Jenna Kernan - Adirondack Attack

The chopper careened toward the escarpment, some twenty feet above the river just beyond the meadow. The entire craft slowed and then tipped before scraping across the rock with exquisite slowness.

Richard Franklin, a twentysomething craft beer brewer from Oklahoma, was already close to the edge and he stood, watching the chopper as it teetered. He reached out toward the ruined aircraft and Erin realized he could see whoever was aboard. Then he ran as if to catch the two-ton machine in his pale outstretched arms. The chopper fell over the cliff and Richard dropped to his posterior.

Erin scanned the ground for the flash of a pink bathing suit. “Where’s Alice?”

Not a bird chirped or squirrel scuttled. The wind had ceased and all insects stilled. The group rose, as one, staring and bug-eyed. The sudden quiet was deafening. They began to walk in slow zombie-like synchronicity toward the spot where the helicopter had vanished. All except for Dalton.

Dalton released Erin and charged toward the spot where Carol Walton knelt, folded in the middle and clutching her belly like an opera soprano in the final act. Only Erin knew the blood was real.

Alice Afton appeared beside her, having obviously been hiding in the woods.

“Alice, get my pack. There’s a med kit in there,” Erin said.

Alice trotted off and Erin moved on wooden legs toward Carol Walton, knowing from the amount of blood spilling from her wounds that she could not survive.

Dalton cradled Carol in his lap, and her head lay in the crook of his elbow. In different circumstances the hold would seem that of a lover. His short, dark brown hair, longer on top, fell forward over his broad forehead, covering his heavy brows and shielding the green eyes that she knew turned amber near the iris. She could see the nostrils of his broad nose flare as he spoke.

“I got you,” said Dalton. “Don’t you worry.”

“Tell my mom, I love her,” said Carol.

Erin realized then that Carol knew she was dying. But there was none of the wild panic she had expected. Carol stared up at Dalton as if knowing he would guide her to where she needed to go. The confidence he projected, the experience. How many of his fellow marines had he held just like this?

Army never leaves their wounded. Marines never leave their dead.

“Can I do anything?” asked Erin. She couldn’t. Nothing that would keep Carol with them.

“Take her hand,” he said in a voice that was part exasperation, part anguish. She knew he’d lost comrades in war and it bothered him deeply.

Erin did, and warm blood coated her palm.

Alice arrived, panting, and extended the pack.

“Just put it down for now,” said Dalton, his voice calm.

“Why doesn’t it hurt?” asked Carol, lowering her chin as if to look at the slicing belly wound. Something had torn her from one side to the other and the smell of her compromised bowels made Erin gag.

But not Dalton. He lifted Carol’s chin with two fingers and said. “Hey, look at me. Okay?”

Carol blinked up at him. “She’s a lucky woman, your wife. Does she know that?”

Dalton smiled, stroking her head. “Sometimes.”

Carol’s color changed from ashen to blue. She shivered and her eyes went out of focus. Then her breathing changed. She gasped and her body went slack.

Dalton checked the pulse at her throat as Erin’s vision blurred. He shook his head and whispered, “Gone.”

From the lip of the cliff, Brian Peters called. “I can see someone moving down there.”

Dalton slipped out from under Carol’s slack body and rose. He glanced down at Erin, and she pressed her lips together to keep from crying.

“Come on,” he said, and headed toward the rocky outcropping.

He tugged her to her feet and she hesitated, eyes still pinned on the savaged corpse that was Carol Walton just a few minutes ago.

“Erin. We have to see about the crew.” His voice held authority.

How was he so calm? she wondered, but merely nodded her head and allowed him to hurry her along, like an unwilling dog on a leash.

And then, there they were on the lip of rock that jutted out over the Hudson. Twenty feet below them the ruined helicopter lay, minus its blades. One of the runners was snagged over a logjam that held the ruined chopper as the bubble of clear plastic slowly filled with river water. Inside the pilot slumped in his seat, tethered in place by the shoulder restraints.

“Is he alone?” asked Merle, coming to stand beside Dalton, asking him the questions as he emerged as the clear leader of their party.

“Seems so,” said Dalton as he released Erin’s hand.

“He’s moving!” said Richard, pointing a finger at the river.

Erin craned her neck and saw the pilot’s head turn to one side. Alive, she realized.

“He’s sinking,” said Brian. “It’s at his feet now.”

“We have to get him out of there,” said Alice.

“He’ll drown,” added Richard.

“You have rope?” asked Dalton.

Erin roused from her waking nightmare, knowing exactly what her husband planned. He’d string some rope up and swing down there like Tarzan in a daring rescue attempt.

Except she was the better swimmer. Dalton was only an average swimmer at best and today he was four weeks post-surgery. His abdominal muscles could not handle this. He’d tear something loose, probably the artery that the surgeon had somehow managed to close. She squared her shoulders and faced him.

Erin regained control of her party.

“You are not going down there!” she said.

He ignored her and lifted a hand to snap his fingers before Richard’s face. “Rope?”

Richard startled, tore his gaze from the drama unfolding in the river and then hurried off.

“Dalton, I’m the party leader. I’m going,” she said.

He smiled at her. “Honey...”

Her eyes narrowed at the placating tone as she interrupted. “You might get down there, but you can’t climb back up. Who’s going to haul you back?”

He glanced at the drop and the chopper. The water now reached the pilot’s knees.

When Richard returned with the gear bag, Erin dropped to the ground and unzipped the duffel. As she removed the throw line and sash cord, she kept talking.

“I’m a better climber. More experienced.” She reached in the bag, removed a rope and dropped it at his feet. “Tie a bowline,” she said, requesting a simple beginner knot.

His eyes narrowed.

She held up an ascender used to make climbing up a single belay rope as easy as using a StairMaster. “What’s this for?” she asked, testing his knowledge of climbing.

His jaw tightened.

“Exactly. I’m going. That’s all.”

Erin showed Dalton the throw ball, a sand-filled pouch that looked like a cross between a hacky sack and a leather beanbag filled with lead shot. Its purpose was to carry the lighter sash cord up and over tree branches, or in this case, down and around the top of the chopper’s damaged rotor. Finished, she rose and offered the throw ball and towline to Dalton because he was better at throwing and because she needed him to leave her alone so she could work.

“Knock yourself out,” she said, leaving him to try to snag the helicopter as she slipped into her climbing harness and fastened the chin strap on her helmet.

“How deep is the river here?” asked Dalton.

“Twenty feet, maybe. The river is deeper and wider here, which is why there’s no white water. The gorges close back in farther down and the water gets interesting again.”

Twenty feet was deep enough to sink that fuselage, she thought.

Erin selected a gap in the top of the rocky outcropping for her chock. This was an aluminum wedge that would hold her climbing rope. The climbing rope, on which she would belay, or use to descend and then return, was strong and much thicker than the towrope, which was no wider than a clothesline. Belaying to the pilot meant using this stronger rope and the cliff wall to drop to his position and then return using two ascenders. The ascenders fixed to the rope and would move only in one direction—up. The ascenders included feet loops, so she could rest on one as she moved the other upward.