Beginning with You

by Lindsay McKenna

  Sweat popped out on Tag’s face, all his concentration on keeping the ’60 steady in a hover as Seth got ready to lower the litter on the steel cable. The gray, rain-swollen clouds hung only a hundred feet above them, threatening to deluge them once again. The helo was floundering badly, trying to maintain the hover. His gloved hands tightened considerably around the collective and cyclic.

  Rook’s job was to act as safety pilot, telling Tag if he got too low to the trees and making him aware of any other possible problems. She also had to monitor all the aircraft instruments. She remained in contact with Jim, leading him and his men through the steps of rescue. Once, Rook saw Jim wipe his eyes free of tears. She realized now how much her own emotional reactions could interfere on a rescue.

  Tag was left completely free of all details except flying. And in this situation, Rook knew it would take all his skill to give them a safe margin. She glanced up at the leaden skies. Had the temperature or wind changed? If it had, it might affect their HOGE power. The helo was barely stable how, and they hadn’t even started the lift.

  How much did Howard weigh? Suddenly, that became a critical issue. She remembered Jim pointing him out to her in the diner that morning, but she’d only gotten a glimpse of him. Should she radio Jim and ask? No, he might panic if he thought there was a problem. The possibility of settling with power shrilled through her mind. If the load was too much the helo could settle, and they’d all drop slowly out of the sky, probably killing some of the men gathered below, not to mention themselves. The only alternative, if that situation became a reality, was to shear the cable, then drop the litter and the patient. Rook’s throat constricted with tension. Automatically, she flicked a glance at the fuel gauge: three hundred pounds left. God, they had to hurry with this medevac, or they wouldn’t make it out of the mountains themselves.

  “Go on hot mike,” Welsh ordered the flight mech.

  “Roger, hot mike,”

  Holding the helo steady at eighty-five feet, the sponsons brushing the crowns of the fir, Tag said, “Conn me in.”

  “Roger,” Seth responded. “On hot mike, have target in sight, litter going out the door.” The wire litter hung suspended in front of Seth. He pressed the button that would begin lowering it toward the group below. “Litter below aircraft…litter halfway down…”

  Rook’s gaze flew to the gauges. She felt the helo laboring heavily. Would the bird stay in the air, or were they going to settle in? Torque was gradually creeping up. Her gut tightened. That could spell disaster. And fuel? Two hundred and eighty pounds left. Jesus, they had to get that litter down, throw Barton in it and lift like crazy, or they’d never make it to the hospital!

  “Litter on deck.”

  “Thank God,” Rook whispered. She glanced over at Tag, seeing the concentration on his mask-like face. He knew they were in trouble, too.

  “Seth, can you get a look and see how much the victim weighs?” she asked.

  “Good move,” Tag growled, his thinned lips barely moving.

  “I’m worried, Tag.”

  “Makes two of us.”

  Seth craned his neck out over the lip of the deck. “Uh…he looks pretty heavy, Ms. Caldwell.”

  Rook tried to keep her voice calm and patient, but she felt anything other than that. “Seth, give me your best estimate.”

  “Two hundred and fifty pounds?”

  “Christ,” Tag whispered.

  “Tag?” The question was in her voice. He was aircraft commander. What would he do? Call off the medevac because the situation was deteriorating around them, or try the rescue anyway?

  “Seth, motion for them to get that guy in the litter pronto,” Tag ordered.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “What’s our fuel look like?”

  “About two hundred and sixty pounds.”

  “Torque?”

  “Ninety percent.”

  “Keep me informed.”

  Rook’s hands hovered near her own set of controls. Anytime a rescue was in progress, the copilot’s hands were always near the cyclic and collective, in case something happened to the pilot.

  “Taking the load,” Seth said. Rook felt the helo shudder as the cable began to winch up the victim in the litter.

  Tag cursed softly, his knuckles whitening. They were just this side of overtorquing it.

  “The trees, Tag—you’re sinking,” Rook said, her voice unsteady.

