The Last Flight

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

  “How are things going back there, Sergeant Steiner?”

  “No change, sir.” He answered Thompson after sitting back on the floor, thankful for the brief interruption. He was as alarmed as Sanders after realizing they were flying blind in the clouds. There was nothing he could do except trust in the young warrant officer’s ability.

  “I’m concerned about the older patient with the puncture wound. His pulse is weak. The other two seem stable for now. How much longer do you figure until we arrive at the hospital?”

  “Thirty, thirty-five minutes. I can’t coax any more airspeed out of this old bird, but we’ve got a tail wind helping us.”

  “Yes, sir.” Steiner rubbed his eyes. The physical exertion and mental stress of moving and caring for the patients was catching up with him. He fought back a yawn.

  “When you get a chance, sir, have Flight Operations contact the hospital and give them a heads up. Ambulances and medical personnel will take at least ten minutes to reposition to the helipad. They’ll be in for a busy day.”

  “I’ll give them a try now.” Thompson switched the selector to the FM radio.

  Rays of sunlight began filtering through a thinning layer above them. They were in and out of the clouds for a minute and then, in an instant, were out of them completely. Visibility suddenly increased to twenty miles, with patchy powder-blue sky and a blanket of clouds covering the ground a thousand feet below. Both pilots smiled at the change in weather. Things were looking better.

  “Operations, Army eight-three-zero, over?”

  After a short break, a strong voice answered with a hint of static in the background. “Army eight-three-zero, this is Medevac Operations. Go ahead, over.”

  “Roger, Ops. We’re inbound with survivors from the Northern Mountain Air flight. Ten passengers total. Two in critical condition and one serious. ETA thirty minutes. Request you advise Fairbanks Memorial, over.”

  “Roger, roger, eight-three-zero. I copy ten survivors, two critical, one serious.” His voice changed to a higher pitch as he repeated the information. “Do you have names of the survivors and medical stats on the injured, over?”

  “Standby, Ops. Steiner, you want to talk to them direct?”

  “Can do, sir. I’m switching over now.”

  A separate communication panel was mounted in the rear ceiling. Steiner switched his selector to the appropriate setting and began transmitting direct. He passed each patient’s vital signs and a brief explanation of their injury, allowing the medical staff on the ground to prepare for their arrival.

  While Steiner continued sending information, Sanders directed Thompson’s attention. The lower overcast appeared to open in the distance, dissipating into a scattered layer with pockets of heavier stratus. They should have an easy descent into Fairbanks.

  Once the patient information was acknowledged, a different voice called over the frequency. The raspy tone was strained and hurried.

  “Army eight-three-zero, this is Evac two-three-nine on Fox Mike. You copy?”

  “Sounds like your standby crew is finally on the way,” Thompson announced over the intercom to Steiner. “Go ahead, two-three-nine. What’s your position?”

  “We’re approximately five miles southeast of Blair Lakes, approaching the Little Delta River at a thousand feet. I monitored your transmission with Flight Operations. Understand there are still survivors at the crash site. What’s the situation, over.”

  Lou Maxwell looked over at his copilot and then at the thickening clouds lying on the foothills ahead of their flight path. His female counterpart seemed unconcerned with the worsening weather, and he wasn’t sure if her demeanor was false bravado or a lack of awareness. With minimal Alaska flying experience of his own, he was having doubts about the mission. Maintenance delays at Fort Wainwright and a lack of information before they departed only added to his frustration.

  Amy Lorell was an experienced helicopter pilot. A former warrant officer in the 101st Airborne Division, she joined the National Guard after her active duty commitment. She’d been flying Black Hawks with the Alaska Guard out of Point Barrow for the previous three years, commuting from her home in Fairbanks for monthly drills and any additional flights she could coax out of the detachment commander.

  For the last two weeks Lorell had been flying as a copilot with the 95th Air Medical Company at Fort Wainwright. When the unit’s regular copilot was hospitalized for an appendectomy, the Alaska Guard was asked if they had a pilot who would volunteer, rather than request another pilot from overseas.

