I peek around Clark, who keeps his back turned to Hap.
“Base Ops is on the phone,” he says. “Mono County called again.”
“Okay, we’ll be right there,” I say.
I turn back to Clark, placing my hand on his elbow. “Are you gonna be okay?”
He nods. “Yeah. Thanks.” He wipes his face, takes a deep breath. “We’d better go.”
He starts to walk away, but I stop him.
“Maybe some time, if you want, you could come over … you know, if you’d like to talk or…”
He nods, his lips curving upward, just a little. “Thanks. Yeah, I’d like that.”
* * *
When we reenter the SAR office, Beanie is on the phone, nodding, responding in broken “uh-huhs” and “yeahs.” His brows remain furrowed, and his expression doesn’t change once he hangs up.
“That was operations,” Beanie says. “Mono County called again. Said they’ve got a party of five trapped in Walker Canyon at the Walker View Lodge. The swiftwater rescue team is there, but—”
The ring tone signaling a call from my mom puts an abrupt end to Beanie’s explanation. I scramble for the phone, fumbling as I take it out of my pocket.
“Mom?”
A clamoring racket fills my ears. A steady roar. And shouting. There’s shouting.… What the—?
“Mom, is that you?”
“Alison? Ali … need and … rising … for … no time.”
“Wait, what? Mom? Are you there?”
I put my hand to my other ear and smash the phone to my head.
“Mom? Mom, what’s happening? Are you okay?”
“… and … can’t get … come…”
The connection dies.
I look to Boomer, the dread congealing, thickening, my body heavy with it. I move across the room to the window. Not good. This is not good.
“What is it?” he asks.
“That was my mom. I couldn’t make everything out, but she’s in trouble.” I wipe the back of my neck again, thinking, thinking, staring at the tower.…
The tower! I can see the tower!
“Beanie! Call Weather. See what they’re calling for ceiling and visibility.”
“On it!”
“Hey, Alison,” Boomer says quietly. He tugs gently on my arm, all calm, no hurry, directing me out of earshot of the others. “You’re the aircraft commander today. If we launch, I have every confidence that you can remain objective and do this, but I also understand if you’d rather not take this flight. You can switch with Tito, if you want.”
I note that Boomer’s not quoting the squadron mandate, which dictates that personnel assigned to a flight who have a vested interest in a SAR scenario shall be replaced. But rather, he’s giving me a choice.
“No. I want to do it.” My eyes meet his without wavering. “I can do it.”
“I know you can.”
But his vote of confidence comes with an unspoken caution—You need to keep your head.
“Just wanted to make sure you were good with it,” he says.
“I’m good, Boomer. Really.”
Another rule broken … and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Current ceiling one hundred feet,” Beanie reports. “Visibility four hundred yards. Low clouds and rain expected to continue into the evening.”
The phone rings again, but Boomer, Beanie, Hap, and I are already jogging toward the door that leads to the stairs and the hangar below.
“I’ll get it!” Tito says, darting to the phone.
We’re almost out the door when Tito calls out. “Hold up!”
He nods, phone pressed to his ear, then looks up.
“It’s Base Ops. Mono County called again. They want to know our status.”
“Why?” I ask.
“The situation’s a bit more dire than initially reported. They’ve got their swiftwater rescue team out there, but four of them are now trapped, as well.”
“Tell ’em we’re launching ASAP!”
We turn and sprint for the stairs.
37
“Damn it,” I mutter. I don’t key the mic, but Boomer probably heard me anyway. We’re only twenty minutes southwest of Fallon, and it’s clear we won’t be able to continue, not under visual flight rules, anyway.
The windshield wipers flick back and forth in a gallant effort to keep the cockpit glass clear. A wall of rain blocks our path, and we’ve been descending steadily to stay under the cloud ceiling, now flying only fifty feet above the ground. As we approach the town of Yerrington, Boomer and I both know that this small farming community lies in front of a long chain of hills that you wouldn’t quite call mountains, but even at only a few hundred feet high, they’re hills we can’t see.
