Cascadia

by H W Buzz Bernard

  “Great. So here’s what I’ll do. Because an inexperienced pilot will likely perceive he’s coming in too high on an approach to an uphill landing, I’ll spray paint some big orange Xs on the highway marking a target. Just aim for that. Forget about what you perceive.”

  “Roger that, Shack. Thanks. Any other tips?” Nothing like on-the-job training, especially when your life depends on it.

  “Keep plenty of back pressure on the yoke. You might need a short blast of power just before touchdown to cushion the landing. Don’t worry if you bounce when you come in. Many first-timers will on an uphill attempt. Remember, you don’t get points for style, just for getting it down.”

  Preferably right side up.

  “Okay,” Rob responded, forcing confidence he didn’t feel into his voice, “while I’m waiting for you guys to finish your chain-gang work, I’ll fly some practice approaches.”

  Rob flew back over Manzanita. Much of it remained submerged. Homes, vehicles, and tons of what would now be considered trash bobbed in the wake water of the tsunami. He spotted relatively few bodies. Perhaps the fact the city’s topography inclined more steeply from the beach to elevations out of the tsunami’s reach than in towns such as Cannon Beach and Seaside had given residents a chance to reach safety. That and the fact that tsunami escape procedures had been drilled into the populace.

  Rob made two rehearsal runs to the jury-rigged runway before the call came.

  “Delta Echo, this is Nehalem Bay Fire and Rescue. We’re ready if you are.”

  “Roger that, Nehalem Bay. On my way.” Not ready, though. Rob’s fingers tightened around the yoke with such fierceness he would have strangled it had it been a person.

  “Shack, here, Delta Echo. Plant your gear on those orange Xs. Focus on the center line. Don’t worry about what’s on either side of you. Easy sleazy.”

  Bullshit.

  Rob looked over at Tim. Tim nodded.

  “Harness tight, son. If it looks like we’re going into the trees, head down, crash position, right?”

  Tim nodded again.

  Rob made a straight-in approach. Ten degrees of flaps. Eighty knots. Eyes on the center line.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  Twenty degrees of flaps. Slow to seventy knots.

  Where’re the damn Xs?

  The drone of the Cessna’s engine filled his ears.

  There!

  Adjust power. Sixty-five knots. Steady back pressure on yoke.

  Get the gear down on those orange marks.

  A green blur of evergreens and alders filled Rob’s peripheral vision. The right wing tip clicked against something. Still, he focused on the center line, concentrated on hitting the Xs. The runway, the road, seemed to be coming up too fast. He goosed the power to soften the touchdown.

  Too late. The landing gear slammed into the pavement with a resounding “thunk.”

  “Deer!” Tim screamed.

  A huge elk, head held high, trotted directly in front of the Cessna.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Life Flight

  Manzanita

  Sunday, July 5

  SHACK SAT HOLDING Alex’s hand, festooned with IV leads, in the back of a Nehalem Bay Fire and Rescue EMS truck. Alex, immobilized and sedated, rested on a gurney secured to a sidewall of the vehicle. The paramedics, along with a vacationing doctor, had described her situation as dire. With a probable crushed pelvis and internal bleeding, the only hope she had of surviving would be to get her to a level-one trauma center. And, with roads and highways impassable after the earthquake, there existed only one transport option: airlift. In this case, that option rested with a fair-weather, weekend flyer whom Shack had never met.

  Shack knew better than to lament the situation. It’s a wonder he had an option at all. In truth, he should be dead. So should Alex. Though he didn’t count himself a religious man and had never believed in miracles, he had to admit what had happened to him and Alex had been, if not a miracle, certainly miraculous.

  When the tsunami thundered in and the two of them gasped what had seemed their final breaths and surrendered their lives to whatever lay beyond, the surging water tore the fallen support beams from Alex’s body. Together, he and Alex, water suffusing their lungs, shot to the surface, the last few molecules of life-giving air sequestered deep within their lungs.

