Her Miracle Baby

by Fiona Lowe

  The smoothness of the engines suddenly sounded rough. Meg’s heart seemed to stop as dread rushed through her like white water through a gorge. You’re just imagining engine trouble. She forced her mind to think of tranquil rainforests. It will be OK.

  Will’s hand tensed on hers.

  Across his shoulder she saw ice forming on the window.

  Ice!

  Surely that was just a build-up of hail? She prayed it was. Ice on the wings wasn’t good. Planes didn’t fly well when ice weighed them down.

  Engines didn’t like ice either.

  She turned and focused on Tom’s back, feeling impotent. She watched his every action as if that would help them through the storm. Could he keep the carburettor warm, keep the ice at bay? Could he see the horizon? Could he see the ground?

  She couldn’t see anything out her window. Nothing but grey fog.

  Her heart hammered, sounding loud in her ears. The hail pounded the fuselage. All the noise combined, making her want to put her hands over her ears like a child. Her breath stalled, fear paralysing her lungs.

  And then silence.

  The hail had stopped. Her breath rushed out in one long swoosh. For the briefest moment she relished the peace.

  It’s too quiet, the voice screamed in her head, clawing, pounding against her brain. The usually loud, rhythmic piston engines were silent.

  She automatically leaned forward, watching Tom, wanting to do something, willing him to do something.

  He throttled the engines back and forth, his shoulders rigid.

  Meg prayed for a fuel blockage that would be easily fixed by his action.

  The silence lingered like a malignant growth.

  ‘Bloody hail. No fuel’s getting through the carburettor.’ Tom’s voice trembled. ‘I’m sending out a mayday.’

  Fear tore at Meg and she turned to Will. ‘But the hail’s stopped. I don’t understand.’

  His handsome face paled but strength lingered. ‘The moisture in the air, combined with the drop in temperature, caused the ice. If the engines can’t get fuel, they can’t restart.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ She knew under this fog lay the national park and her beloved gum trees. But they wouldn’t love a plane. They stood firm, strong and too close together to gently receive a plane.

  ‘Mayday, mayday, mayday. Duchess D.A.V. with three POB, ten miles from Laurelton at five thousand feet, heading north. Both engines failed. Do you have me on radar?’

  The radio buzzed static.

  ‘Right.’ Tom’s voice sounded in control again. ‘Emergency drill. Tighten your seat belts. I’m turning off the fuel tap and I’m going to glide her down.’

  ‘But you can’t see anything!’ Terror forced the words everyone knew out of her mouth.

  ‘Meg, love, I don’t have any choice.’ The finality in his voice sealed her fear.

  Meg wanted to run. To jump out of the plane. Anything but stay there and do nothing.

  ‘Put your head down on your knees, Meg.’ Will spoke quietly but his voice was laced firmly with control.

  Dazed with shock, she followed his instructions, not wanting to let go of his hand, not wanting to let go of his supportive strength, but knowing she needed her hands to cradle and protect her head.

  ‘Let’s do it on the count of three.’ Will nodded at their clasped hands, understanding the need they both had to stay connected. Knowing they couldn’t.

  She bit her lip. ‘One, two, three.’ She let go of his hand and felt the plane dropping through the sky.

  ‘Mayday, mayday, mayday. Duchess D.A.V. with three POB, ten miles from Laurelton at two thousand feet heading north. Both engines failed, do you have me on radar?’ The desperation and fear in Tom’s voice rang through the plane.

  The shudder ripped through her as the plane hit the canopy of trees.

  Glass shattered.

  Timber splintered.

  The crunching noise of ripping, crumpling metal screamed in her ears as her own screams stayed trapped in her throat. She was going to die.

  She didn’t want to die.

  The plane dived forward nose first, the weight pulling it inextricably downward to unforgiving solid ground.

  An almighty boom sounded in her ears.

  Everything went black.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BLACK fuzz swirled in Will’s brain, confusing him as he stiffened against the pain burning through his body. He dragged his eyes open against a trail of warm blood. A tree protruded through the plane directly in front of him. Vegetables and green glass, the shattered remains of champagne bottles, surrounded him.

  He forced himself to think through the fog that clogged his mind, to really focus. He couldn’t remember the impact, only the icy fear that had preceded it.

