing outside the spinning rotors in front of the cockpit, he waited until the pilot in the left seat made eye contact and motioned him forward.
The primary pilot, or pilot-in-command, normally sat in the right cockpit seat of a helicopter, opposite the arrangement in an airplane. When two pilots were flying together, however, they often switched seats to maintain competency from both positions. Many pilots actually preferred flying from the left, or copilot’s seat, which provided a better view of the tail rotor and possible obstructions. Pilots Thompson and Hovan were similarly positioned as Connor approached.
Warrant Officer Al Thompson, twenty-two years old with a swimmer’s physique and chestnut hair, held a questioning look on his face as the senior warrant officer hastened beneath the spinning rotor blades. He opened his left cockpit door to greet him but was surprised when Connor continued past and opened the side cargo door.
Connor retrieved a headset draped over one of the folding seats along the bulkhead and plugged into the intercom. Thompson turned to face him with a questioning expression.
“Al, can you hear me?”
“Yeah, loud and clear. What’s up Mister Connor?”
Even though Thompson considered Connor a mentor and friend, he rarely addressed him by his first name. Out of respect for his rank, he usually used the formal warrant officer title of Mister unless they were flying together.
Thompson was a warrant officer one, with less than two years of service, while Connor was a senior warrant officer four, with over thirty. Military protocol wasn’t as prevalent among warrant officers as other officers, but there still existed a strong bond of respect. Addressing Connor by his first name didn’t
seem appropriate to Thompson in front of Lieutenant Hovan.
Connor sat down on the folding seat nearest the door before answering. “Don’t shut down. You guys have another mission. Some visiting dignitary requested a last minute flight. I’m not sure of the details, but your helicopter is the only one available. Captain Hiroldi wants to brief you both right away. He said the mission is urgent and to give him a call.”
“Both of us?” Lieutenant Hovan asked, interrupting before Thompson could answer. He was a stocky, West Point graduate fresh out of flight school. “Where’s the Captain now?”
Connor’s voice was calm and direct. “He’s in his office at battalion. Give him a call from the operations office. All I know is he wants to brief you both.”
Hovan glanced at Thompson in the opposite seat and frowned with uncertainty. As the copilot he was still under Thompson’s authority where the helicopter was concerned. The difference in rank wasn’t usually an issue, and like most aircrews they considered each other part of an integral team.
“All right, we’re almost ready to shut down.” Thompson’s voice had a hint of eagerness.
“Don’t shut down,” Connor said forcefully. He paused, hoping they hadn’t sensed the deceit in his voice. “Captain Hiroldi wants you back in the air as soon as possible. I’ll keep the engine running while you’re getting briefed.”
Thompson’s eyebrows raised in brief surprise. He was baffled by the subterfuge surrounding the mission but figured any chance at acquiring more flight time was good enough reason for him. He had been out of flight school for only a year, but aside from spending time with his wife and newborn son, he preferred flying over anything else.
He was a good pilot and had only obtained his pilot-in-command status a few months earlier. Unfortunately for him, available flight hours were substantially reduced after the battalion’s deployment. The disappointment of limited flying was offset by being with his wife when she gave birth to his son and an opportunity to acquire more of Connor’s tutelage before heading off to a combat zone.
The few times Thompson had flown with Connor had been particularly enlightening. The senior warrant officer’s approach and techniques for flying were invaluable, something that couldn’t be found in a manual. What impressed him most was the relaxed, almost effortless way Connor flew. His personality was different on the ground. In the air, he seemed at ease and in complete control of his surroundings.
“I’ll stay on the flight controls, Lieutenant, if you want to climb out first,” Thompson said.
Hovan glanced over at Thompson before relenting. “All right, you have the controls. I’ll meet you inside.”
Lieutenant Hovan was a former linebacker on the West Point football team. Weighing close to two hundred and forty pounds, he spent a good part of his off-duty time lifting weights and running. Rumors were circulating he was being groomed for a high position of command. His uncle was a United States Senator and chairman of the powerful Armed Service Committee.
Connor climbed out the opposite cargo door, still wearing the headset, and waited as Hovan unbuckled his shoulder harness and seat belt. He held the door open as the brawny lieutenant unplugged from the intercom system and backed out of the pilot’s seat, smoothly stepping onto the ground. They nodded politely. Hovan hurried away toward the hangar and Connor took his place, gingerly stepping on the toe of the skid before pulling himself in the seat.
The simple movement of climbing into the cockpit was painful. Connor tried not to show discomfort. His time was running out, but he willed his strength to overcome the stabbing pain emanating from his lower back. Acting as if he was unaffected, he forced a weak smile, nodding to Thompson.
Thompson waited until Connor plugged in his headset before speaking. “This must be an important mission if the commander is briefing us.”
Connor swallowed, guilt sticking in his throat. He hated lying, but the ruse was necessary if he intended to continue with the plan. Thompson’s trust mirrored his innocence. In many ways, the young warrant officer reminded Connor of himself, early in his career.
