The Last Flight

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

  Positioning him on the board was a struggle in the narrow aisle. They labored to roll his body so the board could be slid underneath. Lifting the man’s large mass onto the litter was even harder. All the while he mumbled insults and threatened legal action in slurred, broken sentences. Somehow, in spite of the morphine, he could still focus his anger.

  Reassurances fell on deaf ears. The man’s personality needed something to complain about. Sanders finally had enough. Listening to the man insult the other survivors and now the men trying to help him was the last straw.

  “Shut your mouth and listen. I know you’re upset. Cussing at us isn’t making this any easier. You can remain quiet and allow us to move you, or you’ll be staying here until another helicopter arrives. That means you won’t be leaving and will remain on this mountain for another day or two. You can moan all you want, but the next time you bad-mouth one of us, I’m putting you at the bottom of the list. You got that?”

  The man stared back in wide-eyed disbelief, but he nodded his head in understanding. He wasn’t accustomed to being lectured to and was unsure how to respond. One thing was clear, he would do whatever was necessary to see the pilot fired and the company penalized. He was an important man. No one got away with treating him like this.

  Marla, his pampered and submissive wife, had remained near his side following the crash. She now displayed an open-mouthed expression of disbelief. A slight smile of gratitude briefly framed the corners of her mouth before being suppressed by a look of feigned concern. Someone finally had the nerve to tell him what an ass he is. With him or without him, she wanted on the helicopter.

  Moving the heavy man was easier with Thompson helping. They managed to slide the litter across the aisle a few inches at a time.

  Marla moved outside, out of the way. Her husband grunted and moaned loudly several times, more out of spite toward the captain than feelings of pain. His silence was a welcome change.

  Susan could only watch the spectacle. There was no room in the confined space for another body. As it was, the men could hardly move without bumping into the severely injured man with the puncture wound. He rested in a semi-conscious state against the rear bulkhead. An intravenous bag hung from the ceiling, the tubing attached to his arm left dangling in the open. The obnoxious man almost snagged the line with his foot before Bidwell moved it out of the way.

  Susan had no misgivings about remaining at the crash site, fully aware some of the passengers couldn’t leave on the first load. If necessary, she could endure a night or two on the mountain. The weather was a minor issue. She was a lifelong Alaskan and knew how to make do in difficult situations.

  With Bidwell pushing and Thompson and Sanders pulling, they eventually managed to maneuver the obese man out of the way. They could now move the other injured man without tripping over each other.

  Steiner arrived a moment later with Kwapich and Simms. They entered the fuselage while Steiner stopped and pulled out his survival radio. He turned his back to the wind, ready to transmit when Thompson yelled at him from the doorway.

  “I just talked with Connor. He figures seven more passengers. And we need to be careful loading them, especially the big guy, so we can keep the helicopter in balance. Too much weight on one side, and he could lose control.”

  “Okay.” Steiner looked back at the survivors standing around the wreckage. “Only seven more?”

  Thompson shared his concern. “That’s what he figured. Depends on how much they weigh.”

  “We better get moving then. The guy with the puncture wound goes next. I’ll talk to Connor after we get him loaded. The girls and the older lady will follow, then the fourth and last litter with the heavy man. He has to be set directly inside the door.”

  Steiner moved inside out of the wind with Thompson when Sanders pulled them aside. “There might be a problem with a couple of the women.” The expression on his face showed he was serious.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Marla, the large man’s wife, and the girls’ coach are pretty adamant about leaving on the helicopter. The coach, in particular, looks a little panicky.”

  “Christ!” Steiner thought for a second. “You have to talk to them. Explain there isn’t enough room.”

  “And if they get into the helicopter, there’ll be too much weight. It could crash,” Thompson emphasized.

  Sanders understood. He turned his eyes to Steiner. “Just be prepared with a sedative if you have to.”

  The group inside the fuselage waited for instructions. They understood the urgency as Thompson briefed them on the intended loading procedure. Bril left, intent on briefing the others already outside.

