Under My Care by R.L. Dunn
3
The Airbus skidded against the icy tarmac. Bitter cold greeted the team’s arrival at the Missoula airport. Two customized Airbus AS365 N3+ helicopters sat warming up as four pilots greeted the mission leadership.
“Dangerous front coming in. Fog and high winds are preceding a large blizzard. You won’t have a lot of time,” the chief helicopter pilot, former Air Force Major Webb Brett, warned. He showed Mike, Pete, and Noah the latest radar reports. “This storm is huge. We need to get in and out fast.”
“Do we have a secondary landing zone?” Mike Johnson asked, himself a former Air Force pilot.
Webb quirked a brow. “Landing won’t be a problem if we get caught in that mess. Living through it may be a different story.”
“Not funny, Brett,” Noah grumbled.
“Not meaning to be,” the veteran pilot spat. “Hey, Boston, it’s been a while.”
“Yeah, Shank, let’s not have a repeat. We’re picking up a four-year-old and her mom.” Webb was nicknamed Shank because one day while playing golf with a group of friends, he shanked the ball, causing it to careen and bounce off the heads of four officers.
The two Air Force veterans shared a knowing look. The last flight they had in common was the retrieval of two severely burned Afghani children. It was the same day everything changed between Pete and Rowena Andersen.
Pete clapped his hands. “Alright, everyone, transfer our equipment, and before you board, leave your letters behind.” He swallowed hard. Their letters were individually written for their loved ones, saying goodbye. The mission was dangerous already, but the blizzard raised the possibility they wouldn’t be coming back.
Five minutes later, the men and women from Chase Security had transferred their equipment and themselves to the large customized black birds. Through the pre-dawn darkness, they headed toward the Goff ranch. Each wore goggles that combined infrared laser flash technology and a night vision camera.
As they left suburbia, nothingness was punctuated by a flash, likely from a large bull elk or deer. Webb Brett flew the second bird that held half of Bravo Team and Pete. “Two minutes to target,” his voice filled their headsets. “One minute.” He began the countdown.
The team stood. Noah Paulsen, working with the pilot and co-pilot, served as the safety officer. With the co-pilot’s permission, Noah commanded, “Deploy the ropes.” After they dropped them, he called to the team, “Unbuckle and take position.”
When the eight operators were ready, all wearing forty-pound packs, he called, “Go” to one at a time. “Operator out.” He let the pilots know after each person jumped.
Pete was the last out. “Last man on rope.” Noah gave Pete a thumbs-up. “Go.” Pete jumped and cleared the helicopter. “Last man on deck. Last man off the rope.” Pete’s feet touched the snow-packed ground.
Mike Johnson performed the same procedure from the adjacent helicopter. Once on the ground, the team adjusted their specialized goggles. Blowing snow prevented any signs of footprints and tire marks. Turning in a quarter circle at a time, they were able to pick up a heat signal emanating from a building five hundred feet to their north.
Suddenly, a brilliant flash blinded them. The group hit the ground as the structure with the heat signal burst into flames. With no second explosion and no signs of tangos, the group scrambled to their feet and hustled to gain access to the burning building.
A ring of fire circled the outside of the cottage like a hedge. In the howling wind, the flames flattened down in spots. A break gave Pete a chance to peer inside one of the windows. He could see a waning heat signature prone on the floor. Taking a second look, he saw the outline of a stronger signature move beneath it.
Pete tapped his comm. “I’ve got motion.”
Before he could be told no, he used the butt of his weapon to shatter a window. With the addition of fresh air, the fire exploded out around him, blasting him in the face.
Pete shook off the burning sensation that filled his chest and moved around to the adjacent side. He destroyed another window, diving inside. Dense smoke fogged the small well-furnished room. The light from the flames illuminating the interior’s white furniture helped him form a mental map.
Pete dropped down and crawled to where he remembered seeing the two heat signatures. His right hand encountered a limb. Ripping his glove off with his teeth, he felt the body for its orientation. As he encountered the face, his fingers confronted sticky wetness. Blood.
