Blood Sweep

by Steven F Havill

  “I’ll have to think about that.”

  Tucked into the small seat aft of both the door and the medical section, she had a fine view of the interior, but not much outside. By leaning forward, she could see out through the tiny aft cabin windows, out over the aircraft’s right wing. She watched as the pilot continued his conversation with Jim Bergin. The airport manager was pointing off into the distance while the pilot stood with his hands on his hips, nodding. In a moment, the two men separated, the pilot trudging toward the plane, Bergin jogging toward his pickup truck.

  The pilot boarded and paused when he saw Estelle. “Well, it’s good to see you again,” he said. She remembered the Hollywood face, and the name tag reminded her that she’d flown with Ben Woods on at least one other occasion. Woods shook the undersheriff’s hand cordially, then made his way forward. He slipped past the EMTs, took a moment to exchange pleasantries with the groggy Bill Gastner, and then slipped into the cockpit to join his copilot.

  Even before he’d settled into his seat, the right hand prop began to windmill, accompanied by the shriek of the turbine. Woods didn’t call for the left engine until the aircraft had been buttoned up, the EMTs making one final check of their patient, and then strapping themselves into the two seats. Connie Tingley, who facing forward with her back to Estelle, rode with her right hand across the aisle, resting on her patient’s shoulder. The second EMT, Brad Salazar, occupied himself with a sheaf of paperwork, then unbuckled, rose, and adjusted the screen brightness of one of the monitors over Gastner’s head. He settled again, and the copilot, a young woman with fair hair streamlined back into a ponytail, leaned out of her seat to survey the aft cabin.

  “We’ll be rolling as soon as the traffic is off the runway,” she said. “All secure?”

  “All secure.”

  “Flight time is one hour, sixteen minutes,” she added, and Estelle heard the port engine whine into life, and within seconds they were drifting forward, turning tightly to the east to catch the taxiway.

  Connie twisted around to smile sympathetically at Estelle. “Not much room for you, but once we’re airborne, maybe you’d like to sit up here for a little bit?” She glanced at Gastner, who lay with his eyes closed, strapped and wrapped. Estelle could see by the determined set of his jaw that he was neither asleep nor relaxed.

  “I’m fine,” the undersheriff said. The aircraft taxied smoothly for a moment, then braked, swinging wide. For a moment they parked with the nose facing southwest as the crew finished the check list. With props cycled and everything else in the green, Estelle looked forward as Captain Woods made a final adjustment of his headset.

  “Posadas Unicom, one eight eight November Mike will be departing on two-eight. Departure to the northwest.”

  She couldn’t hear what Bergin said, but Woods nodded and laughed at something. Bergin had returned from his sweep of the runway, and apparently they were good to go. “Have a good day.”

  Even as the airport manager radioed back acknowledgement and barometric information, the pilot was feeding power to the turboprops, and the aircraft tracked out to the runway, pausing just a moment on the white line. Woods turned once more to survey the cabin, and Connie Tingley shot him a thumbs-up.

  Accelerating hard, the King Air flashed past the first intersection from the taxiway, and Estelle caught a glimpse of Jim Bergin leaning against the tailgate of his truck. Another hundred yards took them past the gravel pit on the south side of the runway, and Estelle turned her head away from the right side windows. She saw a flash of brown out of the corner of her eye, an indefinably quick wink of color, and then a loud bang and jolt shook the aircraft.

  For a moment, the Beech tracked straight, and Woods pulled off the power. Still charging along at eighty miles an hour, the plane shook hard, and Estelle waited for the pull of brakes. She knew that nearly four thousand feet of runway remained, and Woods was in no hurry to slam the aircraft to a stop. By the time they had slowed to what Estelle guessed was forty or fifty miles an hour, the left engine windmilled to a stop, and they coasted all the way to the final donut that connected runway to taxiway.

  Woods made the turn when the aircraft was inching along at walking speed, and as the plane swung onto the taxiway, the copilot nodded. “Very nice,” Estelle heard the young woman copilot say.

  “Talk about out of nowhere,” Woods muttered. He touched his boom-mike. “Posadas Unicom, one eight eight November Mike is clear the active.”