“Let’s call back to Approach,” Boomer suggests. “Maybe we could go another way.”
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, trying to quell the frustration, as Boomer switches the radio frequency.
“Fallon Approach, Rescue Seven, forty miles to the southwest, over,” I say.
“Rescue Seven, Fallon Approach, go ahead.”
“Approach, what’s the weather looking like to the north? We need another way to Walker.”
“Rescue Seven, Fallon Approach, ceilings are lifting to the north. Be advised, Rescue Six was just given takeoff clearance to Reno.”
I look to Boomer, and I know he’s thinking the same thing.
“Approach, Rescue Seven, can Rescue Six be diverted south?”
“Rescue Seven, Fallon Approach, negative. They’re delivering blood for the hospitals. We can bring you northwest to Carson City. They’re calling five-hundred-foot ceilings there. You could drop south then, and proceed visually to Walker.”
“Rescue Seven copies.”
I remain at the controls, turning the aircraft to the north, while Boomer busies himself with the aircraft performance charts.
Now under the control of Fallon Approach, we fly in and out of the clouds—most often in the clouds—to Carson City. Throughout, I replay the conversation with my mom, her alarmed tone particularly worrying. My mom is not one to panic, so for her to have sounded like that, something must be very wrong.
And what about Will? I don’t think he’s a member of the swiftwater rescue team … Although, wait. I have no idea. He very well could be.
My mind plods, thick with worry, and so does the time. Precious time. We could drive faster than this.…
“Rescue Seven, Mono County Sheriff, over.” It’s Walt.
And already, the worry moves up a rung. Normally, it would be Jack calling.
“Mono County Sheriff, Rescue Seven, go ahead.”
“Rescue Seven, things are startin’ to stack up out here. Request ETA, over.”
“Mono County Sheriff, estimate—” I look to Boomer, who holds up two fingers followed by a zero sign. “Twenty minutes. What do we have, over?”
“We’ve got nine people trapped by rising floodwaters. Jack said you’re familiar with the compound. Is that right?”
“That’s affirm, Walt.”
“You’ve got a family of three on the roof of Cabin Ten, two women on the roof of Cabin Eleven, and we’ve got three of our swiftwater rescue team members—Jack, Kevin, and Thomas—stuck on the detached garage, halfway between the highway and those cabins. Will’s with them, so make that four men on the roof of the garage. The water’s runnin’ pretty fierce through there.”
What? Water running between the outer cabins and the garage? I can’t picture it. I can’t picture it at all. That means the river has widened by at least forty yards, if it’s surrounded the cabins, and if it’s widened to the point that it surrounds the garage, that’s another twenty. I know the distances exactly, having played countless games of hide-and-seek as a kid around those cabins, and in that very garage.
Not only has the river widened at least that far, it’s running so fast that swiftwater rescue team members can’t cross the gap.
Holy hell. What are we dealing with here?
<
br /> I swallow, especially when I remember that Walt said “two women on the roof of Cabin Eleven.” Mom and Celia. It has to be them. And Jack is out there. And Will …
“Rescue Seven copies. Anything else?”
“Be advised, there’s a rope rigged from the main lodge to the outer cabins. Our guys tried to pull themselves across in a raft using the rope, but when they moved beyond the garage, the current was too great. They—Stand by.”
Current was too great. Impossible …
I look at the fuel gauge, extrapolating, taking into account the headwinds and all the diverting, and realize we’re going to arrive on-scene with less than an hour of fuel. Actually, way less. More like thirty-five minutes, forty if we’re lucky.
“Rescue Seven,” Walt says. “A new update for you. Jack’s in the raft again. He’s attempting to move across from the garage to the outer cabins.”
He probably sees her. He sees my mom, and he’s trying to get to her.…
“Mono County Sheriff, Rescue Seven copies. We’re gonna need a fuel truck, over.”
“Mono County Sheriff copies. I’ll call for the truck.”
We continue flying south, moving past the towns of Minden and Gardnerville, traversing wide, windswept pasturelands that butt against the eastern slopes of the Sierra, shrouded in a gray curtain of relentless rain, until we finally—finally—approach Topaz Lake, only ten minutes from Walker.