  Steiner designated the litter teams. Thompson, Bidwell, Kwapich, and himself would carry the severely injured man. Once he was loaded, they would hurry back and help with the heavier patient.

  Sanders tried to appear optimistic. He gathered the girls and women behind the rocks, out of the wind, including Susan and Marla. Each of them was disheveled and held a blanket around their shoulders for warmth. A few hours ago they would have been upset at their appearance. No one gave a second thought now.

  Bril hurried over from the wreckage and joined them. His easy demeanor had faded as the weather worsened. He wasn’t concerned about himself as much as the survivors, knowing time was against them. The worried look on the young girls’ faces made him more determined. Even the dog looked distraught, resting between one of the girl’s legs.

  Bril tried appearing optimistic while explaining the situation. “This is what we’re going to do. As soon as the next litter is loaded, I’ll take five to the helicopter.”

  Steiner pointed at the girls and older woman, omitting Donna, Susan, and Marla, who would remain behind. They appeared receptive, except for Donna and the traumatized, older woman who held a blank stare. She was still lethargic and in shock from her close friend’s death.

  Donna became emotional when he explained the limited seating. She started arguing on her necessity to remain with the girls. One of the girls, who seemed unflustered by the situation, volunteered to stay behind. The other three became visibly upset.

  Bril was taken off guard. Unsure of what to do, he let Susan and Sanders talk with them. After some reassurances, they calmed down and relented. Donna remained reluctant, but she didn’t have a choice. She sat and stared at the ground, shaking and holding back tears.

  Marla, on the other hand, was surprisingly rational. She accepted the decision without comment. Perhaps she decided time away from her husband might be a nice change, even in these conditions.

  Susan was different from the other women. She didn’t need convincing. In fact, she reiterated her willingness to stay behind. He admired her spunk.

  “All right, it’s settled.” Bril nodded a thank you to Susan and Sanders.

  The girls were uncertain of their own weight and the older woman was in no condition to speak, so Bril made an educated guess. He’d pass the information to Connor.

  “A couple of other things,” Brill added. “We’ll be approaching the helicopter from the front, walking under the rotor blades. Don’t be afraid, they’re well above your head, but the downwash can tear the blankets from your shoulders. Before we go, I need each of you to fold your blanket tight against your chest. Once you’re inside the helicopter and the doors are closed, you can open them back up. Okay?”

  He looked at each of the girls as they nodded in reply. Someone would have to help the traumatized woman. She was unresponsive.

  “The helicopter’s engine will be very loud. Try to ignore the noise. You’ll get used to it. Keep holding your blankets and don’t try covering your ears.”

  They waited until the men carrying the litter were almost to the helicopter. Sanders took the older woman by the hand while the girls trailed behind Bril. Their coach became teary-eyed right away and started sniffling. Whether her emotion was out of concern for the girls or herself, no one was sure. They took a last look at the wreckage before
hurrying away.

  Marla and Susan waited until the girls were out of sight before escorting Donna inside the wreckage. They guided her into one of the seats, talking as if everything was normal so she wouldn’t focus on the helicopter.

  The dog that had stayed close to the girls joined them, seemingly content to remain with the women for the time being. The high-pitched sound of the turbine engine scared him. Lisa’s command to stay and the loud noise from the direction she departed was all the coaxing he needed. The older malamute lay in the cargo compartment, guarding her owner’s body.

  Marla excused herself for a moment, retrieved an item from an overhead bin, and then knelt by her husband. With her back turned, blocking their view, no one noticed her prick his finger with a small lancet. He flinched, muttered something incoherent, and lapsed back into glaring at the ceiling. She spoke to him softly so the other couldn’t hear.

  Connor’s pain was becoming intense. His thighs were cramping from over exertion, causing his back muscles to tighten in response. A small spasm flared in the already bruised tissue, sending a grimace of agony through his gut. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down into his eyes and nose. More perspiration pooled underneath his arms and along his back. His clothing was soaked, but the irritation helped take his mind off the pain, at least temporarily.