  They rode the maelstrom of swirling ocean into the upper reaches of Manzanita. Rescuers found them, Alex wailing in pain, about ten feet up in the branches of a canted Douglas fir. Yes, to some it would be labeled a miracle. But Shack knew it for what it was: the laws of chance, physics, and hydrodynamics at work in a random universe.

  EMTs managed to stabilize Alex and pump her full of morphine, but acknowledged she teetered on the edge of death. It had been bad enough that massive timbers had crashed down on her in her own home, but then to be flung about like a chunk of storm-tossed driftwood as the tsunami swept her inland had only exacerbated her already grave situation.

  “I’ll be back in a second, Alex,” Shack whispered in her ear, and released her hand.

  He stepped down from the truck, wincing as the ribs he’d injured—probably broken—when the tsunami hit, reacted. He turned to watch the pilot of the Cessna Skylane make his approach to 101.

  “More power, more power,” he muttered to himself as the plane neared the highway at too steep an angle. Easy to do when the highway sloped up. The pilot realized it, too, and reacted, gunning the engine in an attempt to soften the landing.

  Then the elk.

  “Shit!” Shack yelled.

  A dozen other people watching the action screamed, too.

  The aircraft, with the pilot unable to make a complete correction to cushion the touchdown, hit the highway hard. And bounced. Over the elk. The Cessna’s left wing strut brushed the animal’s antlers as the plane leapfrogged the elk. The startled animal, with probably enough drama this day to last a lifetime, galloped into the woods.

  The Cessna touched down again, this time for good, the pilot riding the brakes. Somehow he’d held the center line. Other than the big bounce, which probably had saved his life, as well as the elk’s, he’d made a perfect landing.

  Shack sprinted up 101 toward the plane as it rolled to a stop. He reached the craft just as the pilot stepped from the cockpit.

  “Hey, man, that was super,” Shack said, panting, out of breath from his dash. “You can fly right seat for me anytime.”

  The pilot, his tanned face as pale as a winter’s frost, held up his hand—stay back. He dashed for the shoulder of the road and vomited.

  ROB SPIT THE LAST of the acidic effluent from his mouth, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, drew a deep breath, and walked back, rather wobbly, to his welcoming committee.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Not used to landing uphill on a hiking trail with an elk on it.”

  “Couldn’t have done better myself,” Shack said. “That was terrific. By the way, I’m Shack, the guy you were talking to on guard.” He extended his hand.

  Rob eyed it, shook his head. “Better wait ‘til I disinfect myself.”

  Shack laughed. “I understand. Don’t know that I ever upchucked after a landing, but I think I had to change my underwear once or twice.”

  Rob noted Shack’s voice bore a raspy timbre, something he hadn’t caught over the radio. The guy looked badly beat up, too, with a large cut on his head, and his arms crisscrossed with scratches and bruises.

  Shack caught Rob’s appraisal. “Swallowed a lot of salt water when the tsunami hit,” he explained. “In fact, I thought I’d drowned. Got the stuffing pummeled out of me by all the crap in the surge.”

  Tim joined the two men. Rob introduced him to Shack.

  “Were you scared, son?” Shack asked.

  “Yes,
sir.”

  Shack smiled. “Then your dad hasn’t raised a fool.”

  Red lights flashing, the EMS truck came up the road. Shack turned to track it.

  “Somebody I care about is in there,” he said.

  “Wife? Daughter?” Rob asked.

  “Let’s just say a good friend. I can’t say how much I appreciate your help, Dr. Elwood.”

  “Call me Rob.”

  Shack nodded. “Anyhow, I know you’ve gone above and beyond. If we can get her to Portland quickly, she might have a chance.”

  “What happened?”

  Shack gave a quick overview. Alex trapped in her house, crushed by fallen support beams. He remaining with her as the tsunami thundered in. Both stepping over a threshold to whatever came next.

  “Guess it wasn’t quite time for us to find out what that was,” Shack concluded.

  “You stayed with her?” Tim asked, his eyes wide.

  “I owed her that,” Shack said.

  “What’s her name?” Rob asked.