The balaclava provided him no relief from the current smoky conditions. He swiped his soot-filled eyes against the sleeve at the bend of his arm. The regrowing fire gave him enough light to see a large hole centered between the brows of a woman matching Ariane Fuentes’s description. He confirmed no pulse. She was gone.
“Damn it, Boston. Get out of there!” Mike screamed over the radio. “It’s a crematorium.”
Pete coughed hard. “Negative. I found them.” He reached below the woman and found the small child lying beneath her mother. His hand ran down the length of her arm. A rapid pulse beat beneath his fingertips. “The girl’s alive. Mother is dead.” He startled when the tiny hand pulled on his wrist.
“Get out of there,” Noah demanded. “It’s going to blow.”
Pete scooped the tiny child against him, choking on the smoke. “I’ve got you. It’s alright, honey.” Fire surrounded them as he looked for a way out. “I’m heading up. I don’t have an egress from the first floor.”
“Mama,” Linde moaned against Pete’s chest.
He placed his palm against the back of her head. “Linde…keep your face there.”
The comm lines were open. The entire team could hear each other. “Loretta, get over here.” Mike yelled at the co-pilot of his helicopter, “I’m jumping.”
“That roof is gonna go.” She warned him that if they tried to drop him from the skid, it would fan the flames higher. Mike abandoned his attempt as his helo turned in the winds.
Noah prepared to drop another rope and jump as well. He was given better access. “Boston, get to a corner.”
Noah attached himself to the blowing line. “Don’t throw me into the blades. Rope is at three o’clock.”
“Rain Man, hurry. Wind is picking up. Fighting to keep the helo in its hover. The rope is swirling.” Webb’s steely calmness defied the situation.
“Boston, building you a way out. Watch for the light,” Len “Buck” Rodgers went over the radio.
Joseph “Red” Canal called out, “Ripped a door off another cottage. Lobo, give us a lift up. Boston, we’re making a hole. We’re the shooters.”
* * *
Rowena found a moment to sit with her mom and sons. “I am so happy you conned me into coming along.” She placed a hand on one of her sons. “The weather forecast is very bleak. And…” she shook her head, “Administration gave people off instead of anticipating the needs caused by the storm. I called the county seat and the capital. They are aware of our situation.”
“Mom, are you the only doctor?” Jacob, age eighteen, asked.
“Unfortunately, yes. I checked on the ER patients who were here when I came in. They aren’t too difficult to care for. I’m going to need your muscles to help move people around, if that’s okay with you?” She knew they’d want to help.
“Mom, I passed my advanced and pediatric first aid classes. I can help take blood pressures,” her son Paul offered.
His expression ripped through her. He looked like a puppy who needed to go pee. She’d seen that eager look many times before, years earlier. She promised herself she’d tell him where after his sixteenth birthday—which was tomorrow.
“I’ll ask Nakoma if she wouldn’t mind the extra help.” Her smile was broad. “Jake, I’d appreciate it if you would help Meemaw make sure we have trays for everyone.”
Turning to Caroline, she asked, “Mom, would you help our cook oversee the food situation? We need to make things last. The weather channel says a major blizzard is heading our way. If the fronts coming down from Canada and up from the northeast collide, they are calling for at least six feet of snow.” Her brows creased.
“The winds are already too high for helicopter transport. I haven’t heard from our ground transport teams.” Rowena’s face blanched. “As long as we keep power, we will make it through.”
“Ro, we are Andersens. We will hold up our end,” her mom said.
Rowena closed her eyes. A memory of a palm against her rear end flitted beneath her lids—a memory of another time she held up her rather large end. Why these memories of Staff Sergeant Peter Walter were bombarding her with more frequency, she didn’t know. She opened her eyes and pushed up from her seat.
* * *
Inside the burning cottage, Pete tucked Linde under one arm and began to climb a set of ladder steps to a bedroom loft. The rapid staccato of bullets echoed in his ears as splintering wood rained down from above, pelting him. Spotting a moving light beam, he made his way toward the freshly cut hole. Fire was beginning to warm the soles of his boots.