  An eerie silence encircled him, broken occasionally by the creaking of the trees.

  He turned his head slowly, grateful he could move at all. He flexed his fingers, his arms and his legs. All moved. He breathed in deeply. Knife-sharp pain lanced him.

  Ribs. His hand cupped his side. Broken or bruised, he couldn’t tell.

  He heard a moan.

  Meg.

  The confused fog lifted instantly.

  Meg. Tom. They had to get out of the plane. It could explode, catch fire. His mind started racing. He had to get them out of the plane.

  He fumbled for his seat belt and clumsily released the catch. ‘Meg?’ His hand gripped her shoulder and gave it a gentle shake.

  She swivelled around, her gaze resting on him, her face blanched white but scarred red by blood. She opened her mouth. No words came out.

  ‘Can you move?’ He gently released her seat belt.

  ‘I…I don’t know…I…’

  Hell, she was shocked. He needed her brain to kick back in like his had. ‘We have to get out of the plane, Meg. Now.’ He used her name. Shocked people responded to their name. ‘Meg, can you move your legs?’

  She wriggled her toes. She stretched out her legs. ‘I can.’

  ‘Good. I’m going to help you stand up.’ He put his arm under her shoulder, biting his lip against his own pain as she pulled forward and stood. She grimaced as her ankle took her weight.

  ‘Tom.’ She looked around wildly, her view obscured by the tree. ‘Tom.’ Her voice rose frantically.

  ‘Meg.’ Will continued to grip her arm and locked his gaze with hers. ‘We have to get out of the plane on this side of the tree and then we’ll get to Tom.’

  Her blue eyes, dull since the crash, suddenly cleared to the vivid blue he’d so admired when he’d first met her. Her head snapped around, taking in her surroundings. The tree had come through the side of the plane where the door had been. ‘We’ll have to kick out the back emergency exit.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll do it. Your ankle shouldn’t kick anything.’

  Clambering over the freight toward the tail of the plane, glad he was wearing his hiking boots, he swung a kick at the exit. The metal gave way and he slithered out. Enormous snowflakes tumbled onto him and cold air bit his skin. He breathed in, praying to smell only fresh alpine air.

  He got a lungful of aviation fuel. Dread clawed back. Hell, he only hoped the snow fell heavily enough to put out any sparks. Hoping that if the plane was going to explode, it would have done so by now. The engines had given out a couple of minutes before they’d crashed so they probably weren’t hot enough to catch fire on impact.

  Still, he wanted out.

  He leaned back into the plane. ‘Meg.’ He held out his arms.

  She crawled toward him and he heaved her through the gap, his ribs screaming as she fell against him. For a brief moment he held her tight, needing to feel her heart hammering against his chest. Needing to know they both lived, they had both survived.

  Clutching her tightly and trying to hold off the fear that Tom was dead.

  ‘Tom. Go to Tom.’ She pushed him away and turned back, leaning into the plane to reach for something. ‘I’ll send up the emergency flares.’ />
  He ran forward, snow biting into his eyes, ignoring the fire of pain in his side. The plane had dived nose first, the front section taking the impact. Tom was strapped in his seat but the seat had moved forward, wedging him against the controls. He sat still, his head slumped sideways covered in blood.

  It looked as if his face had hit the control panel on impact and then whipped back. His jaw sagged, probably broken, along with his nose, which looked crushed.

  And they were the injuries Will could see. Hauling the pilot’s door open, he yelled, ‘Tom.’

  No response. He put his first two fingers on Tom’s neck, feeling for the carotid pulse.

  A weak and thready beat pulsed under his finger pads. Tom needed to be out of plane a.s.a.p. but moving him without a neck brace risked paraplegia. He didn’t have a neck brace so his choice was limited. Alive but paralysed? Or dead?

  Will hated triage.

  ‘Is he alive?’

  Will swung around at the sound of Meg’s terrified voice to see her clutching a large black backpack, a tarpaulin and coats.

  An overwhelming need to protect her surged inside him. ‘Get back. I don’t need you being blown up if the plane explodes.’