  Pulled along by one engine, the King Air swung onto the broad apron in front of the office. The right engine sighed to a stop.

  Woods pried himself out of the narrow cockpit confines. He held up both hands in apology as he saw Estelle out of her seat and bending down near the foot of Gastner’s gurney. “I’m glad one of you had your rabbit’s foot engaged,” he said with a rueful grin. Gastner opened one eye, raised an eyebrow at Estelle, and promptly dozed off. The pilot looked at the two EMTs, busy with the equipment.

  “We encountered an antelope or two,” Woods said. “I don’t know what our delay will be, but I’ll see what I can do to make other arrangements. I think our chopper is in Farmington. We’ll just have to see.”

  Through the window, Estelle saw the airport manager jogging toward them, and then sunshine blasted into the cabin as Connie Tingley wrenched the door open and lowered the steps.

  Seeing that Gastner was zoned out on his drip with the two EMTs hovering nearby, Estelle clambered down from the plane. Woods and Bergin were standing near the left propeller. The Beechcraft’s characteristically long turboprop engine nacelles put the propellers well forward of the cockpit, within easy view of the flight crew. Six feet or so behind the props, the landing gear and gear doors were tucked under the shadow of the wing.

  Bergin knelt, his bronzed and lined face scrunched in grimace. “Antelope burger.” He looked at the undersheriff as she joined him. Sure enough, a large mess of bloody remains, some of the fur still tawny with a trace of white, complete with a portion of skull attached, was jammed against the landing gear strut above the wheel. A portion of the retractable landing gear door was bent back against the strut.

  “Sure glad I took that drive to clear the runway,” Bergin growled. “Miserable little bastards. Had to be hidin’ behind the brush, just waitin’ to commit suicide.”

  “There were two,” Woods said. He knelt and stroked the fuselage belly, and then looked at his fingers. “A little spray this way. It’s the prop I’m worried about, though.” He backed out carefully from under the wing, and watched as Bergin ran his hand down the leading edge of each blade, hand-turning the big three-bladed propeller gently. Shaking his head, he wiped his hand on his trousers.

  “So how did he do that?” Bergin said. “That takes some skill. Get hit by the prop and go straight back into the gear.”

  “Only some of him went straight back,” Woods offered. “I think he turned at the last minute. Not enough.” Woods saw Estelle’s camera. “I need to do that, too,” he said. “For our flight office.”

  “He did hit the prop, though,” Bergin said. “Prop overhaul at the minimum, with a run-out on the shaft. That’s if you’re lucky.”

  “We’ve already been lucky,” Woods said.

  Chapter Nine

  The ambulance, lights flickering in a garish kaleidoscope, lumbered westbound to the airport turnoff just seconds ahead of Bob Torrez. The sheriff hadn’t heard a radio call for an ambulance at the airport, and he could see the med-evac King Air parked on the apron, a group of people standing nearby. His first thought was that some medical emergency had prompted Bill Gastner’s sudden off-loading, with the old man headed back to the hospital for emergency treatment. Whatever it was, it had drawn Dr. Francis Guzman, along with a full ambulance crew.

  He frowned as he drew closer, since while the medical crew’s attention appeared focused on what was going on inside the aircraft, the flight crew members, along with airport manager Jim Bergin, were concentrated around the left engine and la
nding gear.

  Parking well out of the way, he stepped out of the truck in time to hear Dr. Guzman call to the crew from the top boarding step as he nimbly deplaned, “No chance of a departure with this aircraft, then?”

  “None,” the four-striper replied. Torrez recognized Ben Woods, who turned to Estelle and added, “If the med-evac chopper is clear to come down here, he’s three hours north. And then with the return flight adding time to that? Hell, you might as well drive up. Straight shot up I-25.”

  Estelle Reyes-Guzman caught Torrez’s eye and then looked heavenward.

  Matty Finnegan, the EMT who had been in on the initial rescue at Gastner’s garage, looked expectantly at Dr. Guzman as he approached. “Let’s change the game plan, then,” the physician said into his phone. “If you’re willing to do that, that’s wonderful.” He grinned broadly at something the other person said. “I owe you big-time, Barry.”