  Gently, he fed a little more power to the laboring ’60. Throughout the cabin, the high whine of the winch continued, the gears screeching beneath the heavy load.

  “Two hundred and fifty-five pounds of fuel.”

  Tag’s mouth tightened. Hurry up with that damn load! The winching and weight was sucking the fuel tank dry! Why hadn’t he listened to Rook? Now they were critical! What the hell had made him decide on a hundred pounds less?

  Seth watched as the litter threaded between two huge Douglas firs, branches swatting at the unconscious victim’s legs. He gripped the side of the fuselage hard, feeling the helo stagger perilously. Was Mr. Welsh going to make it? The ground looked a long way away to Seth. Come on, come on, he silently begged. Why the hell couldn’t they invent a faster-moving winch? Seth saw the blood over the older man’s abdomen. From years of experience in rescue, he knew the victim’s color wasn’t good, either. He pressed his lips to the mike.

  “I’m gonna need CPR backup once I get the victim on board. He’s going blue on me.”

  Rook responded, not sure if they were even going to be able to get out of here. “I’ll be back as soon as we’re clear of the trees.”

  “Roger.”

  “Fuel?” Tag demanded.

  Sweet Jesus, they weren’t going to make it! Rook swallowed against a lump, her voice sounding strangled. “Two hundred and forty pounds…”

  “Litter outside the door.”

  “Hurry, hurry,” Rook begged.

  “Litter in cabin, going off hot mike.”

  Tag waited long seconds, silently pleading with Seth to say the magic words that would get them to hell out of the hover and to a higher, safer altitude in their run for the hospital.

  Seth tow-blocked the hook, leaning across the victim in the litter. He yanked the door shut, breathing in loud, harsh gasps. “Cabin secured! Ready for forward flight.”

  Rook immediately unstrapped and squeezed between the two chairs, aiming herself for the rear cabin to help Seth. She gripped Tag’s tense shoulder, squeezing it once as if to give him hope in their deteriorating situation. Placing all her fears aside, Rook concentrated on helping Seth administer CPR to Howard Barton, who lay waxen in the litter.

  Tag carefully eased the ’60 up, nose to the wind, to give her all the lift she could grab with her long rotor blades. “Come on, baby, be good to me just this once,” he begged her. Had the wind velocity increased? If it had, more of the precious fuel would be eaten up. First things first—he had to climb to altitude. To try to autorotate below a thousand feet was sheer stupidity; few walked away from such a controlled crash at less altitude. And yet, more fuel would be consumed if he tried to reach that safe altitude.

  Tag gripped the controls hard. He felt as though his entire body was welded to the thin, pulsating skin of the helicopter. She was a living extension of him now, her heartbeat moving through his body. Silently, Tag coaxed her gently past five thousand feet, then fifty-one hundred, all the while flicking his gaze to the fuel gauge needle, which now hovered close to one hundred and fifty pounds. Be good to us, sweetheart. You’ve never let us down yet. Come on, come on, you’ve got such a courageous heart. Don’t let us down….

  He continued his silent pleading with the ’60 as she climbed to fifty-five hundred feet, far above the snowcapped mountains.

  As the helo rounded the peak and started its descent, Tag could see the town of Port Angeles. Everything looked so calm below him. The city was just awakening at barely nine o’clock. Tag blinked the sweat from his eyes, his vision momentarily blurred. Christ, he’d ma
de such a stupid error!

  Rook had calculated the correct figures. Why had he changed them? Why? Three people had trusted his skill, his experience in assessing the situation. Now, if they ran out of fuel, they could all either die or end up seriously injured. His only hope was the fact that they were in a gentle descent using less power and eating up less fuel.

  Tag called ahead to the base to alert them to the helos landing. He saw that they only had one hundred pounds of fuel left in the tanks. Come on, baby girl, carry us home. Get us home… I promise you I’ll never do this to you again. Get us home….