“I doubt it,” Connor replied. “More than likely the flight is a sight-seeing tour around the local area so some ranking official can feel important. I’m sure Hiroldi is only doing what the post commander asked him.”
“Too bad.” Thompson smiled mischievously. “I guess flying the Swedish Bikini Team would be too much to hope for.”
Connor couldn’t suppress a grin. “Not today, anyway. I’ll check and see what we have on the mission schedule later. Maybe some Playboy bunnies can fill in on short notice.”
“Now you’re talking. Try to include the latest Miss August in the request. By her warm expression in this month’s issue, I’m sure she’ll want to give me a good send off before I head overseas.”
“You bet. I’m sure your wife will appreciate the patriotic gesture. Now get going. Don’t keep the commander waiting.”
Thompson relinquished the flight controls. Before climbing down from the cockpit, he paused and looked back at Connor with a more serious expression. “So when do I get to see the autographed picture you promised to show me over a month ago?”
Connor shook his head good-naturedly, in spite of the delay. He couldn’t help but like the energetic warrant officer. “Get out of here and quit wasting time.”
The picture was of a Playboy centerfold Connor had flown while supporting a USO troupe in Korea years ago. The voluptuous kiss from the model was nothing more than a friendly gesture on her part, but soldiers got a kick out of the story when he mentioned spending three days with her on a series of flights to different bases.
“Uh, sir?” Private Epstein asked from outside the helicopter, still hooked into the intercom system. He had been silent since Connor emerged from the hangar.
“Yeah, what’s on your mind?”
“Sir, I’ve got to piss something fierce. Do you mind if I go and use the bathroom real quick?”
Until Epstein interrupted his train of thought, Connor had been unsure of how to get him away from the helicopter. “Sure thing. Take your time. Before you go inside though, make sure the cargo doors are secure.”
Epstein was only going to be gone a few minutes but did as requested after unplugging from the intercom and setting the cord near his helmet bag. He waved, indicating all was secure before moving hurriedly toward the hangar.
Connor watched every step, urging him faster as he approached the hangar. He finally sighed with relief as the crew chief disappeared inside. Hovan should be upstairs by now, with Thompson right behind.
No one was around the parking ramp as Connor rolled the throttle to the full open position, applying left pedal to counter the torque from the rotor blades. Quickly, with the precision of flying thousands of hours in the air, he checked the engine gauges and verified the fuel status. The tanks had been topped off before the aircraft was flown back to the hangar, providing another two hours of usable fuel. More than enough for what he intended.
Sergeant First Class Mayo was sitting in his office. He could hear the helicopter running when Private Epstein shuffled by the open door. “Private, where are you going in such a hurry?”
The crew chief halted and stuck his head in the doorway. “To the bathroom, Sergeant. I need to go before we take off again.”
“Take off again? What are talking about? Your aircraft isn’t scheduled for any more flights.”
“I know. I mean it wasn’t,” said Epstein as he shuffled his weight nervously from one leg to the other. “We have another mission. Lieutenant Hovan and Mister Thompson are getting briefed right now.”
Mayo frowned in irritation, doubting if Epstein knew what he was talking about. “Then why the hell is the aircraft still running?”
“Mister Connor is at the controls. He told the pilots he’d keep it running. Said the commander wanted to brief them over the phone about another mission.”
A look of concern flashed across Mayo’s face and his eyes widened in disbelief
. The earlier conversation with Connor seemed innocent enough at the time, but he’d sensed there was something else going on. The suspicion was nothing he could put his finger on, but Connor had been acting strange. The turn of events now was disturbing. He had to figure out why.
“You stay here, Private. I’m going to find out what’s going on.”
Epstein moved aside as Mayo hurried through the door. What was the big deal? If the commander wanted them to fly another mission, what did the sergeant have to be concerned about? All he wanted to do was use the damn bathroom.
Before Mayo reached the hangar door, he could hear the helicopter’s engine increasing to full power. The hot wind from the rotor wash hit his face as he stepped outside.
Connor was looking right at him but started pulling in collective to bring the helicopter off the ground. Mayo ignored the attempt to lift off. He shielded his eyes against the swirling dust and ducked beneath the spinning rotor blades above his head. Connor stopped, clenching his teeth in anger.
“What the hell are you doing?” Mayo yelled over the sound of the engine as he flung open the cockpit door.
“I’m taking the damn helicopter,” Connor answered sharply.
“Why? What’s going on? You don’t have authorization to fly. Where the hell are you going?”
Connor knew he had no choice but to tell his friend the truth. His voice strained against the loud noise.
“I need to do this. Remember what we were talking about earlier? The situation I described? Well, it’s real. I have terminal cancer. They won’t let me fly anymore. I want one last flight on my own terms, just me and the helicopter. I’ll be back later and face the consequences.”
Mayo suspected Connor was sicker than he admitted earlier but never thought cancer was the culprit or that he would resort to such an extreme measure. Now knowing the truth, his suspicions made sense.
“So this is what you’re going to do? Take the damn helicopter without permission? Throw your reputation and career away? You’re better than that.”
The Last Flight Page 13