  “Alexis Williamson.”

  “The lawyer?”

  Shack nodded.

  “You knew her previously?”

  “A long time ago.” He paused. “It’s a three-beer story.”

  “You’ll have to tell me sometime.”

  “Some tales are better left untold.”

  Rob decided that was all he was going to get out of Shack, and let it go.

  Six or seven men pivoted the Cessna so it faced downhill, ready for takeoff. Overhead, a sortie of crows orbited, scolding loudly, likely upset at the unprecedented turmoil that had disrupted their world.

  A pall of smoke remained over Manzanita. The smell of burning wood and plastic mingled with the scents of crushed evergreens, mud flows, and marine life ripped from its oceanic home. A break in the overcast allowed a shaft of sunlight to briefly brighten the shattered countryside: the fallen trees, the sunken slopes, the fissured earth.

  Four EMTs transported Alex, strapped on a backboard, to the plane. A fifth EMT walked beside her, carrying three IVs, each contained in heavy mesh netting. Clear plastic tubing ran from the bags into Alex’s right arm.

  The technicians studied the Cessna for a moment, then one of them called out, “Hey, the back seat is too narrow for us to squeeze her in on a backboard.”

  “Damn it,” Shack muttered. With a stricken look on his face, he turned to Rob.

  “Get me a wrench,” Rob called out.

  An EMT darted back to the truck and returned with several crescent wrenches.

  Rob selected one, clambered into the plane, and went to work on the rear seats. Within five minutes he had the seat backs lowered to almost a full reclining position.

  “Try it now,” he said to the technicians.

  With skill born of experience and ingenuity, they maneuvered Alex into the plane, then locked the backboard in place using tape, cords, and pillows.

  One of the EMTs approached Rob. “Unfortunately, we’ve had to handle Ms. Williamson pretty roughly. That’s not the usual protocol for someone with a broken pelvis. But once we got her out of the tree and realized the extent of her injuries, we immobilized her as quickly as possible. We secured her on the backboard, got her into some MAST trousers, and inflated them.”

  “MAST trousers?” Rob said.

  “Redundant, I know. MAST stands for Medical Anti-Shock Trousers. They should help slow any internal bleeding. We piggybacked some IV bags together. They’re designed to work sequentially to keep her blood pressure up. We suspended them from an air vent, but keep an eye on them. You might end up having to hold them yourself.”

  “I appreciate all you guys have done,” Shack said.

  “I wish we could guarantee her survival, but you know, given the circumstances . . .” The EMT’s voice trailed off. “Just get her to Portland as quickly as you can.”

  Shack nodded, apparently unable to speak.

  Rob turned to Tim. “Sorry, son, you’ll have to sit this one out. Shack needs to ride in the passenger seat.”

  “I get it, Dad.”

  “Go into town and find Lewis. He’ll take care of you.”

  “Will you be okay?”

  “After what I’ve been through already, I don’t think it can get any worse.”

  Tim, surprising Rob, gave him a quick hug. Something teenaged sons absolutely don’t do with their fathers. “Take care, Dad.”

  “So far, so good,” Rob responded. Overcome by a mini-surge of emotion, he strained to get the words out.

  He turned to a nearby EMT, a guy who looked like he might be in charge. “What have you got set up in Portland?”

  “We’ve contacted Legacy Emanuel Medical Center. They’ve got a level-one trauma facility. They’re located about four or five miles from Portland International, and said they’d try to get an ambulance or EMS vehicle over there to transport the patient. That might be a challenge, though, given the state of the roads. But they think they can do it.”

  “What about a medevac chopper?”

  “As you can imagine, there’s nothing available.”

  “Is PDX aware we’re coming?”

  “We’ve notified them. They said there’s minor runway damage, but I gather you don’t need a lot of distance for landing.”

  “Fifteen hundred feet should do it. The longest runway at PDX is over two miles long. We’ll be fine.”

  “Can you give me an ETA?” the med technician asked. “I’ll relay it to Portland.”

  Rob ran through a quick mental calculation. “Probably about forty, forty-five minutes.”