  Since Lorell already lived in Fairbanks and was looking for additional flight time, she jumped at the chance. Her wishful thinking had her believe she would be flying as a pilot-in-command, but the regular Army thought differently.

  Regulations and the chain-of-command, at least from what she was told, wouldn’t allow a National Guard pilot to fly as more than a copilot. Experienced or not, she was delegated to the left seat, frustrated by her less than enthusiastic counterpart on almost every occasion. He was cautious to an extreme. Too cautious, as far as Lorell was concerned.

  The voice of the medevac pilot sounded unfamiliar to Thompson, which was no surprise. He had yet to meet all the medevac crews, who were rotating in and out of Alaska at a faster rate than his unit.

  “We’re well above you, two-three-nine. Descending out of fifty-five hundred. The weather closed in around the crash site when we departed. Clouds were still dropping with high winds and turbulence. Stay low over the river and you should reach one-one-four’s position without a problem. Their location is on the east side of the drainage, about four miles past the foothills. They’re monitoring this frequency and VHF guard. Two survivors are with them. One has broken legs and the other is uninjured.”

  Before two-three-nine could answer, Thompson tried Shultz on the same frequency. “Break, break. One-one-four, did you copy two-three-nine, over?”

  The prompt reply was loud and clear. “Negative, eight-three-zero. I’m hearing you okay but not receiving two-three-nine. Weather is still deteriorating. How far out is the second medevac, over?”

  “About ten minutes.” Thompson calculated the Black Hawk’s faster airspeed for an ETA.

  Shultz’s voice had a sense of urgency. “They’re cutting it close. The canyon through the hills is open if they stay low over the river. No chance of a further rescue attempt at the crash site. Nothing but solid clouds to the south of us. Looks like we’ll be the only passengers going out, over.”

  “Copy that, one-one-four. Standby.” Thompson relayed the information to 239 and passed the coordinates for Shultz’s position. The pilot sounded relieved the rescue mission was being cut short.

  “Good luck, guys.” The comment was directed by Thompson at both aircraft. “Sounds like we’ll be trying again tomorrow if the weather breaks. Eight-three-zero clear.”

  The GPS showed thirty miles from Fairbanks when Flight Operations passed another update. Appropriate agencies had been notified of the situation. An Alaska Air Guard C-130 out of Anchorage was finally en route and would remain over the crash site, as fuel permitted. Two Air Guard rescue helicopters were also scheduled to arrive later in the afternoon. They would attempt a rescue the following day if the weather allowed.

  According to the operations sergeant, the local media had also become aware of the rescue and were congregating at Fairbanks Memorial Hospital, awaiting eight-three-zero’s arrival. He sounded happy to have deflected the media’s attention away from Flight Operations.

  There was also a message from the acting battalion commander. Thompson needed to see him after repositioning back to Fort Wainwright. From the implication, the message was more than a request.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Walking the last fifty feet was the worst. The uneven ground caused Connor to stumble and nearly fall. Bril caught him by the arm, unintentionally straining his back further. A gasp of air was the only response, but the increased pain was obvious by his expression.

&
nbsp; “Sorry about that, sir. You better let me help you the rest of the way.”

  Connor pressed a hand heavily over his eyes as he let the intensity subside. He leaned hard into Bril, nodding in acceptance, afraid of sounding weak and emasculated.

  The two men from the crash site reached them a moment later. With their unshaven faces, Kwapich and Bidwell looked as if they had been on the mountain for days, but they didn’t seem discouraged. Other than the disturbing method of arrival, they would have been content staying in a tent.

  “We were getting worried.” Both of them look surprised at seeing the middle-aged helicopter pilot and wondered why he remained behind.

  Kwapich looked over Bril’s shoulder as if expecting Sanders to emerge from the outcropping of rocks behind them. “After the helicopter left we wondered what was keeping you. Did Sanders go with the other survivors?”

