He was out of time. Giving up on lifting her clear, Shane locked his arms under her armpits and dragged her body through the opening. He worried her already injured leg would be sliced open further by shards of glass and metal but could not afford to waste any more time.
Her body pulled through inch by inch, the resistance substantial, as if the aircraft was releasing its final victim only with extreme reluctance. Her knees cleared the opening with a ripping sound that Shane could hear clearly even above the roar of the fire.
Then she was free. They tumbled backward, away from the wrecked plane, landing in a heap on the forest floor. Shane rolled the woman’s body gently off his, then crouched next to her and hefted her once more onto his shoulder. He struggled to his feet and began moving as quickly as possible away from the aircraft toward the road.
He had lost his flashlight in the confusion and pictured himself stumbling around blindly, lost in the near-complete darkness, the woman dying because he might be within ten feet of his car and never know it. At the edge of the clearing, Shane stopped and took one last look at the devastation of the crash scene. It was a sight he knew he would never forget.
Then he turned and plunged into the darkness.
18
May 31, 1987
12:02 a.m.
Bangor, Maine
Shane was panting like a dog when he finally reached the road. His legs burned and his back throbbed and the dead weight of the unconscious woman slung over his shoulder felt like a thousand pounds, rather than the one hundred or so she probably weighed.
He stumbled out of the thick brush, grateful to have found his way out of the wilderness. The road was brightly lit by the full moon, in stark contrast to the impenetrable blackness under the canopy of trees. Shane peered in both directions, looking for his car. There were still no rescue vehicles in sight, although he could hear sirens off in the distance. Whether they were heading in this direction, he couldn’t tell.
Far to the north, Shane spotted an indistinct lump at the side of the road and decided it was probably his car. He had taken great pains to walk as straight a path as possible on the way back to the road and had still missed the Bug by at least an eighth of a mile. He sank to one knee, gulping fresh air, trying to catch his breath while still holding the crash victim.
He wondered how much damage he was doing to the young woman by carrying her. Moving her at all was a calculated risk—if she had suffered a broken neck or back, he could be causing irreparable damage—but leaving her at the scene of the crash and waiting for rescue vehicles that might arrive too late had been out of the question. If her injuries didn’t kill her, the northern Maine chill might. Even this close to June, on a clear night like tonight the temperature could easily dip below freezing.
Shane staggered to his feet. He half-walked, half-trotted to his car, reaching it after what felt like half an hour but was probably no more than five minutes. He yanked the passenger door open and lowered the young woman onto the seat as gently as he could. Blood dribbled out of the gash in her leg, but the flow seemed to have slowed. He lowered the seat back as far as it would go and reached into the rear of the vehicle, feeling around until he found the heavy winter coat he kept for emergencies. He secured the still-unconscious woman with the safety belt, and then propped her injured leg on the coat. He slammed the door closed and sprinted around the front of the car, dropped into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine.
He wheeled onto the empty road, then glanced at his injured passenger and blinked in surprise. She had awakened and was staring at him. Her eyes were open and she watched him intently, but she had not moved.
“It’s okay,” he said softly, not wanting to frighten her. “You were in a plane crash and I’m taking you to the hospital.” He cranked the temperature knob to the right, knowing the resulting rush of air would barely qualify as lukewarm.
Her eyes fluttered and Shane thought she was about to lose consciousness again but she didn’t. “Major Wilczynski,” she said weakly.
Shane shook his head. “You were the only survivor. Everyone else in the cockpit was dead. I’m sorry.”
She lay back on the seat, eyes closed, then bolted upright in a panic, groaning and holding her head the moment she did. She steadied herself and reached into the back pocket of her bloody jeans and withdrew a tattered envelope. “Thank God,” she muttered, collapsing back onto the seat.
In the distance Shane could hear the scream of sirens growing steadily louder. The rescue vehicles were beginning to home in on the crash site. Shane wondered whether he should turn around and wait for them. Maybe handing this woman off to an ambulance crew would be wiser than driving her to the hospital himself.
But they were less than five minutes away from Bangor proper, less than ten minutes from the hospital, and as someone who had grown up in this remote area, Shane knew how vast the wilderness really was. The rescue crews could be well within earshot and still not find the site for twenty or thirty minutes. Or more.
He flipped on the Bug’s dome light and glanced repeatedly at the injured woman as he drove. Blood continued to leak from her thigh. Her jeans were covered in it, some half-dried and crusted, the rest glistening wetly in the dim light. Her skin color was a shocking white, not surprising considering her blood loss. He decided he was doing the right thing.
Flipping off the interior light, he said, “Don’t worry, we’ll be at the hospital in just a few minutes.”
She mumbled something in return and he missed it. “What?”
“I said no hospitals.”
Shane shook his head. He must have heard her wrong. “You have to go to the hospital—you look like death warmed over.”
“You really know how to sweet-talk a girl.”
“Sorry about that, but you definitely need medical attention.”
“No,” she repeated emphatically. “I said no hospitals.” The strength of her voice and the intensity of her response surprised him, and he raised his eyebrows. “What are you talking about? You were in an airplane crash—of course you’re going to the hospital. Where else would I bring you?”
