Roz Fox - Her Mistletoe Miracle

“If I can’t land, I can still drop supplies. I’ll stack blankets and food in the copilot’s seat. I volunteer with Angel Fleet, so my aircraft are all stocked with first aid kits.”

“Do you want a ranger EMT to ride shotgun with you?”

“That would be nice, but I’m concerned about wind drag. I saw clips of that rescue on Mount Rainier in Washington state that went into the toilet because of wind shears and weight. I don’t want a repeat of that. Can someone impress on the guy who radioed in that I have to grab the injured and get out? Even then it’ll be tricky getting to Kalispell before all hell breaks loose with this storm. Tell him to use the climbing ropes to pull the climbers out of the crevasse and patch up injuries as best he can for transport.”

Once Mick saw Trudy flipping switches on the radio to relay his message, he shoved open the door and stepped out onto the plank porch. Even under the overhang he got hit by quarter-sized snowflakes that seemed to be blowing in circles. “Damn them,” he growled, thinking aloud about smoke jumpers who should have better sense.

“They’re hotshots,” Bud said from over Mick’s shoulder.

“Yeah, but we work closely with Len Martin’s crews,” the ranger captain said as he hunched against the wind ripping away his words. “Len does get some green recruits. Kids who still think they’re invincible.”

“Three in this party are seasoned,” Mick said. “One’s a five-year veteran. Another, a woman I know, has spent three summers with Martin’s crew.”

Wylie jogged up to walk alongside Mick, as if he’d heard something more in his brother-in-law’s words. He drew Mick aside when the others split up to ready a vehicle and their gear. “One of those climbers wouldn’t be the woman you mentioned at the house last night? The gal you’re interested in who’s involved with another guy?”

“What if it is?” Mick’s steps didn’t slow, but his jaw tightened.

Wylie hesitated, seeming to weigh his next comment. “Marlee thinks you haven’t been yourself since Pappy died. She’s worried you might do something… rash today.”

Mick pulled up short in the shadow of the bird. He scowled as he dug a pair of leather gloves out of the cockpit. “What the hell does that mean, Wylie?”

“Just that this is a ranger call. I have to know if you’re depressed enough, or personally involved enough, to get reckless with your life. If so, I’ll have to order you to stand down. If need be, I’ll handcuff you to one of the damned fence posts.”

Surprise passed through Mick’s lean frame, and then he found Wylie’s swashbuckling attempt comical. Wiping a hand across his face to dust off the snowflakes stuck to his eyelashes, he laughed. “Are you seriously suggesting that if Hana doesn’t make it, I’m gonna fly into the side of the mountain?”

“Put that way, it does sound extreme.”

“Damned right. Tell Marlee my head’s screwed on straight.”

His hip objected to the shift in weather, making it difficult for Mick to hoist himself into the cold cockpit. Neither man spoke again, but their eyes met. Blowing snow cast a muted golden halo over the camp. All sound seemed muffled except for the ropes clanking against the flagpole that marked the entrance to the ranger station. The U.S. flag, the Montana state flag, and the forestry flag, all attached below a snow-covered brass ball, flapped wildly in the stiff wind.

Wylie gave in first and raised a hand for Mick to clasp. “Fire her up. I see Bill coming with the supplies. I’ll toss extra pillows and blankets in the hatch and lock her down.” Several heartbeats passed, then he shouted to be heard over the first whir of the rotors, “Good luck, Mick.”

A lump rose in Mick’s throat, so he busied himself arranging the blankets and food Bill handed him, firmly in the copilot’s seat. Then he donned his earphones. That done, he was in control of his feelings enough to flash his brother-in-law a thumbs-up.

He felt the chopper rock as the men buttoned up the back, but waited until he saw them bend over and run clear before he lifted off.

Mick’s thoughts threatened to turn into worry for Hana. He refused to let that happen. Instead, he concentrated on the landscape fanned out below. As he climbed steadily, flying got dicier. Crosswinds alone could be wicked for rotors. Add blowing snow to the equation and bad conditions increased tenfold. The saving grace, if there was one, was that the snow was still dry. It blew off the Huey’s blades instead of weighing them down.

Below him, trudging slowly in single file down a steep ravine, were three bighorn sheep. They had grown shaggy winter coats and their brown hair was dusted white with snow. Any other time, he’d linger over the rare sight. The fact that the sheep knew to prepare for winter so soon lent an urgency to Mick’s mission. The jagged peaks he’d admired from home yesterday cast shadows across neighboring slopes—slopes he needed to see so he could land. First, though, he needed enough light to spot the stranded hikers.

Higher up into the foothills, fog drifted in in deep pockets. Yet another element against him. The snow and fog mix was beginning to hide the terrain below.

Mick turned up the heat inside the Huey, hoping to melt the flakes beginning to stick on the clear part of the bubble. Still, he had to use his glove to wipe off the condensation building up inside the plastic.

He’d been in the air forty minutes when a hole opened and he saw a red light winking atop a radio tower. The first of three point markers Wylie’s captain said he’d come across. Mick’s stomach unknotted. He hadn’t realized until then how tense he’d become.

It shouldn’t be long now before he’d see where the hiker said they’d staked tree boughs in the shape of an arrow. He wondered how far up the mountain Wylie and the other volunteers were. He knew they had radios and would try to stay in contact with the hikers. Mick cursed himself for not having asked for their frequency so he, too, could keep tabs. He fiddled with the dials, but got only static.

The arrow.

He adjusted his speed, brought the Huey lower and hovered above the marker. People came into view. One motionless body was propped against a fair size rock that was being used as a wind break. It was impossible to tell if the figure was a man or a woman, since a jacket was draped around the shoulders and another tented his or her whole head.

To the left of the rock, Mick identified three more figures lying flat around a dark gash in the hillside. The crevasse. Damn . By the look of things he’d arrived before the crew had complied with his request to have all of the injured ready to be flown off the mountain.

Although the wind didn’t seem quite so erratic now, Mick wondered whether he’d be able to lift off again once he’d landed. He quickly calculated the area, angle of descent and wind velocity. Wind, unfortunately, was unpredictable.

Where the climbers were more or less dictated that he had to perch on an incline. Would the weight of the Huey cause it to slide down the slick slope and keep sliding until it crashed into the line of trees below?

One of the figures at the crevasse hopped up and waved frantically. Mick wanted to yell at the foolish hiker and say, “Forget about me. Get those folks out of the hole.”

But as fast as his anger flared it fizzled. He knew what it was like to be in need of rescue. He felt his palms sweat as he remembered getting the hell shot out of his F/A-18. Falling. His chute jerking open. Floating down as gunfire rained around him. His heart slamming against his chest as he hauled in his chute and detached it from his hips, one of which ran red with his blood. He’d dragged himself into underbrush, scared he’d die on unfriendly soil.