Three Weeks Last Spring

by Howard, Victoria

  Skye didn't drink when flying, but perhaps a small brandy would help take the chill out of her bones and ease the misery in her heart.

  "I couldn't face another meal, but a drink might help me sleep."

  Although clearly exhausted, Skye's body fought against sleep, her mind a maelstrom of thoughts and memories, depriving her of the rest she so badly needed. The further the plane flew, the paler her face became, the circles beneath her eyes darkening with each passing mile. She sensed she was near to emotional collapse, but steadfastly refused to give in to the overwhelming anguish. Somewhere over Canada, totally exhausted, she fell asleep.

  John covered her with a blanket, turned out the overhead light and for the first time since seeing her with Walker, he relaxed.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The helicopter had been circling over the Rosario Queen's last position for fifteen minutes, the powerful spotlight searching the surface of the sea. McCabe's eyes burned with the effort of staring at the water, his body tense with apprehension. He was too late, damn it! He'd called it wrong. Walker must still be on the freighter, now miles away to the north. By the time the helicopter refueled on Whidbey, she'd be even further way. He turned away from the cabin door and rubbed his eyes, his expression darkening to an unreadable emotion.

  The suddenly the winch man called out.

  "There! About thirty yards off our port side I think I see something"

  The pilot brought the large machine down into the hover. McCabe pushed his way to the port window and focused all his attention on the spot the young airman indicated.

  "Can you see it? There's something floating in the water."

  Try as he might McCabe couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. He shook his head.

  "You're mistaken, there's nothing out there, damn it! Pass me those night vision goggles. If there's something out there, they'll pick up the body heat." He snatched them out of the airman's hand, and turned his head away from the window just long enough to pull them over his head. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the eerie green light. He scanned the surface of the sea.

  "There's nothing out there. I can't see a damned—" Just then the moon appeared through the clouds and cast a ghost-like shadow on the water and… Yes! God damn it there was something in the water. He could make out the shape of an object as it floated just below the surface. It gave off a faint heat trace and so it couldn't be one of the barrels he and Walker had seen loaded on the freighter, but he wasn't convinced it was a body either. The heat trace became fainter.

  "It's a damned porpoise, you idiot."

  He pulled off the goggles and his headset and threw them on the floor of the cabin. It was hopeless, like searching for a single fish in a shoal of thousands! If Walker wasn't on that freighter, and his gut told him he wasn't, then he could be anywhere in this huge ocean. It was an enormous area to search with just one helicopter and time was fast running out. Without the proper equipment no one could expect to spend more than half an hour—three-quarters at the outside—in the icy cold water and survive.

  He glanced at his watch, and did some quick math. The tide was on the turn. The strong current could carry Walker's body to Alaska and back before it was found. He had no way of knowing if these unscrupulous bastards hadn't tied Walker to one of the barrels before throwing him overboard, or worse, killed him. Whichever, the outcome would be the same; Walker's body would be lying on the ocean floor along with the bottom feeders. They could search till Doomsday and never find any trace of him.

  One of the crewmen mouthed something to McCabe and indicated his watch. He guessed the young airman was indicating that the large machine was nearly out of fuel and would be returning to Whidbey to refuel. McCabe leaned closer, and lifted the airman's ear protectors.

  "I don't care if this damned machine is running on fumes, tell the pilot to go round one more time!"

  "But, Sir—"

  "DO IT!"

  McCabe watched as the young airman keyed his mike. He didn't care if they had to ditch the bird in the sea; he wanted to be one hundred and ten percent certain Walker was not in the water before they left the area.

  The pilot did as requested, and took the helicopter in for one more circuit of the search area. The downwash from the helicopter’s rotors flattened the wave tops and kicked up spray. McCabe rubbed the ache in his temples, and wiped away the imaginary grit in his eyes before pulling on his headset and night goggles once more. He took up position in front of the starboard window, and stared out into the blackness.

  Up in the cockpit, the co-pilot held his breath, and offered a silent prayer to the patron saint of pilots, his eyes never leaving the fuel gauge, the indicator already well into the red zone.

  McCabe had to admire the skill of the two pilots as they held the huge machine steady with nothing to guide them but the instruments. It seemingly hung in the sky, held by some invisible thread, impervious to the elements, the only controlling factors being their skill and the amount of fuel remaining.

  McCabe's jaw clenched, his lips compressing into a thin line. The pilot's less than calm voice filled his headset.

  "Sir, I have no choice. We have to break off the search now, otherwise we won't make it back to base."

  McCabe bowed his head in defeat. Although anxious for his friend, he couldn't justify putting five other lives at risk by expecting the pilot to continue searching when fuel was so dangerously low.

  "Break off and head for Whidbey, but tell the boys on the ground that I want this bird refueled and back in the air in under five minutes."

  The pilot acknowledged the transmission. He gained height, and banked slightly to the right in readiness to peel off.