  The distraction only lasted until the next gust of wind. Moving the controls in quick response became more difficult. He thought his muscles would give out any second. They felt like iron blocks moving under water. His reflexes were sluggish, making him over-compensate and nearly lose control.

  Where the hell are they? Please, let me hang on another minute. Connor grimaced in pain and couldn’t even laugh at the irony, for less than an hour ago, he tried to kill himself.

  The throbbing was becoming unbearable when he noticed movement in front of the helicopter. Steiner was holding a litter from the front. Kwapich and Bidwell were positioned on the sides and Thompson at the back. They moved quickly, concentrating on the uneven ground.

  Thompson stole a glance through the Plexiglas window. He was stunned by Connor’s appearance. His face was red and clammy from exertion, yet he somehow maintained a look of pained determination. Sweat beaded above his eyes and drops were streaking along his nose and temples. Exhaustion was only a matter of time. Thompson realized there wasn’t much time before he was completely spent.

  Positioning the patient inside the helicopter was a careful process. Steiner set his end on the metal floor and crouched in the door. He moved slowly. The others pushed as he guided the litter behind the cockpit, next to the woman with the injured hip. Barely enough room remained in the back for the uninjured survivors and a narrow space for the heavy man beside the door.

  An IV bag between the man’s legs was hung from the ceiling. The man had been in and out of consciousness since the crash, but his eyes fluttered for a moment before closing again. A neck brace supported his head, and a blanket covered his torso with the sides tucked tightly underneath.

  Steiner leaned over and spoke into his ear, unsure if he comprehended what he said or could even hear above the sound of the engine. “You’re safe. We’ll be at the hospital before long.” He then slid across the floor and checked the other two patients. There was no change.

  When Steiner stepped down from the helicopter, Thompson motioned him closer. Concern was obvious on his face. “I need to relieve Connor. He’s in bad shape. I don’t think he can hang on for the next load. Can you carry the last litter without me?”

  Quickly glancing at the cockpit and then back at Thompson, Steiner relented. “Yeah, I think so. We’ll hurry as fast as we can.”

  Steiner and the other two men hurried away from the helicopter. A moment later, Thompson met the girls and older woman escorted by Sanders and Bril. He helped them climb inside one at a time, having them sit on the floor where they wouldn’t bump the three litter patients. He slid the cargo door closed. When he turned, Bril and Sanders were gone, hurrying after the others.

  Lisa stared at Connor in the cockpit as if she needed something, but the space between them was blocked. For the first time, she seemed unsure of the situation. She sat on the floor, barely able to move, thinking of what to do. The other girls ignored her, overwhelmed and shocked at the injured lying close by.

  The wind blew with enough force Thompson strained to pull the cockpit door open. The door slammed harder than intended as he positioned himself in the pilot’s seat. In the few seconds required to fasten the shoulder harness, he noticed Connor grimace in pain. Sweat dripped noticeably from his brow, yet he never lost focus, intent on holding the helicopter’s delicate balance.

  He keyed the microphone so Connor could hear him through the intercom. His feet and hands were already in place. “I’ve got the controls.”

  There was no hesitation in Connor’s voice, but his muscles were slow to respond. He forced himself to let go. “You’ve got the controls.”

  Free of the physical exertion, Connor’s body sagged noticeably in the seat. His legs shook from fatigue and the taut muscles in his back left him slightly hunched forward. Using his arms against the frame of the seat, he pushed his torso tight into the mesh backing, stretching his spine an inch at a time until the pain gradually subsided.

  With slow movements, he massaged his locked knees and extended each leg carefully over the pedals. Finished, he let his head rest back against the seat and closed his eyes for a moment. He was in no condition to continue. Thompson would have to fly the helicopter on his own.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  An overwhelming feeling of exhaustion and agony engulfed Connor. He couldn’t remember a time when the pain was ever this intense. Only once, when he was much younger, was the similarity even close. During his two tours in Vietnam, his body in prime condition, physical injuries and pain weren’t an issue. Minor wounds were easily suppressed by the heightened anxiety of battle.