  “Yeah, there was a change of plan.” Connor forced an explanation between shallow breaths of air. “I twisted my back… thought it better to give up the seat.”

  Bidwell’s eyebrows raised and Kwapich remained expressionless, both pondering the explanation. Connor could tell they were skeptical and offered more details, bending the truth slightly.

  “I was in no condition to fly after my back flared up. Sitting made the pain worse, and I was basically useless in the cockpit. Being a pilot, Sanders could help with the radios, and his injured arm made him the next priority anyway. He was as reluctant to go as I was to stay, believe me.”

  They accepted the explanation. Kwapich stepped forward, helping support Connor by the opposite arm. “We better get you inside where you can lay down. A flat surface might help.”

  “No objections here.” Connor had lost his hard-headedness about accepting assistance. He doubted he could walk more than a few feet on his own.

  Hurried introductions were offered as they proceeded. They were all in a hurry to get inside away from the cold.

  “I’ll get a spot cleared on the floor in the cabin. There are eight of us, including you two. Should be plenty of room.” Bidwell hurried away at a fast walk.

  The thick overcast completely covered the ridge. Only a few yards of visibility remained in some areas, slightly more in others. Pushed by the wind, the clouds danced over the terrain, mixing with other layers riding the slopes and swirling over the glacier. At times, the lower clouds dissipated, only to return with equal vigor. Heavy with moisture, a light drizzle began to fall and soon intensified, dampening the rough ground.

  Nearer the wreckage, the damage from the crash was more apparent. Connor could judge the force of impact by the amount of distortion in the fuselage. The cabin section was bent and wrinkled along the outer skin, yet somehow retained a general cylindrical shape. Only the reinforced bulkheads had stopped the frame from collapsing completely.

  The tail section and mangled wings sustained heavy damage, either from the primary impact or from secondary collisions with other obstacles. Overall, Connor judged the damage to be barely survivable. He didn’t say anything but wondered how there were only three fatalities.

  Bidwell waited in the forward entry door as they approached. He helped the men inside. Connor felt foolish being handled like a cripple but was grateful for the assistance.

  The interior looked only marginally better than the outside. The large man they had been unable to transport rested against the starboard wall. He was on his side, still laying on the rigid spine board with a seat cushion pushed against his back for support. A blanket covered his midsection. He appeared to be asleep.

  A young man he recognized as one of the litter bearers stood in the back with a tall, stylishly dressed woman, stuffing pieces of clothing from a suitcase into an open crack of the fuselage wall. Despite the stained outfit and smudged makeup, her mannerisms and clothing denoted wealth. Her appearance reflected a middle-aged woman fighting a never-ending battle with age. A battle she was slowly losing. She stood in stark contrast to the young man wearing torn jeans and a faded jacket.

  Further forward, another woman stood alone, holding a malamute dog by the collar. Even with disheveled hair, a cheap airline blanket around her shoulders, and scuffed pants and shoes, she seemed out of place amid the post-crash chaos. She was fit and attractive. Her bright eyes and warm smile provided a comforting welcome.

  Connor tried ignoring his injury and nodded to the woman politely. The gesture was returned as they locked eyes for several seconds. She seemed to blush slightly and brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek.

  There was a space available near the center of the cabin. Getting there and onto the floor without aggravating the pain wasn’t easy. With the women watching he suddenly felt ashamed at his inability to move on his own. Bidwell helped him into a kneeling position, then onto his back. The pressure brought immediate relief.

  “That’s better. Thanks for giving me a hand.”

  Slowly extending his legs, he was able to stretch the taut muscles and ease the tension. For the first time in hours, he felt only a minimal amount of pain and closed his eyes. The sensation wouldn’t last, and he thought about the pills Steiner gave him. He could feel the small bottle in his pocket.

  “Rest easy for a while. We still have to prepare the cabin for the night.” Bidwell’s voice sounded calm, without emotion. He forced a smile before joining Bril and Kwapich by the cockpit.