  ‘And how are you going to get him out on your own? Don’t be ridiculous.’ The terrified tone had been replaced with an ‘in-charge’ voice. She shoved the coat and gloves at him. ‘Put this on, I don’t need you getting hypothermia. You’re a doctor, you know the risk.’

  To his complete amazement she hauled out a soft neck brace from the black pack. ‘Here, put this on Tom and then we can carry him in the tarp.’

  He grabbed the proffered brace. ‘Are you Mary Poppins? What else have you got in that bag?’

  ‘It’s the new emergency pack I picked up at the medical and nursing conference I was coming home from. Laurelton Bush Nursing Centre needed one, but I wasn’t expecting to use it so soon.’

  ‘You’re a nurse and you’ve got an ‘in-the-field’ emergency medical kit?’ Incredulity overtook him.

  ‘Yes.’

  His panic dropped back a notch. ‘Thank God for that.’ He swung back to his patient. ‘Tom, I’m putting on a neck brace and we’re going to get you out of here.’

  Tom groaned as Will put the brace around his neck.

  He should check for fractures in the pilot’s arms and legs but he had no splints to use and the fear of the plane catching fire grew by the moment. Will just wanted him out.

  Then he could examine him. Know what he was really up against.

  ‘Meg, we’ll have to roll him out together.’

  ‘I’m right here. Just tell me what you want me to do.’

  The strength in her voice transferred itself to him. ‘Spread the tarp out and then come and support his neck while I lower the back of the seat.’

  Meg moved in close, her small hands dextrously holding Tom’s head and neck. Her light floral scent enveloped Will, defying the horror of their situation.

  He tugged on the seat lever, praying it would work. The seat back started to move and he gently lowered it so Tom was lying flat.

  The pilot’s breathing became noisy.

  Will fought the desire to treat him there and then. But he couldn’t risk three lives. They had to get away from the plane. ‘You control his head and neck and I’ll look after the rest. On my count, we roll.’ He positioned himself so he could control the large man’s legs.

  ‘One, two, three.’ He pulled hard, his ribs blazing with pain. Together they rolled Tom as carefully as possible, given the situation, onto the tarp.

  Meg limped to the other side of the tarp, rolling the edges in as close to Tom as possible. ‘Will one hundred metres away be safe enough?’

  ‘Should do it. Give me that pack and I’ll wear it. You’ll struggle enough carrying Tom.’

  She tilted her head, her cheeks pink from cold and exertion. ‘I’ve seen you flinch. Your ribs are bruised or broken. We’ll put the pack next to Tom so we can both manage.’

  He wanted to argue but couldn’t. Not with logic like that. ‘One, two, three, lift.’ He grunted and lifted, moving forward slowly. With each step he sank knee deep into powder snow. Exhaustion dragged at him.

  With every step, Meg grimaced with pain. He adjusted his grip on the tarp, trying to take more of the load. He pushed on, hoping Tom would still be alive when they got to the clearing Meg had picked out.

  ‘On my count, down.’ Meg’s arms shook with exhaustion as she lowered Tom onto the snow.

  Will dropped to his knees and checked the pilot’s pulse. Weak.

  ‘Here.’ Meg handed him a stethoscope and an LED headlamp, while she ripped open a space blanket package with her teeth.

  It was surreal. All this medical gear belonged in A and E, not in the middle of an alpine national park.

  Meg covered Tom, the snow falling white against the silver blanket.

  Tom’s respirations had worsened—loud, gurgly and noisy. Bubbles of blood formed in his mouth.

  Will checked his air entry with the stethoscope. ‘Shallow resps, poor air entry.’

  ‘Pneumothorax from the joystick?’

  He examined Tom’s face. ‘Possibly, but he’s got a severely fractured maxilla. The middle of his face has separated from the rest.’ He looked up at her. ‘All this bleeding and swelling isn’t helping his breathing.’

  Understanding crossed her face. ‘Do you need to do a tracheostomy?’

  ‘Yes, we need to establish his airway if we’ve got any chance of keeping him alive.’

  ‘And risk paralysis if his spinal cord is damaged.’ She bit her lip. ‘I hate triage.’

  ‘You’re not alone there.’ They were between a rock and a hard place. The treatment to save Tom’s life could render his life changed for ever.

  ‘Do you have a wide-bore needle, a fourteen-gauge, in that pack?’