My eyes shift to the clock.
“What time did they say the sun sets?” I ask Boomer.
“Sixteen forty-five.”
“Great.”
We’ll be pushing up against darkness, too.
“And the fuel…,” Boomer says.
“Yeah, I know. If they can’t get a fuel truck, maybe Carson City Airport if we need to?”
“Yeah, they’d be closest.”
We don’t say anything more as we accelerate across the now-flooded ranch land south of Topaz Lake, finally passing the town of Coleville. Walker is just ahead, and less than a mile farther, Walker Canyon.
“Things aren’t exactly stacked in our favor, are they?” I say.
“They never are…,” Boomer says with a resigned snigger.
The seconds stretch, rain streaking across the windshield, as we chase the remaining daylight to Walker Canyon … and to a scene I don’t think I’m prepared to see.
38
“Rescue Seven, Mono County Sheriff, over.”
“Mono County Sheriff, Rescue Seven, go ahead,” I say.
“Rescue Seven, request ETA, over,” Walt says, straining to keep the urgency out of his voice.
“Two minutes, over.”
“Copy two minutes. Switch to ground frequency, one two three point six, for rescue coordination, over.”
“Rescue Seven, wilco.”
Depending on the nature of the rescue and the number of people involved, sometimes two frequencies are used—a “quiet” frequency, like the one we’ve been speaking on with Walt, and a “not-so-quiet” frequency that everyone involved on-scene can use.
Boomer leans over to enter the numbers on our second radio, and we know immediately that we’re up the correct frequency, because the chatter is going a mile a minute.
“… halfway across!” It’s Jack, his words barely discernible over whatever’s happening in the background. Crackling, garbling, roaring … that roaring again.
“Jack, this is not good!” Will’s voice rises above a heavy, hollow thumping sound. And metal … screeching metal.
“Whiskey One, Mono County Sheriff, chopper’s en route, ETA two minutes.”
“Whiskey One copies,” Will says. “Jack, the bird’s here in two minutes! They can get them! Come back!”
“Guys, set in back?” I ask.
“All set, ma’am,” Beanie says. “Hap has his harness on, and I’m ready on the hoist.”
“Be ready for anything,” I say.
I look at Boomer. “Can you take the controls?” I ask.
For a multifaceted, multiperson rescue like this one, it’ll be far easier for Boomer to fly and me to coordinate.
“I’ve got the controls,” he says.
“Walt, we’re not in a good place here!” It’s Kevin this time, shouting to be heard above the clamor in the background. “Water’s undermining the building! Like really not in a good place!”
“Hang on, Kevin! The chopper’s almost here!”
“Mono County, Whiskey One, is the helicopter up this freq yet?” Will says.
“Whiskey One, Rescue Seven, coming around the bend now. Stand—”
My breath is stolen.
We enter the canyon, where nature has unleashed its fury. The river arcs up and alongside the east wall of the canyon to our left, carving, gouging, dissolving, destroying. A muddy, brown, raging torrent, it carries massive chunks of debris—cars, propane tanks, trees, chewed-up pieces of wood, concrete, and metal fencing.
The Walker River—the normally gentle, slightly meandering trickle of a river—has consumed almost the entire width of the canyon. The flat to rolling terrain that normally separates the river on one side of the canyon and the highway on the other, a distance one hundred yards wide in places, is underwater.
To our right, a line of police cars, ambulances, and several volunteers’ vehicles crowd the section of Highway 395 at the canyon’s entrance that remains above water. Even with the poor visibility, I recognize Kelly’s bright pink Patagonia guide jacket as she stands on the roof of a sheriff’s van, looking through binoculars. Walt stands next to her, a radio in his hand.
Tawny, clutching a bullhorn and wearing the sky-blue jacket I remember from rock climbing at Donner Summit, stands on a small spit of land that remains above water about thirty yards in front of the cluster of vehicles. Continuing my scan further up-canyon, I see that entire chunks of the highway are gone.