  “Would you like a pillow for your head?” The pretty woman he noticed upon entering the fuselage knelt beside him, holding a small pillow she had retrieved from one of the overhead bins. A sincere expression of concern was evident in her eyes.

  Connor was taken off guard. She seemed to be reading his emotions. “Oh, sure. That would be great. Thank you.”

  “I’m Susan Douglas. Looks like we’ll be roommates.” An innocent smile crossed her lips. She gently lifted his neck just enough to slide the pillow in place.

  “I guess so. Sorry to crash your slumber party. I’m Gil Connor.”

  “Nice to meet you, Gil. Is giving up your seat on the helicopter something you normally do?”

  “Not usually. But I heard a good-looking woman was still here and in need of rescue. The other pilot refused to wait for me, so here I am.”

  “I see. And the back? Did you hurt yourself in a quest to rescue this woman or after running for the helicopter when it lifted off?”

  Connor enjoyed the flirtatious banter. It was only a temporary disruption from his intended plan. “Injury? I’m actually faking. I just wanted you to come over and talk with me.”

  “Really? Does that mean I can have my pillow back?”

  “I’m afraid not. You see the other men think I’m actually injured. If you take your pillow and leave, they’ll know I’m only trying to get out of work and will throw me outside for the night.”

  They smiled at each other and chuckled. The laughter caused a small spasm in Connor’s tender back. He grimaced slightly and looked away, trying to hide the discomfort, but she noticed immediately.

  She rested a hand on his chest. “Okay, Mister Faker, how about something for the pain? There are some aspirin around here somewhere if you’d like?”

  “Actually, I’ve got other pills. Sergeant Steiner left them with me. I could use some now. Can you get them from my jacket pocket?”

  She did as asked, then disappeared from his line of sight to retrieve a half-empty water bottle from somewhere close by. “Do you need to sit up?”

  “Probably.” He leaned forward carefully on his elbows, straining with effort.

  Susan placed a pill in his mouth and tipped enough liquid from the water bottle for him to swallow.

  “Thank you. You’re an angel. Do I get a sponge bath with the medicine?”

  “Easy, big boy. In your condition you should be happy with a conversation and a warm smile. Now lean back on the floor.”

  She supported his shoulders as he relaxed into the pillow. “There, that should help. Relax for a bit and let the medicine take effect. I’ll get you a b
lanket.”

  “I’m fine, really.” Connor wanted her to stay. He wasn’t used to expressing himself easily with people but felt comfortable in her presence. He was surprised at his own reaction. Later on, when no one was looking, he could take all the pills and finish his misery.

  “Pull up a chair. I’ll tell you my life story if you tell me yours.”

  She smiled her perfect smile again. “All on the first date? You could be bored to sleep.”

  “In the absence of dinner and a movie, I’ll take what I can get.”

  “I’ll tell you what. I need to check on the others to see if they need any help. If you’re not already asleep from the pain medication when I get back, I’ll talk the night away.”

  Connor smiled, then became serious. Even though he wanted to end his misery, he couldn’t force himself to give in, not yet. “I can get up if someone needs help.” He started to move. “I feel better …”

  “Oh no, you don’t. You stay put.” Susan placed a hand on his arm. “You can barely take a breath without hurting yourself. I can see the pain in your face. You relax or I’ll sic the dogs on you.”

  Connor reluctantly rested his head back on the pillow. She was right. “It’s a deal. But I have to warn you. Dogs usually like me.”

  “Oh, because of a shared pedigree?”

  “Something like that. But only if they’re mongrels.”

  Susan patted his arm before leaving. She didn’t know quite what to think of him. There was an unexpected attraction between them. On initial appearance she assumed he would be less approachable. The lines around his eyes and mouth curled in a partial scowl, giving a false impression of his personality. Instead, he was ruggedly handsome and charming.

  After looking deep into his eyes, she could see a gentleness hidden by his outward demeanor. A reflection of terrible sorrow was also lurking within. Not from physical pain, she sensed, but emotional scarring from some haunting memory in his past.