  Rook knew something was wrong. After they got Barton stabilized, she climbed back into the cockpit. Her gaze went immediately to the fuel gauge. The needle was perilously close to empty.

  “Tag—”

  “I know.”

  Rook strapped herself in, her hands shaking badly as she did so. Tag was descending from a thousand feet on a glide toward the hospital’s rear parking lot. She held her breath. Were they out of fuel? Fuel gauges were never accurate, and there was always a fifty-pound plus or minus in the tank that the ’60 carried. They could have fifty extra pounds still on hand, or less—and have no way of knowing. The needle rested on the fifty-pound mark, and the yellow warning light glared at her. Any time now, the engine might stop.

  “Hold on….” Tag gritted, gripping the controls, getting ready to push the helo into an autorotation. He’d deliberately come into the wind, wanting that cushion and lift of air, just in case.

  Rook grabbed the sides of her seat, eyes bulging.

  Three hundred feet.

  Working the controls, Tag willed the helo to hold on. Each muscle in his face was frozen; his body was a taut bow as he brought the bird in, the asphalt growing larger and larger below them.

  Two hundred feet.

  The ’60 shook, its rotors pulling in the last available air before landing.

  “This is it,” Rook cried, trying to brace herself. “Seth, hang on!”

  No! Tag crooned to the ’60. She wouldn’t let him down! Not now. She had the heart of a thoroughbred, this one. Deftly, he lifted the nose at the last possible second. It was enough! Enough! He felt her blades lift, just as her wheels touched the asphalt.

  Rook nearly cried out as they jolted to a safe landing. The engine continued to run, the blades whooshing slowly around. They had more fuel than the gauge had shown. Thank God. Tag began immediate shutdown procedures. Outside the cockpit, the trauma team stood ready for a signal from the flight mech to come forward.

  “Get back there and help with the transfer, Rook.”

  She snapped out of her shock, quickly following Tag’s strained order.

  In the cockpit, Tag hung his head. His hands were shaking so bad that he didn’t know what to do. God, he’d cut it too close—too damn close. When Rook climbed back into her seat after the medical team had taken the victim inside the hospital, he glanced over at her. She was ashen, sweat making her grim face glisten.

  “Call the air station and ask them to send a fuel truck over, will you?”

  “Yes….” She turned on the radio and called, then turned to hold Tag’s dark stare. “Are you okay?”

  “No. None of us are. Christ, I feel like a wet rag.”

  She reached over and squeezed his slumped, thin shoulder. “You did one hell of a job getting us here. That was some kind of flying.”

  Grateful for her unexpected camaraderie, Tag managed a one-cornered smile. He fondly gave the helo a well-deserved pat. “She got us here.” And then he sobered. “I don’t know about you, but these helos are just like people to me. Each one has a separate personality, its own glitches and strong points. This gal has heart—more heart and guts than any helo over at that hangar. Never forget that, Rook—ever. If you have a bad SAR case to go on, pray you get CG 1418. She’s quite a lady.”

  Touched by his fervent admission, Rook smiled gently. “I’ll remember that, Tag.”

  He unstrapped himself and moved dazedly. “How about our patient? Did you get any info on him yet?”

  “No.”

  He moved his head in the direction of the hospital. “Why don’t you go see what you can find out for our case report? I’ll wait out here with Seth for the fuel truck.”

  Rook didn’t want to leave Tag. He looked pale, and his eyes were like dark holes. “Are you sure? Maybe I could beg, borrow or steal a couple of cups of coffee for us. I think we need something to calm our nerves. How about it? I can get the report info later.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Go ahead. I think Seth likes his coffee with a little sugar. You might check with him.”

  When the fuel truck arrived half an hour later, Rook was feeling more stable. The three of them stood a safe distance away while the ’60 was refueled. They sipped their coffee, getting soaked in the pall of rain that had spread from the mountains directly behind the hospital across the city of Port Angeles.

  “Miserable weather,” Rook commented, bowing her head a little to ward off the misting rain.

