by Bobby Akart
The chopper moved forward, occasionally battling fits of gusty head winds courtesy of the cold front and tailwinds caused by the leading edge of the heated flow of air from Yellowstone. The two climactic events were destined to collide at any moment behind them.
“Jake,” Dusty began, joining the conversation for the first time. “Um, it only takes a millimeter of ash to cause damage to the internal components of any aircraft. So, like, we’re screwed.”
“Don’t say that, dork!” shouted Rita, who was back to her old form. “We’re out ahead of it.”
Dusty accepted his beatdown. “I’m just saying, you know, the numbers aren’t on our side.”
Suddenly, the noise inside the Sikorsky grew to a deafening roar. The engines groaned, and the cabin’s metal panels bent in resistance to the dark forces which surrounded the helicopter. Repeated vibrations came in large waves, causing the cabin to contract and expand back into place. It was if an enormous fist was squeezing the chopper like it was a large stress-relief ball.
The nose of the helicopter pitched upward, causing everyone to gasp and grab onto their seats. The sudden jolt brought Ashby out of her semi-stupor, which also brought back her moans of pain. The pilots fought against the turbulent air. Alarms were sounding and lights flashing from one side of the controls to the other.
“Brace! Brace for impact,” shouted the pilot.
Jake closed his eyes and squeezed Ashby’s hand as the Sikorsky flailed about, rolling and plunging toward the Rocky Mountains below them.
Chapter 3
Sikorsky UH-60Q Helicopter
Eastern Idaho
Fighting unconsciousness, Ashby’s mind began to wander as she closed her eyes during the tumultuous flight. The pain of her shoulder was suppressed and replaced by the memories of the loss of her parents. As she took herself back in time to the day Mount Pinatubo erupted and stole the lives of her family, she recalled, for the first time, the minutes after she was placed into the rescue basket by her father.
The basket wouldn’t stop spinning. The helicopter couldn’t be controlled as the unstable air attacked it from all sides. She remembered looking up at it the first time the rescue basket crashed into the side of her father’s truck, causing her to spin like a top. In that moment, Ashby feared she would die from the helicopter falling on top of them.
Then, suddenly, it lifted her high into the air. She was shaking, a small child whisked away in a cloud of ash and fire, as her parents became smaller and smaller below her.
As the helicopter climbed, the air cleared. She could see the fires raging all around her. The lava flowed hot and red down the sides of the mountain. The pilot climbed to a safe height above the ground and the soldiers methodically began the process of pulling the rescue basket toward them.
With each tug, Ashby lost hope of ever seeing her parents again. She did not become emotional at the loss. No, that came later.
The young girl focused her ire on the creature that was responsible for what was happening to her—the volcano. Glowing ash continued to shoot out of the sides of Pinatubo as more vents opened up in the crumbling ground. Ashby watched the rushing flow of lava displace the river which provided much needed water to the villages in the surrounding area. This killer couldn’t be stopped. It would cease its murdering ways when it was good and ready.
Just as Ashby was pulled into the cabin of the helicopter by the Filipino soldiers, a gust of hot air shot upward, forcing them upward and causing everyone to fall to the floor of the helicopter. There were no modern, ergonomically-designed safety seats complete with fancy harnesses. Wood benches surrounded the interior and the occupants were expected to hold on the best they could.
Ashby recalled, there was one thing for certain. Then, like now, she was in mortal danger. The pilot of the rescue helicopter at Mount Pinatubo did his best to maintain control of the aircraft. He gained control of the chopper and sped toward Clark Freeport, an airfield in the nearby city of Angeles.
However, the pyroclastic flows emanating from Mount Pinatubo were faster. To gain speed, and out of fear, the pilot brought the helicopter to just above the treetops, flying through the cloud of debris and barely missing the tallest of the falcata trees which rose high above the palms.
Soon, the ground flattened out over a golf course near the Sacobia River. The pilot followed the river basin as he made his way westward toward the airport and their national guard facility.
That’s when Ashby heard the choking sound. A sputter followed by a violent shaking of the helicopter. The consistent whomp she’d heard when the chopper first found them was replaced by a high-pitched whine, and the sudden slowing of the rotor blades.
The rescue helicopter had succumbed to the ash and debris. Ashby shrieked as the machine suddenly dropped downward. The soldiers all crowded around the windows as they saw the water growing larger in their field of vision.
Ashby didn’t want to look as she’d seen enough that day. Instead, she crawled on her hands and knees for the back of the cabin into a small open compartment, a decision made out of fear, or primal instinct, that saved her life.
Unable to maintain control, the pilot tried to manually guide the helicopter in a desperate attempt to land in the river rather than crash to the ground. He was successful, in part.
The front of the rescue helicopter crashed into a bridge connecting Angeles with the jungle. The cockpit was crushed, and the impact threw all of the soldiers into the bridge railing or out of the jettisoned helicopter doors.
Ashby was wedged into the cubby hole, and the force of the impact was insufficient to dislodge her. Despite the chaos going on inside the Sikorsky, her mind remained at the base of Mount Pinatubo as she continued to remember the details vividly.
She recalled clenching her eyes shut and gripping the sides of the compartment to keep from falling out. For a brief moment, the tail section of the helicopter remained level in a state of suspended animation, until gravity took its toll.
A loud, creaking sound, followed by the ripping and tearing of steel, preceded the tail section breaking loose and falling thirty feet toward the water. Ashby remembered seeing the badly mangled wreckage, and several mauled bodies, before looking skyward as the tail section twisted ninety degrees.
The remains of the helicopter plunged into the warm waters of the Sacobia River, taking Ashby underneath with it. The rear of the helicopter imbedded into the sandy bottom of the river and remained there. Ashby, who had taken a deep breath as she made impact with the river, worked her way out of the compartment and shot to the surface.
For a minute, she allowed the flow of the river to carry her under the bridge as she tread water like a fishing bob cut loose from its line. A good swimmer, she found her way to the bank which was when she realized she’d lost her backpack that was given to her by her mother as she was being lifted to safety.
Ashby stood on the bank and wiped the water out of her eyes. She scanned the water, desperately in search of the only connection she had to her parents. Then she heard a voice.
“Batang babae. Nasaktan ka ba?” Little girl. Are you hurt?
Ashby burst into tears as an old fisherman walked along the river’s edge, holding her backpack. She ran to him, kissed his cheek, and quickly slung the backpack over her shoulders.
He continued to speak to her in Filipino, but she was unclear of what he was saying. Ashby recalled stopping, looking past the man to Mount Pinatubo which continued to spew its venom into the sky, and realizing—she was seven, she was alive, and she was alone.
And now, she was reliving those horrors all over again.
LET ME THANK YOU AGAIN FOR READING YELLOWSTONE: HELLFIRE, book one in the Yellowstone series.
If you enjoyed it, I’d be grateful if you’d take a moment to write a short review (just a few words are needed) and post it on Amazon. Amazon uses complicated algorithms to determine what books are recommended to readers. Sales are, of course, a factor, but so are the quantities of reviews my
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Copyright Information
© 2018 Bobby Akart Inc. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of Bobby Akart Inc.
Table of Contents
Dedications
Acknowledgements
About the Author, Bobby Akart
Author’s Introduction to the Yellowstone Series
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Excerpt from Yellowstone: INFERNO
Copyright Information