“Anywhere,” she said. Her voice had returned to its previous weak volume, barely more than a strong whisper. “This hick town have a bus station?”
“Of course.”
“Then you can drop me there.”
Maybe this young woman’s problem wasn’t a head injury. Maybe she was just plain batshit crazy. “You think any bus driver’s going to let you board? Your leg is awash in your own blood and you look like you just lost a gunfight. Besides, if you try to stand on your own right now, you’re going to drop like a felled tree. I’m sorry,” he said, “but you’re going straight to the hospital.”
The young woman leaned forward, reaching down to her right ankle and fumbling around. What she was looking for, he had no idea. The longer he rode with her, the more Shane was beginning to believe she really was crazy. He glanced forward onto the deserted road and when he looked back, he found himself staring straight into the barrel of a handgun.
“No hospitals,” she said.
***
May 31, 1987
12:10 a.m.
Bangor, Maine
Tracie concentrated on not puking. Her head pounded relentlessly and unless she focused hard her vision insisted on wavering, sometimes disappearing entirely. She knew she had suffered a concussion—hopefully it was only a concussion—and the gash in her leg throbbed with every beat of her heart.
She needed stitches.
She needed sleep.
She wasn’t going to get either.
She forced herself to hold the gun steady on her rescuer. “No hospitals,” she said, and to his credit, the guy didn’t even blink.
“O-kay,” he said. “Then where to?”
“You’re right about one thing; I can’t take a bus looking like this.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” he said drily.
“But they’ll be watching the bus terminal before lo
ng,” she muttered, thinking out loud, struggling to concentrate through the haze of pain and confusion. “They probably don’t have any operatives in this tiny nowhere town—”
“Thanks, on behalf of all Bangor residents.”
“—but they will very soon, and then I’ll be trapped. Dammit,” she said, punching the seat in frustration.
“What kind of trouble are you in?” her rescuer asked. “And what were you doing on a military plane out of uniform? You’re not in the military, are you?”
Tracie gazed at the young man, thinking. He had reacted much differently to having a gun shoved in his face than she had expected him to—much differently than most civilians would—and she liked that. And he had risked his life by climbing inside a burning B-52 in the middle of nowhere to haul her ass out of the fire. Literally. She had been semi-conscious in the aftermath of the crash and thought she was seeing things when his body tumbled through the smashed wind screen, dropping like an angel from heaven as the fire worked its way through the cabin.
And he seemed genuinely concerned about her condition. She decided to take a chance.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m not in the military. My father is a State Department bigwig and he’s dying. I was on an emergency flight home because he only has a few days left, and I want to say goodbye.” She teared up, mentally congratulating herself on her acting skills, even after a plane crash and with injuries.
“Bullshit,” he said, and that was when she saw the sign approaching rapidly on the right. NORTHERN MAINE MEDICAL CENTER.
“I told you, no hospitals,” she said sharply, leaning forward to jam the barrel of the Beretta under his chin, ignoring the resulting pain.
“We’re not going to the hospital,” he said in annoyance, “although I think you’re making a mistake. You’ve lost a lot of blood, that gash in your leg needs to be examined, and it seems pretty clear you’ve suffered a concussion at the very least. But what the hell, I’m not your guardian. You want to be a damned fool, it’s none of my business.” The Volkswagen passed the hospital’s entrance and continued along the lightly traveled road.
“So, where are we going, then?”
“My apartment’s not far from here. I’ll patch you up the best I can and you can crash there for a few hours while you figure out what you want to do next. Your story is complete bullshit, but I’m not going to just drop you off in the middle of this ‘tiny nowhere town,’ as you call it, injured and alone. I wasn’t raised that way. Maybe you won’t go to the hospital, but I can’t just leave you, either.”
Tracie said nothing, stunned. This guy was a complete stranger, he had risked his life to save her from a burning airplane, and by way of thanks she had threatened him with deadly violence. Now he was driving her to his home. And to top it off, he was cute as hell.
“Think you could get that gun out of my face?” he said into the shocked silence, and she lowered the Beretta to her lap. She was really starting to like this guy. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Name? Why do you care about my name?” She was instantly suspicious.
“Jesus,” he answered in exasperation. “I’m just making conversation. It’s what people do. For example: I’m Shane Rowley, it’s nice to meet you.”
Tracie stared at him, thinking, then chuckled despite the pain. She must be getting paranoid. There was no possible way anyone on either side of the geopolitical fence—USSR or United States—could have known that B-52 was going to crash-land in Bangor, Maine. Thus, there was no possible way this guy could be anything other than what he claimed to be: a Good Samaritan who had been driving past, seen the plane go down, and pulled her out of the burning wreckage.
She sighed and smiled. “My name’s Tracie,” she said softly, realizing with some surprise that she hadn’t introduced herself to a stranger using her real name in well over half a decade.
“See, that wasn’t so hard. We’re making progress.” He hung a left at a red brick bank building that was maybe five stories high—what passed for a skyscraper here in Nowhereville, USA—urged the Beetle up a hill, banged a couple more turns, and drove into an apartment complex overlooking a good-sized river. Small pools of sickly yellow light dotted the parking lot from poles spaced too far apart to do much good.
