Judy Duarte - Big Sky Baby

For nearly twenty minutes the pilot and Jeff scoured the perimeter of the fire line, searching for the firefighters who’d lost radio contact with the command post.

The hot, smoky air swirled around them, at times clouding their vision as they scanned rocks, trees and mountainsides, looking for the yellow suits of the missing men. Their last-known position was a half mile from Rocky Point, a rugged mountain that had been aptly named by early trappers and settlers.

“There they are,” the chopper pilot said, pointing to the left. “On the east side of Rocky Point.”

One man was sprawled on the ground, obviously injured. The other stood, waving his arms.

“Damn,” the pilot said. “That fire is pretty close. We’d better get a rescue crew out here.”

And the fire would soon box them in. Jeff didn’t think a rescue team could make it in time. “We’ve got to get them now.”

“There’s no place for me to land,” the chopper pilot said. “And at this altitude, power is going to be a problem. We’re not equipped to do a rescue.”

“We’ll have to try. My first job with the forestry service was working on a rescue team. I know the drills backward and forward. And since we don’t have a crewman, I’ll go down. Can you run the hoist?”

“Yeah, but it’s going to be tricky.” The pilot shook his head. “I don’t know about this, Jeff. This bird isn’t equipped with all the rescue gear. And I’m at max power now. If I start losing turns, we’ll all go down.”

“I’ll try and make this quick.”

“The winds are pretty damn gusty. Be careful.”

Jeff strapped himself into the horse collar and descended from the hovering aircraft. The rotating blades sent the hot, smoky air swirling around him as the cable lowered him to the small patch of rocky ground where the stranded firemen waited.

A quick glance told him the wounded man was Cain. Blood and dirt covered the side of his head and face. And his eyes were closed.

“Is he alive?” Jeff asked Willett, voice straining to be heard over the noise of the chopper.

“Just barely. A burning tree limb fell on him, knocking him out. I dragged him this far, hoping to reach the rocky spot where we could escape the flames. We lost the radio somewhere along the way.”

“We’ll get you out of here,” Jeff said. “But let’s load him on the litter.”

Willett helped Jeff guide the basket that would carry Cain to the safety of the chopper.

Before lifting the wounded man onto the litter, Jeff looked him over. He had a knot the size of a golf ball over his eye, and a ragged gash gaped at the left temple. Blood, ash and dirt didn’t hide a third-degree burn on his cheek.

Jeff felt for a pulse and got one. As they loaded Cain onto the basket, he came to and grimaced in pain. Maybe the injured fireman would be all right, once they got him to Whitehorn Memorial Hospital.

When they’d secured Cain to the litter, Jeff told Willett to go first. With the pilot controlling the chopper and the hoist, they’d need someone to help pull Cain to safety.

As Jeff prepared to signal Willet they were ready to go, Cain opened his eyes. His pain-filled gaze fixed on Jeff. “Thanks for coming after us, Forsythe.”

“It’s my job.”

Cain nodded, his pale face twisted in pain and his voice hoarse. “Am I gonna make it?”

“You’d better make it,” Jeff said. “You’ve got a kid on the way. And some responsibility to face.” Jeff signaled the pilot to pull the basket up.

When it was Jeff’s turn, he grabbed the line to ascend. Smoke swirled around him, burning his throat and stinging his eyes, while the wind swung his cable high and wide. The chopper struggled to stay steady, but as Jeff left the ground, dangling like bait on the line, an updraft jerked the helicopter, slamming him against a rock on the mountain-side.

He heard the sound of his bone breaking before feeling a sharp crack of pain and a brutal ache that made his head spin, but he managed to hold on to consciousness. He swung out of control, all the while trying desperately to stay alert, to ignore smoke in his eyes and lungs, the excruciating pain in his head, arm and shoulder.

When he’d first started this flight, he’d told Henthorne he knew the rescue routine backward and forward. He just hoped the chopper pilot could manage to fly without using the guillotine switch that would cut the cable, thus saving those on board and the bird.

A couple of times he felt the buzz that came with loss of consciousness, yet somehow he managed to stay coherent. It seemed like hours before the hoist began to pull him up.

As he was dragged onto the chopper floor, Jeff asked Willett, “How’s Kincaid?”

But before he could hear the answer, a throbbing roar filled his ears and darkness settled around him.

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