Джон Болл - Phase Three Alert

“Advise Major Mulder to have the hangar open as soon as we touch down. Have the ambulance inside. We will taxi directly in after landing; ear protection will be necessary in the area.”

“Understood. Wilco. Over.”

“No further message. Out.”

Major Linda Dashner was pale and perspiring — the beginning symptoms of airsickness — but she was making a determined effort to take care of her patient. The frequently violent movements of the aircraft made it almost impossible for her to keep her footing beside the litter. Ferguson saw her problem and responded; he braced himself as securely as he could and then held her around the waist. It was less than entirely satisfactory, but it worked well enough. The fact that he had not been that close to a woman in months might have affected him, but the incessant gyrations of the helicopter wiped every other circumstance out of his mind. When he could, he looked at his wristwatch and counted off the agonizingly slow minutes that were passing.

The little girl lay on her back with her eyes closed. Despite the injection she had been given, she stirred quite a bit and once her eyes opened for a brief moment. They would have been attractive, almond-shaped eyes if they had not been clouded by pain, bewilderment, and shock. Emergency dressings had been applied to several places on her small body; the nurse checked them and replaced two that were blood-soaked. There were clear tooth marks on one side of her jaw; when Major Dashner saw them she pressed her lips together, looked at Ferguson, and shook her head. “That’s very bad,” she said.

“If she needs Mood—” Ferguson began.

The nurse interrupted him. “I wouldn’t dare to rig it, not in this turbulence. Only as a last resort.” She checked in her kit and prepared a fresh injection of Demerol in case it would be needed. “If something happens,” she explained, “I want to have that ready.”

“I’m sure we’ll make it,” Ferguson said. He looked once more at his watch and was immensely grateful that eleven minutes had been ticked off; every additional minute that they flew on reduced the risk and brought their arrival back at Thule closer. Although he was not qualified in rotary-wing aircraft, he had to admire the technique of the pilots who were successfully battling the worst flying weather he had ever experienced. Every few seconds the cabin would pitch with alarming suddenness in one direction or another, but the men up front recovered each time. They couldn’t rely on the automatic flight control system; the weather was far too bad for that. They had to be flying by hand — and under instrument conditions that were close to intolerable.

To keep his mind occupied, he concentrated his attention on the thin little patient who had been so savagely mauled. He tried to evaluate her chances of recovery; as far as he could see she should be all right if they got her into the hospital within the next hour. He focused his mind on the toughness of the Eskimo people; they were continuously exposed to severe conditions and their physical stamina was remarkable. Young and little as Bebiane was, that heritage could help her.

When he realized that Linda Dashner was beginning to have stomach convulsions, he handed a wax-lined bag to her just in time. She seized the bag, thrust her face into it, and allowed the contents of her stomach to discharge. After a few seconds she coughed and then vomited again; the bag was already full. Sergeant Prevost provided another while Ferguson, whose own stomach was giving him considerable trouble, disposed of the full one in the aircraft’s trash container.

“Feel better now?” he asked.

The unhappy young woman nodded her head enough to answer him as she fought to regain her self-control. Every motion of the aircraft was agony to her; she bent over and made use of the fresh bag, gasping for air as she did so. With Prevost’s help, Ferguson got her to sit down and strapped her in. The little Eskimo girl was quiet, mercifully unaware of the stormy ride she was enduring. As the flight nurse sat with her head almost between her knees, the helicopter changed attitude and Ferguson realized that they were beginning to descend.

Major Kimsey called the tower to report himself eight minutes out. This time the communications were distinct and clear; he was told that the hangar would be opened as soon as he was down and that the ambulance, with Dr. Markley, was waiting inside. The base was approaching Phase Two status. The controller gave him clearance direct to the hangar, then he alerted the fire and crash equipment, telling them the approach the helicopter was going to take.

At four minutes before the ETA, the emergency equipment rolled into position on each side of the hangar doors, out of the way but ready to respond immediately if necessary. Eighty seconds later the landing lights of the incoming aircraft could be seen.

It was almost over then, but the very last part could be the worst. Major Kimsey flew directly across the field at two hundred feet, slowed, and began to let down. For a moment the helicopter almost broke out of control, then it straightened and kept up its angle of descent. Six feet above the ramp it went into hover; fighting the heavy wind, it eased down, and then dropped onto the ramp. As soon as the wheels had hit the concrete, a dozen parka-clad men ran to help control it on the ground. The aircraft turned and then headed toward the bright welcoming lights less than a hundred and fifty feet away. The major cut the turbines to idle and let the rotors slow down as the ground crew pushed his aircraft forward. As the wheels crossed the threshold of the hangar, he shut the turbines down and applied the main rotor brake.

Sergeant Prevost dropped the rear ramp and the doctor came aboard. Under his direction the litter was moved to the ambulance; the patient was on her way to the hospital very shortly thereafter.

Since their part was now over, the men of Det. 4 took time to catch up with themselves. Major Dashner was installed in a deep, comfortable chair where she could remain perfectly stitt — the most effective relief she could have. Ferguson followed her example; it had been a very rough ride and he was ready for a little peace and quiet himself.

Dick Mulder met Kimsey as he came off the aircraft. “How was it?” he asked.

“We went and we came back — that’s about it.”

Bob Seligman deplaned and headed for the latrine. He had taken a considerable beating too; it had not been easy in the cockpit.

In the hospital, little Bebiane Jeremiassen, undergoing careful examination, lay very still on the table in one of the two operating rooms. Captain Markley, the internist, was working over her while Captain Bowditch, the surgeon, stood by to suture her wounds. Both available nurses were on hand to assist.

“I don’t like this,” Markley said. “I understood that she had been attacked early this evening in Kanak. Apparently that isn’t the case. I think we should try to raise Dr. Pedersen and get a fuller history.”

At that moment there was a tap on the door. That was most unusual; the operating areas were kept immaculately clean and no outside personnel were admitted. One of the nurses responded and came back with an envelope. “Sergeant Prevost brought this,” she said. “It’s from Dr. Pedersen; they forgot to give it to you in the hangar.”

Markley tore it open quickly and began to read. As he did so, added evidence of concern shadowed his smooth, youthful face. “Here’s the answer,” he said. “She was hurt more than three days ago when she was out with her family at a hunting camp. They brought her in the best way they could, but Pedersen didn’t see her until earlier tonight. Apparently she also had some sort of mishap on the way — that would account for the fresh bleeding.”