But at the canyon entrance the highway remains intact, men and women scurrying about in rain jackets and ponchos, talking on radios, carrying ropes, and some just looking on at the one, two, three, four, five, six, seven structures remaining in the river’s path.
Seven structures? There used to be fourteen or fifteen, easy. And they’re gone. They’re just … gone.
Crrrrrrack! I jump in my seat, whipping my head around in response to a noise so loud it resonates above the thwack of the rotor blades. The barn—No! Not the barn!—pulls from its foundation and disintegrates into the torrent, the largest piece slamming into a tree downstream, shattering on impact. If the horses were in there, I didn’t see them. I tell myself they’re safe somewhere else, knowing it’s probably a lie.
“Shit. This is serious,” Beanie says.
And in an outright odd, slow-motion moment, a motor home lolls and bobs down the river, then is stopped in its forward progress by a cluster of trees that is almost totally submerged, one that has accumulated a car-sized pile of twigs and sticks and other detritus. I expect the motor home to move past, but there it remains, just downstream from … Mom! There she is!
Guest Cabins Ten and Eleven stand by themselves in the middle of the canyon, my mom and Celia on the roof of one, the family of three on the other. Cabin Nine is missing altogether. They’re a full sixty yards from the highway, water on all sides. The family hunkers under a tarp of some sort, while my mom and Celia huddle in the corner of the roof, wearing yellow rain jackets.
Twenty yards closer to the highway, Kevin and Thomas, wearing neon-orange dry suits and white helmets, stand on the roof of the detached garage. Will is also there, probably the most visible person in the entire canyon due to his bright yellow North Face jacket, neon-orange gloves, and matching orange GPS unit, which is strapped to his chest. He is also topped with a white helmet.
And Jack. Dressed in a dry suit like Kevin and Thomas, but topped with a red helmet, he bobs in a raft, tossed and yanked in the water, moving hand over hand across the rope, which is attached to the main lodge at one end and a majestic Jeffrey pine near Cabin Eleven on the oth
er. Because the main lodge is farther downstream than the cabins, the rope runs diagonally across the river—a distance of about seventy yards. The garage, where Will, Kevin, and Thomas have taken refuge, marks roughly the three-quarter point of the rope, and Jack is now a further ten yards from here, about halfway to Cabins Ten and Eleven.
I’m sure a sling connects the raft to the rope above, but I can’t see it at the moment, not with the wind that snaps our helicopter sideways, and the rain that moves horizontally across the windshield, and the darkening skies as the unseen sun drops behind the walls of the canyon.
Due to the rolling nature of the terrain in this section of the canyon, four structures of the remaining seven stand taller than the others, like tiny islands—Cabins Ten and Eleven, the main lodge, and Cabin One. Of all the cabins, Cabin One is the largest, a two-story structure adjacent the main lodge.
Water crashes around the other remaining structures, just as it does around the garage—and thus Will, Kevin, and Thomas—closing in, set to swallow them.
“Rescue Seven, Whiskey—”
Kapow!
“Jack! Watch—” a voice yells on the radio.
The small aluminum equipment shed, the one next to where the barn used to be, the one I helped paint electric blue the summer I turned ten, shatters, catapulted by the ruddy surge directly into the rope that spans the width of the river, slicing it clean through.
“It’s severed! The line’s severed!” Will cries out.
I’m unable to follow the path of the snapped rope. All I know is that Jack has lost his tether, and is now being carried downstream.
It happens in an instant, the motor home twisting and corkscrewing away from the anchoring cluster of trees, just in time for Jack to slam into them.
“I can’t see him!” Will shouts.
“I’ve got him!” Kelly says, viewing the scene with a better vantage point on top of the sheriff’s van. “He’s at your two o’clock, under the raft! Jack’s under the raft!”
“Got him! I have him in sight!” Will says. “He’s hung up in the trees. Jack! Are you up? Jack, do you copy?”
It’s several agonizing seconds before he answers. “I’m up,” Jack says, barely audibly. The roaring continues, like a house-sized vacuum cleaner.
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