Pete lifted the little girl over his head toward the light. Two arms grabbed her. As the flooring began to give way under his weight, an operator flattened himself to the roof to clutch Pete’s hand. With no leverage to help the lift, Pete used the extended arms as a rope and made his way out of the attic.
The operator who took Linde placed her on the roof to help Pete get out. He took his first look at the little girl. Shivering and crying softly, she curled up into a ball. Her clothing was burned; beautiful brown hair blew against the wind. She was going to freeze to death if he didn’t move quickly. He forced himself to lock away his emotions. It was the only way he could save her.
Once on the roof’s icy exterior, Pete battled the wind and snow, pulling a package of rolled gauze from a pocket. He scooped up the little girl and managed to bind her to him.
Pete stared up into the falling icy snowflakes to see the helicopter being buffeted and bounced above him. Swiping once more at his smoke-provoked tears and snot, he spotted the spinning yellow rescue rope and an operator descending halfway down the line. Chatter filled his comm.
“Boys, you are going to fly,” Webb called to the three men on the roof.
The co-pilot, Gene Wells, called, “Three men and a baby on the rope.” The movie reference would’ve been cute if the conditions weren’t so dire.
Pete knew from the chatter it was Noah on the rope. His weight and extended arms stopped some of the rope’s twirling but not completely. Doing a rope extraction was difficult under most conditions; attempting it in blizzard conditions was insane. It was their only choice.
The roof began to glow. Pete grabbed at the dangling rope and attached his carabiner to the D-ring. The two other operators followed.
“Men on the rope. Forward flight now,” Noah yelled and waved, unsure if he could be heard over the howling winds. As the bird moved forward, a gust blew them off the roof and into the air. Fire exploded up from below them, collapsing the cabin in on itself. Using brute strength, Pete reached up to Noah to help him secure the now flailing Linde.
Pete could see a pilot inside the hatch and his frantic attempts to haul them up from above. The two operators, unable to ascend the rope from below him, swung wildly in the storm.
Noah lit the red chem light hanging from his belt. “Webb, get them down now. They’re in trouble. The rope is arcing hard from three to nine,” his voice grew more garbled over the comms.
Pete flashed back to his childhood spent as an altar boy at Saint Mary’s Parish in his Charlestown neighborhood. He silently prayed, “Father Almighty, I pray to You with great strength and with great faith to ask You for immediate help.” His grip on Linde was weakening. If they couldn’t get down soon, he’d fall to the ground with her.
Pete knew from experience the swinging weight on the line and the whipping winds threatened to take the helicopter out of the sky. He caught a glimpse of Mike standing in the open hatch of the other helicopter, helplessly observing. The open hatch fit its nickname as a hell hole as the ice and wind pelted his face.
“Damn it, Webb. Keep that bird in the air,” Mike yelled into his microphone to the other helicopter. Everyone on the team heard the frantic plea.
No one responded as the pilots inside the helo desperately tried to keep the screaming bird in a level hover. It began a slow descent as the co-pilot directed, “First ropers one hundred feet off the deck. Fifty feet. Twenty-five feet. Fifteen feet. Ten feet.” The two operators below Pete cleared the rope ten feet off the ground and rolled toward the nine o’clock position.
The helo tried to drop lower. Wind came from all directions. The sound of metal against metal ricocheted around the team, competing with the roaring winds.
“I’m gonna lose it. Cut the rope. Cut the rope,” Webb yelled.
Gene Wells reacted immediately, cutting the rope. Noah, Pete, and Linde plummeted the last fifteen feet to the ground. Pete did his best to protect her by rotating his body, falling hard and battering his left side as he hit the frozen land. Noah managed to avoid landing on them by inches. The helicopter’s engines screamed as everyone heard it increase power to gain air and distance. If it couldn’t clear them and crashed, it would land on them.
Pete rolled onto his back, snow quickly covering him and Linde. He watched Bravo Team members on the ground running toward him as the two helicopters managed to set down.