  He took a deep breath to collect his thoughts, beckoning Estelle. “Game plan calls for Las Cruces,” the physician said. “Las Cruces is just a little more than an hour. By the time we get there, they’ll be ready for us.”

  “I hear that.” Finnegan’s face lit up. “Let’s rock and roll.”

  Guzman nodded and strode back to the airplane, taking a second to reach across to squeeze Torrez’s arm in greeting. “Round and round we go,” he said, and didn’t wait for a reply, ducking up the narrow stairs into the King Air.

  The undersheriff held up both hands in surrender, shaking her head as she joined the sheriff.

  “So what now? Ambulance to Cruces?” Torrez asked. Estelle nodded, and Torrez added, “Let me talk at him.” The cramped aircraft was awkward for such a large man, and once inside, Torrez had to turn sideways. He moved up close to Dr. Guzman, who was himself no petite figure. The physician was kneeling near Gastner’s head, eyeing the monitors above him.

  “You hanging in there?” Guzman asked, and Gastner’s eyes fluttered.

  “How long is this day?” the older man murmured.

  “Just relax and in a few minutes we’ll have you out of this crate and into the Cadillac. Is there any pain?”

  “Aches.”

  “It’s going to do that,” the physician said. “Look, we had an argument with a couple of antelope, and they changed our plans. We’ll be vacationing over in Cruces.”

  Gastner opened his eyes and regarded Guzman with clear skepticism, and then his gaze drifted over to Bob Torrez.

  “I thought you had killed off all those critters,” he said weakly.

  “I’m tryin’.”

  “Look, Dr. Cushman will meet us either later this evening or tomorrow morning, just before the surgery,” Guzman assured him. “He’s the best.” The physician grinned. “We’re playing some musical chairs here. Cushman was in Albuquerque, but the cards fell just right for him. He’s on his way downstate right now. And his jet is a whole lot faster than our ambulance.”

  “What a goddamn waste,” Gastner muttered. “Just screw me together, give me some aspirin, and let it go at that.”

  Guzman laughed and moved aside. “I don’t want to disappoint Cushman. He looks for any excuse to fly that fancy jet he has. He can make the trip, and then write it off his taxes.”

  Matty Finnegan had ducked halfway through the door, glowering at Torrez. “You big lugs are going to have to vacate,” she said sternly. She dug a fist into Torrez’s ribs. “God, the high sheriff himself, the undersheriff too?” She reached down and waggled Gastner’s toes as Guzman and Torrez made their way out of the cramped confines. “How do you rate all this attention?”

  “It’s all who you know,” Gastner whispered.

  Torrez approached Estelle as she watched the careful transfer from airplane to ambulance.

  “He’s not talkin’ for a while,” Torrez observed.

  “No. Way too much juice sloshing around in his system. What did you need to know?”

  “Just…” Torrez let the thought go with a shrug. “So what now for you?”

  “I’ll take my car down,” she said. “I’ll be right behind the ambulance.”

  “You’re worryin’ too much,” he said gruffly.

  Estelle punched the sheriff in the middle of his chest, none too lightly. “I’ll remind you of that next time you’re down with a rifle bullet through the butt,” she said. When that episode happened a decade before, it had been Bobby Torrez being littered out of a landfill pit and med-evaced to Albuquerque.

  He grimaced at the reminder, and saw the dark worry circles around Estelle’s eyes. “He’s tough,” he said. “Give me a call later on when things are settled down there. I got some things goin’ on right now and I ain’t going to break away.” He turned at the sound of an approaching car. “Oh, shit. Here she is.”

  A boxy, compact Ford Transit with government plates and the county logo on the doors swept into the parking lot and parked beside Estelle’s sedan. Leona Spears, the county manager, made notations on her dash-mounted computer before getting out, then donned her purple hard hat—a perpetual on-site trademark for the theatrical woman. Rather than her sunflower patterned muumuu cascading from throat to ankle, Leona was a fashion statement for utility workers everywhere. Sharply pressed tan chino trousers and shirt showed not a drop of perspiration dampness. Her name over the right breast pocket, and her title, Posadas County Manager, over the other, left no room for doubt.