  As his thoughts drifted to a different era, he barely noticed the helicopter’s subtle motion. Thompson was doing a better job of compensating for the wind than he had done.

  A few moments of rest was all Connor wanted, and then he could give up his seat to someone else. In his present state, the way he felt, there was no way he would be much use in the cockpit. Remaining on the mountain would provide more time for carrying out his plan.

  He stared straight ahead without seeing, letting his mind drift to another time, many years before. The memory took away the physical agony for a moment, substituting a different pain he was all too familiar with.

  The day began like many others in Vietnam. He rose early after a fitful sleep and forced a few bites of food with several cups of coffee. The other members of his crew were late risers, so he preflighted the helicopter on his own. He then checked the latest intelligence report, the mission board for changes, and finally the weather forecast. Nothing significant was projected. The flight was a routine supply mission, except routine was rarely the norm in combat.

  The air was heavy with the smell of dense vegetation. The crew was alert as they headed out over the jungle. By mid-morning, the heat and humidity were already causing them to perspire. They didn’t say much. Their thoughts were on staying alive.

  Nine months into his first tour, Connor was already considered an experienced veteran. He was on the controls and working the radios, occasionally pointing out landmarks to a new copilot who tried processing the influx of rapid information. The fresh-eyed kid, only a year younger than himself, monitored the instruments and attempted to follow their course on a rumpled map unfolded in his lap.

  Water cans, cases of C-rations, ammunition and boxes of fresh oranges sat stacked in the rear, secured by a cargo net to the floor. The crew chief and gunner sat by the open doors behind their machine guns, watching the terrain. Small arms fire was always a possibility, but no threat was anticipated.

  The mission progressed easily enough. They flew high above the jungle and encountered no surprises on the
first leg. Once the supplies were unloaded, they continued with an orientation of other firebases in the area, avoiding locations of known enemy activity. Connor let the new pilot fly on the return.

  A flash of light reflecting off a piece of metal on a nearby hill was the first indication of trouble. Connor immediately took the controls and banked the helicopter, trying to pinpoint the position. The enemy could be moving troops into the area for an assault. If so, he could radio artillery for a quick fire mission. As he passed overhead, several figures were seen along the edge of the tree line.

  High-caliber tracer rounds were the second indication of trouble. They rose skyward from a partially concealed anti-aircraft gun, flickering red through the air like sparks from a bonfire. Connor had flown into a trap. A series of rounds hit the fuselage, tearing through the thin aluminum skin and engine housing.

  A sudden and instinctive dive away from the hill saved them, initially. The maneuver cleared the helicopter from the line of fire, but the damage was done. The engine compressor disintegrated, flinging shards of metal and severing the drive shaft. They were going down without power.

  “Mayday, mayday, mayday!” Connor’s voice was higher than normal. “UH-1 helicopter five-five-two, 129th Assault Battalion, taking enemy fire. Going down ten miles southwest of Firebase Zebra. Four on board.”

  The copilot sat riveted in his seat, the engine alarm blaring, waiting for instructions. Connor’s voice prompted him out of his trance. “Shut off fuel and electrical power, now!”

  “Roger,” the copilot muttered. His hand reached across the console.

  The words were barely out of his mouth before Connor flared the helicopter, slowing their forward momentum above the jungle canopy. They hung for a moment over the trees, and he pulled in an armful of power, trying to cushion the fall.

  The thick foliage was too high. The helicopter hit, bouncing and jerking from side to side as the rotor blades sliced through the branches, splintering against the thicker limbs. The tail boom tore loose from the fuselage and the helicopter fell back and sideways, sliding between two mangrove trees before hitting the ground. The broad trunks and dense underbrush helped slow the momentum but only slightly.