  "There! About twenty feet off our port side, I've got a heat trace. It's…it's a body. Yeah, it's definitely a body!"

  McCabe shoved the man roughly aside. By God, this time he was right. In the powerful glare of the searchlight, he could clearly see the outline of a body in the water. He secured his safety line, and stood back as the diver opened the door and clipped his harness to the winch cable before easing himself out and into the blackness of the night.

  Slowly, all too slowly, the cable paid out, lowering the wetsuit-clad diver closer and closer to the sea, until finally he disappeared from view under the belly of the aircraft. McCabe held his breath as the pilot delicately manoeuvered the large machine, holding it stationary less than fifty feet above the rising waves. The winch man lay on the floor of the cabin, his body half out of the open doorway, his hand steadying the cable, his voice calm and steady, as he guided the diver and the pilot, ever closer to the target.

  McCabe hardly dared hope, and for eight long minutes the only sound that filled his head, was the powerful beat of the helicopter's rotors. There was an urgent string of commands in his headset and the remaining crew leapt into action.

  "What's happening? Has he reached him? Is it Walker? Is he alive? God damn it! Someone talk to me!"

  But McCabe’s questions went unanswered. He watched as inch by inch the cable was winched in. Unable to bear the tension, he leaned out of the doorway as far as he dare, the only thing between him and certain death being the thin line attached to his safety harness.

  In the moonlight he could make out the form of the diver emerging from the sea. McCabe turned away from the doorway, unable to watch the unfolding scene, fear, stark and vivid in his face, for in the second harness he'd seen the unmistakable shape of a limp and seemingly lifeless body.

  All hell let loose as the diver appeared in the doorway of the aircraft. Willing hands reached out and dragged him and the unconscious form into the cabin. The crew worked as a well-oiled machine, their actions honed by years of training. Anxious as he was to see if it was Walker, McCabe stayed out of their way, knowing that in this situation his presence would be a hindrance rather than of help.

  Within seconds the bonds securing the inert form's hands were cut and the body rolled on to its back. Resuscitation equipment and b
lankets appeared from nowhere, as the crew medic set about clearing the airway, and putting a line into a vein.

  The tension was unbearable, and resting a hand on an airman's shoulder, McCabe gently pushed him aside, just long enough to get a glimpse of the body's corpse-like face. He staggered backwards, blindly searching for something to hold onto.

  Walker appeared to be in a catatonic state, his face grey and ghost-like. His lips had an odd blue tinge about them, and where McCabe had briefly touched him, his body had felt colder than an Alaskan winter. He couldn’t tell if Walker was breathing—his chest barely rose and fell with the effort.

  McCabe did his best to hold his emotions in check, but failed. Tears ran silently down his weatherworn face. He slumped to the cabin floor and put his head in his hands, experiencing a mixture of uncontrollable rage, fear and unbelievable sadness.

  Walker looked as though he were dead.

  It was his fault!

  A raw and primitive grief overwhelmed him. The crew continued to work on Walker, trying to breathe life into his lifeless form. They stripped his body of its wet clothing, wrapped him in blankets, adding a heat retaining space blanket as a final covering. A drip was attached to one arm and a heart monitor to his chest, although it barely registered a beat.

  The pilot came over the radio.

  "Whidbey want to know what we've got and the patient's status."

  In response, the medic started calling out Walker's vital signs.

  "Tell them we're bringing in a male, approximately six feet tall, one hundred and eighty pounds. Unconscious, pupils fixed and dilated, no discernable output, with a body temperature of less than ninety-four degrees. CPR commenced. Ask them to have a full cardiac-pulmonary resuscitation team standing by, including a surgeon experienced in cardio-pulmonary bypass techniques and an emergency operating room. He has a head injury requiring a CT scan."

  "What's the point? Can't you all see he's dead?" McCabe said. A hand descended on his shoulder.

  "He's still in with a chance, sir. In circumstances such as these, the body kind of shuts down—the technical term is hypoxemia. It's similar to hypothermia. The body loses heat; the heart rate slows, as does the respiratory rate. Cold-water near-drowning can be survivable. In some cases, people who've been submersed in very cold water for as long as an hour can be fully resuscitated." He nodded towards Walker’s inert form. "In his case there's been a cessation of breathing."

  "He's dead. He's dead and it's my fault!"

  "No, sir, he's not dead, at least not yet. He's in cardiac arrest, but we've started CPR. His body temperature has dropped a little since we've picked him up, but that's only to be expected. We call it ‘afterdrop.’ We've removed all his wet clothes and have heat pads around his body. He's wrapped in blankets. The doctors at Whidbey are experienced in dealing with near-drowning victims. Once we land they'll put him on cardiac-pulmonary bypass to re-oxygenate his blood. They have other techniques for raising his body temperature too. How he responds depends a great deal on how long he's been unconscious and in the water. Don't give up hope yet."