  Tag nodded, deep in thought. Not only was the Ops officer going to ask questions as to why he ran short of fuel at such a critical time, but so was the new CO. If his luck hadn’t held, they could have been forced to land on a road in the middle of nowhere—if they’d been lucky. The victim’s life would have been jeopardized’, too. Tag tried without success to analyze his faulty decision-making process. Why hadn’t he gone with Rook’s recommendation of six hundred pounds of fuel? The numbers supported it. Under the circumstances, higher power might have been required. On the other hand, they might have settled had they carried an extra hundred pounds of fuel. Christ, this was a messy one to call. And it would have to happen with a new skipper on board.

  “Well,” Tag said glumly, stuffing the disposable cup into the leg pocket of his flight suit. “Let’s get this show on the road. The helos tanked up and topped off. Once we get back to base, there’s going to be a fair amount of paperwork for us to do, Rook.”

  She nodded and began the long walk back to the ’60. She climbed in and began her preflight checklist with Tag. As soon as she got back to the air station, she’d have to call the hospital to find out how Howard Barton was doing. Between Seth and herself administering CPR the man was breathing again, and he had been semiconscious when the trauma team had taken him into the hospital. It occurred to Rook that today was the first time she’d ever administered CPR to someone. She began to get shaky all over again.

  In her office, after cleaning up a bit, Rook called the hospital admitting office.

  “Yes, this is Lieutenant Caldwell from the Coast Guard calling. I’m making out our flight report. Do you have the particulars on Howard Barton, the gentleman we medevaced out of the forest?”

  Rook waited, tapping the pen absently, glancing out the window of her office toward the secretarial pool. Jody Theron was watching her. Rook stared back. Jody quickly returned to work, pretending she was busy. Her attention swung back to the voice at the other end of the line.

  Rook rubbed her brow as she jotted down the necessary information. “Uh, has the son arrived there yet? Jim?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I believe he came tearing in here just a few minutes ago. He’s mud from head to toe.”

  Rook nodded. It had probably taken Jim a good hour with a four-wheel-drive truck to get out of that inaccessible spot and drive back down to Port Angeles. Rook cradled the phone more closely to her mouth, aching for him. No one deserved this kind of trauma—especially not Jim.

  “Can you tell me how the senior Mr. Barton is?”

  “Last I heard, he was being prepped for emergency surgery.”

  “How was he listed in emergency?”

  “Critical, Lieutenant.”

  Rook tried to stay with the business at hand, scribbling down Howard Barton’s address and phone number on the form. After she hung up, Rook stared at the light blue wall in front of her desk. She remembered the roses and turned to look at them. They were still f
resh and fully blossomed, scenting the air with their fragrance.

  She forced herself to complete the report and bring it to Tag at the other end of the building. Rook walked into his office, shut the door and laid the report down in front of him. He didn’t look very good.

  “Want some more coffee, Tag?”

  He raised his head from his paperwork. “No…thanks.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just a little stressed out.”

  “Hey, I got this joke for you. You’re always looking for new ones, aren’t you?” she asked, forcing a cheerier tone.

  Tag gave her a glance.

  Rook ignored him. “Come on, you can add this one to your impressive repertoire and tell it to all the guys.”

  “I’m not in the mood for jokes right now, Rook.”

  She sat down on a chair next to his desk. “This one’s really good, Tag. Come on, let me cheer you up for once.”

  He laid the pen aside. “Okay, what is it? And it better be good.”

  “You’ll love it. I laugh every time I think about it.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “Okay. What’s a doughnut?”

  A bit of light came back to his dark eyes. “A doughnut?”

  “Yeah, you know, one of those round things with holes in the middle you buy over at Maudie’s Restaurant for us every morning.”

  “I give. What’s a doughnut, Rook?”

  She grinned. “A fried halo.”

  Tag stared.

  “Get it? You deep fat fry doughnuts, and they have a hole in the center—”

  “Rook, do me a favor?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t try and tell jokes. You’re terrible at it.”