Her rescuer guided the Bug into a spot directly under one of the light poles and Tracie said, “No, not here.”
“What are you talking about? My apartment’s right in front of us.”
“Not under the light,” she said. “Park in one of the dark spots.”
He looked at her like she was crazy—he seemed to be doing that a lot—but didn’t argue. He simply shook his head, shifted the car into reverse, and backed directly into another spot, between two of the light poles lining the rear of the lot. “Better?” he asked.
Tracie nodded. “Better.” She unsnapped her seat belt and opened her door, placing her right foot on the pavement.
“Wait,” the young man said and she ignored him. She grabbed the roof for support and swung herself out of the car. Instantly a wave of dizziness and nausea rolled through her. “This might have been a mistake,” she said. Her savior said something in return but she couldn’t make it out. A buzzing sound started up in the distance, like maybe someone had chosen the middle of the night to fire up a chainsaw. The buzzing got louder and Tracie realized it was coming from inside her head. Black spots bloomed in her vision, making the weak light in the parking lot even less effective.
She was vaguely aware of the driver rushing around the front of the Volkswagen. She let go of the car and took one shuffling step toward the apartment complex and then another, and then the pavement rushed up to meet her and the world went black.
19
May 31, 1987
12:25 a.m.
Bangor, Maine
The woman collapsed into his arms and Shane shuffled backward, trying to keep his feet. She wasn’t very big, maybe five-foot two and all of a hundred pounds soaking wet, but her momentum had been moving forward as she staggered away from his car. It was like catching a hundred pound bag of potatoes someone had tossed at you. Although, he thought, a bag of potatoes probably never felt this good.
He glanced around the lot. Empty. That made sense considering the time, but if a neighbor happened to glance out a window, couldn’t sleep or whatever, the Bangor Police would be all over this apartment complex within minutes. A man, half dragging, half carrying a woman, unconscious and covered in blood, into his apartment in the middle of the night. Christ, he’d look like Jack the Ripper.
But then, maybe a visit from the cops wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Shane had never had a gun pointed at him before and decided he didn’t like it very much. This beautiful crash victim was obviously hip-deep in some serious shit, and who was to say she wasn’t one of the bad guys?
Shane didn’t think so, though. He liked to think he possessed a pretty reliable bullshit detector—he’d seen right through the dying father yarn the injured woman had tried to spin—and his instincts told him the girl was trustworthy, at least to the extent she didn’t want to cause him harm.
And in any event, she was completely helpless now; he couldn’t very well just dump her on the side of the road. So, resigned to risking possible arrest, he hoisted her onto his shoulder one more time and walked as quickly as he could to his apartment.
He dug his key out of his pocket and stabbed for the lock. Then he staggered through the front door, kicked it closed behind him, and crossed the living room to his old couch. He lowered his guest onto it as gently as he could. She groaned and muttered but her eyes remained closed. Then he backtracked, locked and bolted the door, and sank to the floor, out of breath and exhausted.
Shane looked at his watch. Twelve thirty a.m. Shit. He had to call work. He should have been there half an hour ago. Between climbing into burning wreckage, saving a pretty—if very strange—young woman from certain death, and staring down a gun barrel, he had completely forgotten about work
.
He trudged across the living room and checked on his new friend on the way to the telephone. She was right where he had left her, still out like a light, pale and unmoving. Again Shane thought about the hospital and wondered briefly about personal liability should the woman die on his couch. It didn’t seem likely, but still, she had been through a lot, had lost a lot of blood, and who really knew how badly she had been injured in that crash? He decided he’d make his call, then tend to her immediately.
Shane dialed quickly. He knew the tower supervisor, who normally would have gone home at midnight, would still be in the facility making notifications and coordinating with rescue personnel about the aircraft accident, and he was right. The line rang seven times, eight, and then was answered on the ninth ring by supervisor Chuck McNally.
“Bangor Tower,” McNally barked into the phone, gruff and intimidating. Shane realized the line had probably been ringing off the hook since the accident and felt a stab of sympathy for the supervisor, normally the most kind-hearted of men but right now probably at the end of his rope.
“Chuck, this is Shane, I’m sorry about not calling sooner, but—”
“Shane, where the hell are you? We’ve had a crash just off the airport! Things are fucking insane, man. Tonight was definitely not the night to blow off work without even a call.” Shane listened to McNally rant and broke in when the man slowed down to take a breath.
“That’s why I’m calling, boss. I know about the accident. It happened right next to me as I was driving to work. The damn airplane fell out of the sky and almost landed on my car. I climbed inside the wreckage, man. I pulled a victim out alive.”
The line was silent as McNally processed the information. “You saw the crash?”
“I didn’t actually see it happen because of the trees, but I sure as hell heard it. I stopped the car and hiked out to the crash site to see if I could help anyone, and damned if there wasn’t a young woman trapped in the cabin. Anyway, I’m really sorry, but there’s no way I can come in to work tonight, I’m tired and banged up and even burned a little bit.”
Black Ops Bundle: Volume One Page 55