  “She precedith herself,” Gastner had once remarked about Leona’s bosomy figure.

  She stood for a moment, surveying the scene. When she was sure she wasn’t going to walk into the middle of something, she gave the aircraft a wide berth and made her way toward the officers. She favored Torrez with a bright smile.

  “Don’t tell me,” she said with an expressive wave of the hand. “Aircraft problems?” She reached out and rested a hand affectionately on Estelle’s shoulder.

  “We had some antelope damage to the aircraft,” the undersheriff replied. “We’ll be heading over to Cruces here in a minute or two with the ambulance.”

  “My word. That would have been easier in the first place.” Leona managed to say it so that it didn’t sound like a criticism.

  “It would have,” Estelle replied. “But the surgeon Francis wanted was in Albuquerque.” She smiled at Leona. “And by plane, it would have been an easier trip for Bill. Now he’s headed over to Cruces by ambulance. So there we are.”

  “How is he?”

  “Bill? He’ll be all right. Heavily sedated, so the world’s just a blur. His hip is a jumble of pieces, unfortunately.”

  “But now you have to settle for a second choice in doctors?”

  “No. Cushman is flying to Las Cruces. He’ll be there before we are.”

  Leona’s eyebrows shot up. “My word. Somebody owes somebody a favor or two, don’t they now?” Leona didn’t fish for a response, but sighed and surveyed the airport. A former highway engineer for the state highway department, she had found a beloved niche with the county when she retired. A woman easy to underestimate at first meeting, those working with Leona found out soon enough that her insightful mind included a broad streak of the artistic, mixed with a clear understanding of what was practical. The little van was a case in point. It accommodated her rack of maps, her computers, her CAD printer, her transit, and a host of other gadgetry and paperwork that she referred to collectively as her “necessities of life outside the office.”

  “Well, when you are able, I hope you’ll pass my best wishes along to our patient for a speedy and complete recovery.”

  “He’ll appreciate that.”

  “When he’s back home, we’ll have to be sure to visit. Keeping the spirits up is so important at a time like this.”

  Sheriff Torrez muttered something, looking impatient. Estelle added, “I’m sorry that I have to stand you up this afternoon.”

  “Oh, bosh. Don’t give it a second’s thought. Just budget stuff, if you know what I mean. I had to come out to ask Jimbo a couple of questions.”
She nodded across the fuel apron toward the airport manager. “We need to move a little faster constructing the airport perimeter fencing so this doesn’t happen again. Mercy.” She touched Estelle on the shoulder again. “And one little tidbit that perked my ears. Homeland Security wants to give us a 1.2 million-dollar grant to change Mr. Waddell’s narrow-gauge railroad to standard gauge. Just that one little change.” The powdered crinkles around her eyes deepened slightly, perhaps because Torrez’s interest was immediate. “Actually, it was just a message of exploration on their part. I mean, they offered. I didn’t seek them out. Apparently they don’t fully understand that Mr. Waddell’s mesa project—and such a lovely name for it, too—is a matter of private enterprise. They get their standard gauge approach, then it will be something else. I took the liberty of telling them that we had no interest in their grant, and no authority over Mr. Waddell’s private property, and that if they wanted to deal with our gentleman rancher directly, then that’s what they should do.”

  “I can’t imagine that Mr. Waddell’s NightZone project either wants or needs a standard gauge railroad,” Estelle said. “The narrow gauge route is giving him problems enough.” Miles Waddell had made dozens of changes in his proposed railroad route out to the mesa-top observatory from the village of Posadas, the thirty-seven-mile line now in the final planning stages.

  “I do see their point,” Leona added. “I mean, narrow gauge is totally useless to anyone other than Mr. Waddell. HSA tends to think always about improving infrastructure. If they think of his mesa as some kind of potential installation,” and she said the word as if it had an astringent aftertaste, “then rail access is certainly something to consider. And if you don’t think that will raise some hackles…”

  Matty Finnegan had approached, and now stood deferentially to one side, waiting for the county manager to wind down.

  “We’re ready, Sheriff,” she said. Torrez knew who she meant, since no one bothered with the cumbersome title undersheriff, and rarely was anyone confused. He didn’t acknowledge Matty’s presence.