  Meg frantically scanned the laminated sheet. ‘I can do better than that.’ She read out the instructions. ‘In large bottom pouch, tracheostomy tube.’ Her fingers, pink with cold, fumbled as she opened the pack.

  ‘That’s one hell of a kit.’ Will took off his coat, rolling it up under Tom’s shoulders to extend the pilot’s neck. He removed the soft brace. ‘Tom, we have to put a tube into your throat. You won’t be able to talk.’ He had no idea if Tom could hear him. He was pretty certain he was unconscious.

  She handed him the scalpel and cleaned Tom’s throat with the antiseptic wipe. ‘How long since you’ve done a trachy?’

  Will didn’t lie. ‘On an adult, it’s been a long time.’

  ‘Some things you never forget.’ She gave him an encouraging smile, her confidence in him almost palpable.

  He found the cricoid cartilage. The trachea is generally two finger-breadths above the sternal notch. The words of his surgical professor pounded in his head. He made a horizontal cut through the skin, the muscle and down into the cartilage of the trachea.

  Meg tried to keep the area free of blood so he could see.

  He needed to find the third or fourth ring of cartilage. ‘Pass the tube.’

  He pressed firmly on the tracheostomy tube, until the resistance disappeared and the tube was in situ.

  ‘You inflate the balloon to keep the tube in place and I’ll check his breathing.’

  He lifted the space blanket and put the stethoscope on Tom’s chest. The pilot didn’t flinch at the cold. Not a good sign. ‘His air entry is better but his pulse is weak. Open facial fractures bleed like hell. He’s lost a bucket of blood.’

  ‘Do you want me to bag him?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll see if I can get an IV in. What have you got?’

  ‘One litre of Hartmann’s solution.’

  An expletive rose to his lips. One thousand millilitres wouldn’t replace the circulating volume Tom had lost.

  ‘It’s better than nothing, Will.’

  Meg’s voice of reason penetrated his fear and frustration. ‘You’re right—sorry.’

  As she rhythmical
ly squeezed the air bag he tried desperately to find a vein. Tom was in severe shock, his veins collapsed. Will tightened the tourniquet around Tom’s arm. His fingers desperately palpated for a raised vein. Nothing.

  He moved the tourniquet three times, trying arms and legs. Still nothing. He sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself to concentrate and to ignore the dread that curled in his belly.

  ‘Do a venous cutdown.’ Meg’s desperate words echoed his thoughts. ‘We’ve got a scalpel.’

  The natural light was almost gone. In the glow of his headlamp he saw her face streaked with blood and pain, yet there was a steely determination there. She wasn’t giving in without a hell of a fight.

  Neither was he.

  ‘You keep bagging and I’ll do the cutdown.’ His fingers, now half-numb with cold, seemed clumsy but he managed to make a clean cut and locate the vein. The wide-bore cannula slid in and he attached the IV, turning it on full bore. He only hoped it wouldn’t be running straight out of Tom’s body.

  ‘Put your gloves on.’ Meg’s voice had a schoolteacher-like quality. ‘I don’t need you getting frostbite.’ Her voice cracked slightly on the last word.

  Her concern touched him. ‘How are you doing?’

  She bit her lip. ‘Fine.’

  But he knew she was far from it. None of them were fine. Snow covered her hat and coat and her cheeks burned red from the cold.

  An icy feeling crept through him. The temperature was dropping fast now the sun was down. Hypothermia was a real issue and they needed some sort of shelter, but attempting to get Tom stable had to come first. ‘You know, the cold might count in our favour.’

  Meg shivered. ‘How?’

  ‘The cold slows down the heart rate and the metabolic process. Perhaps it will slow down Tom’s bleeding.’

  ‘Good, because his pulse is getting weaker.’ Her voice wobbled with alarm.

  Will examined Tom’s abdomen and chest. Air was going in and his respirations were easier with the tracheostomy. But his abdomen was guarded, a sure sign of internal bleeding. He’d bet his bottom dollar Tom’s heart was pumping the lifesaving Hartmann’s solution straight into his peritoneum. It was no use to him there.

  Worse still, there was nothing Will could do to stop it. Tom needed to be evacuated to a trauma centre urgently, only that wasn’t going to happen.