  McCabe glared at the young airman, his anguish almost overcoming his control. Was there any truth in what he was saying? Could Walker be in with a chance? He stared at Walker’s stricken body. He had his doubts. But what did he know?

  What he'd been told did sound plausible. But how could he believe it when every summer the papers were full of articles about people who'd fallen overboard while out sailing and who had subsequently drowned? It was a well-known fact that the water in the sound was icy cold all year round and without a survival suit, it was impossible to survive for longer than thirty minutes. Even by McCabe's estimation Walker had been in the water far longer than that.

  "Someone mentioned a head injury—how serious? Does it affect his chances?"

  "It won't help, that's for sure. And as for how serious it is, it's difficult to tell without a scan. There has been some blood loss. Whidbey has all the equipment standing by. We'll be landing shortly. Our medic is doing everything he can. Your friend looks fairly fit and healthy and he's young—they're all things in his favor. Provided there's no brain injury or cardiac damage, then I'd say he has a slightly less than even chance."

  McCabe sat quietly in a corner of the cabin as the helicopter flew low and fast over the sea, in a race between life and death. The flight seemed to take forever, and during that time his eyes never left Walker's face. In his mind he repeated the mantra, ‘Don't you die on me, Walker! Hold on, help is coming, hold on.’

  Then suddenly they were on final approach to Whidbey Naval Air Station. No sooner had the large machine touched down than the doors were thrown back and the stretcher carrying Walker was loaded into the waiting ambulance and whisked away at high speed to the medical facility.

  McCabe felt helpless. Walker's life hung in the balance and would be determined by the skill of the doctors. All he could do was await the outcome of their efforts.

  The endless night greyed into dawn and still the doctors worked on Walker. No matter how much McCabe reproached himself, it wasn't going to bring his friend back. He sat in the waiting area and made himself a promise. One way or another he would nail the bastards responsible for this. Even if it took him the rest of his life, he would follow them to hell and back if he had to, but pay for Walker's life they damn well would.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  London, Five Months later.

  Skye looked up from the papers on her desk, as John put his head round the door of her office.

  "Hey, Sweet Pea, do you have a few minutes?"

  "Sure, I was about due for a break anyway. What can I help you with?"

  John crossed the room in three strides. He propped a hip on the corner of Skye's desk and studied her face. She looked well, in truth she looked fantastic. The dark circles under her eyes, and the sadness in her face, which had been all too evident when they first returned from Seattle, had gone. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her eyes were bright. In fact, she was a picture of radiant womanhood—a woman whose smile held a depth that had been missing for far too long.

  "Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

  Skye leaned back in her chair and laughed. In the last two months, hardly a week had passed without John asking her to dinner and even though she felt guilty, she had always found a reason to turn him down. And yet she knew she owed him so much—her sanity for one thing. Without John, she would have never got over the events of spring, but with his gentle encouragement, she learned to pick up the pieces of her life and start anew. And without him, she would never have got this far in her career either. She had a lot to thank him for.

  "I'd like that. I'd like that very much."

  His mood suddenly buoyant, John's expression softened to one of tenderness. He brushed her cheek with his fingertip. His mouth curved with a secret smile.

  "Great. I'll book a table and pick you up about eight. Any preference what we eat? Italian, Thai, or Chinese?"

  "You choose, but please, no Sushi! I've gone right off fish. Just let me know whether I need to wear something casual or smart."

  "I think we should go up market and push the boat out a bit, don't you? After all, we deserve it after all the hard work we've put in of late. And it's not often I get to take my beautiful business partner out to dinner."

  Skye's rich laughter filled the air." John Ridge, you're the biggest liar I know. Me, beautiful? You need to have your eyes examined! Besides, there was that dinner last week, admittedly there were seven other people present, but I seem to remember you were there too."

  "Yes, but I had to share you. I want you all to myself for one evening, so that I can stare into your magnificent blue eyes and whisper sweet nothings into your ear. I can't do that with an audience or when I'm sat at the other end of the table."

  "If I didn't know you better I'd say you were flirting with me! What happened, did your latest conquest turn you down?"

  He placed his hand on his heart and ado
pted a forlorn expression. "You wound me. My intentions are strictly honourable. Honourable that is until after I take you home and you give me coffee."

  "You're incorrigible! After I give you coffee, you leave end of story."

  "You're breaking my heart, Sweet Pea."

  Skye enjoyed their gentle sparring, but that was all she regarded it as—innocent flirtation. "Away with you! How many women have you been out with this week, two? Three?"

  "Let me see… you'll be the third. It is only Thursday after all." She would be the first, since they had arrived back in London, but he wasn't about to admit it.

  "Only three? Careful John you'll be losing your reputation."

  "Hah, Hah very funny. Seriously, when did we last have dinner together?"