  Shack, his face knotted in concern, leaned into the conversation. “I didn’t think Portland was that far.”

  “I’m not instrument qualified,” Rob said. “I’ll have to fly to Astoria, then up the Columbia River to stay below the cloud deck.”

  “Screw that,” Shack responded. “I can fly instruments. We can go direct over the mountains. They aren’t that high. I’ll let you handle the takeoff and landing. We gotta get Alex to the trauma center as fast as possible. Okay?”

  Rob decided Shack had a point. The guy undoubtedly had logged hundreds of hours of IFR flight time, and there certainly wouldn’t be any other traffic in the air to worry about at the moment. Rob addressed the EMT: “Make it a little over twenty minutes.”

  “Got it. I’ll let Portland know, and we’ll stay in touch with you on the emergency channel.”

  With Rob flying and Shack in the passenger seat, the departure went smoothly, Rob again holding a laser-like focus on the center line of the highway as he took off. They raced through the tree-lined corridor of U. S. 101 and got airborne quickly on the downhill run.

  “I’m getting good at this,” Rob said.

  “Do I detect a ring of sarcasm in your voice?” Shack asked.

  “You do.” His throat still burned from his post-landing barf.

  Rob called Seattle Center and let them know they were bound for Portland IFR.

  “You got the controls,” Rob said to Shack.

  The Cessna entered the overcast at eighteen hundred feet and popped out on top at thirty-five hundred into bright sunshine.

  “Nice day up here,” Shack noted.

  “In the summer, almost always,” Rob said. “By the time we reach Portland, the cloud deck should be pretty much gone.”

  Shack and Rob turned their heads frequently to check on Alex who remained motionless and pale on the backboard in the rear seat. The jury-rigged IV bags appeared to be holding their own, though Alex’s breathing seemed to have become rapid and shallow; fighting off shock despite the IV infusions. Rob guessed she didn’t have a lot of time left.

  They began their descent over the western reaches of the Portland metropolitan ar
ea. True to Rob’s prediction, the clouds scattered out allowing bright sunshine to bathe a scene of massive destruction: sunken and cracked roads, landslides, fractured farmland, fallen trees and power lines, crumpled bridges and overpasses, and areas of badly damaged—in some cases toppled—buildings. Not surprisingly, pillars of smoke dotted the landscape.

  “Jesus, what a mess,” Shack said. He transferred control of the Cessna back to Rob. “Take us home, partner.”

  Rob set a course for Portland International, over the West Hills, over the city center, over the Willamette River, to PDX adjacent to the Columbia.

  A short while ago he’d made a comment to Tim he didn’t think things could get any worse. In an instant, he witnessed the violent assassination of that Pollyannaish sentiment. The ground below him blurred in ripples and rolls. Trees swayed as if caught in a hurricane. Additional fissures zig-zagged across the Earth.

  “What the fuck?” Shack exclaimed.

  Rob’s gut tightened. “An aftershock, a big one.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Impossible

  Airborne Over Portland

  Sunday, July 5

  ROB IMMEDIATELY attempted to contact the tower at Portland International, but received no response. He tried approach control. Nothing. He went back to the guard channel and called Nehalem Bay Fire and Rescue. He got an answer.

  “Delta Echo, good to hear from you. We just had another big shake here. What the hell is happening?”

  “Aftershock. A huge one, I’m guessing.”

  “Damn right. Things have gone from worse to appalling. This wasn’t expected was it?”

  “It probably wasn’t factored into disaster response plans, but big aftershocks aren’t unprecedented. I’m afraid the Northwest is in uncharted territory now as far as catastrophes go.”

  “Not a pretty place to be.” A pause, then: “Hey, doc?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is there another tsunami coming?”

  Rob didn’t know, but understood it wouldn’t be impossible. “I have no way of knowing, Nehalem Bay, but keep everyone in the assembly areas. Don’t let them back into the evacuation zones for at least another half hour. No, make that an hour, just to be sure. Keep your first responders out of there, too.”