The Last Run (36 page)

“Son of a bitch,” Windnagle said. He had his night-vision goggles down and was looking out his spotter’s window. “I think I lost it.”

“We’ll find it,” Zullick said.

“
I lost
it.”

“Relax, Chris. We’ll find it.”

To get back, Durham tried crabbing the helicopter —swinging its nose and tail back and forth like a scampering crustacean. It took another ten minutes just to return to the area where Windnagle had spotted the strobe. They all peered out.

There was no strobe, no survivors, no telling the difference between a wave and trough. Zullick checked his watch: they were now just a minute shy of the two-hour flight mark. It was almost time to return to base.

He turned to Durham and said, “Almost two hours even, Bull.”

Durham nodded.

“Wait a minute,” Zullick said. “You hear that?”

“I hear it.”

A pinging noise was coming through their headsets. That was the sound the direction finder made when locked on an EPIRB signal. The pinging was faint. But it was there, all right.

“I got it, I got the position,” Zullick said, punching the coordinates into the computer.

“Okay, let’s do it.”

Putting the wind just off their nose, angling them in the direction the needle was pointing, Dave Durham stepped up his airspeed to seventy knots. The helicopter seemed to slide backward. He fed the engine more gas. The aircraft did not budge.

“Well.”

He pulled more power. Now the airspeed indicator showed eighty-five knots.

“Come on,” he said.

The helicopter nudged forward. It was strange to hear and feel the engines working so hard and to be making three knots over the ground.

“That’s the stuff,” Zullick told him. “Let’s move up on it nice and slow.”

Nose shuddering, turbines whining, direction finder pinging not so faintly now, they crept upwind. The needle had stopped swinging back and forth. It was pegged at eleven o’clock. Zullick flipped down his goggles.

“Come left,” he said, and Durham did, until the finder needle was pointing dead ahead.

“All right,” Zullick said. “Stop your turn. Fly this heading.”

Durham stepped them up to ninety knots of airspeed. The helicopter moved ahead sluggishly.

“Take us ahead just a touch,” Zullick said.

Gusts batted them from both sides but Durham did not break the rhythm of his movement on the pedals and sticks. Suddenly, as if a curtain had been yanked away from the windscreen, Zullick spotted a green flash in the blackness.

“
I see a light!”

It was a bright flash, like a mirror turned in the sun. Another fifteen seconds passed. He saw it again. The blinking light was moving away from them in the great, foaming expanse that was the sea.

“We’re not losing it this time, guys,” Zullick said. Then to Durham: “Bull, step us down a little closer.”

Typically, pilots pulled the airspeed off while simultaneously reducing their altitude. But with such winds they had to fly one direction at a time—slowing first to a halt, then descending, then picking up speed again.

As they dropped down, it was as if a camera lens were being brought into focus: Zullick now saw the blinding flash of the strobe a hundred yards off their nose at two o’clock. Through the chin bubble he saw moving pieces of reflective tape —the arms of survival suits, waving.

“There’s people down there,” he said. “And they’re alive.”

Once the Alaska Airlines jetliner began circling the Fairweather Grounds, Ted LeFeuvre heard the radio chatter start and his heart seemed to start again with it. Listening to the radio, he and Guy Pearce had just heard that Rescue 6018 was still airborne. Its crew was aborting its mission. But the second helicopter, the 6029, was arriving on scene.

Ted LeFeuvre let out a heavy sigh.

“We’ve got to get a third helicopter out there to protect that second crew,” he said.

“Absolutely.”

“Put another crew together.”

“Right away, sir.”

While Pearce worked the phones, Ted LeFeuvre studied the ocean charts and thought out his next move.

So now you’ve got people in the water, he thought. Four to five people, by the sounds of things. If they’re still alive, those people are cold. Well, more than cold. They’ve been in the water three and a half hours now.
In thirty-eight-degree water.
Most guys, even a fat one wearing a Gumby suit, will freeze to death in three to five hours in that kind of water. Okay, maybe six hours. Max. After that, you’re talking miracles. That means if we don’t get those people in the next two and a half hours they will die. They will die. That is clear. Too clear. But that isn’t a license to get reckless. You didn’t put those fishermen out there. You have two aircrews to think about. And soon, a third crew. Keep them safe. What good is it if we race out there and make mistakes and kill our own? No good.
There are no old, bold pilots.
Remember that from flight school? You can’t take risks over and over again and survive. There is a balance and you have to analyze the risk. You analyze it. Then you take it.

Those fishermen took it. They didn’t analyze well. But that’s their problem. Your problem is getting a third crew out there and keeping them alive. And not to worry. You cannot worry or show nervousness or fear. If you give yourself that luxury the fear will spread and infect everyone around you. When people are afraid, the system breaks down. And then we really
are
in trouble. So far you’ve behaved all right. But keep your cool. Compartmentalize. You were always good at that.

And what about that business of seventy-foot seas? That’s got to be an exaggeration, he thought. Those would be
huge
seas. It’s unlikely they’re that big, even if the winds are, as they reported, seventy knots sustained. But don’t discount everything they tell you. When you start shutting out information you are asking for it. Still, seventy-foot seas? No, I don’t think that can be right. And why didn’t the meteorologists pick up on an approaching hurricane? There was nothing in the forecast about something like this. Then again, he thought, when was the last time you believed a forecaster?

“Captain?”

“Yes, Yogi?”

Pearce turned to him and said, “I’ve got the crew.”

“Good.”

“It’s going to be Lieutenant Steve Torpey, Petty Officer Fred Kalt, and Petty Officer Mike Fish.” He paused. “And you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ted LeFeuvre stood there, feeling his heart slowly sink, feeling the hollowing dampness work its way into the pit of his stomach, feeling the cold wave of dread sweep over his back and neck and shoulders.

You know what it’s like to fly in a hurricane, he thought. You flew in Hurricane Juan. That was more than ten years ago in the Gulf of Mexico. You remember. That was forty-foot seas and sixty-knot winds. You remember how difficult that was? And that was during the day. And you were thirty-six. You’re a CO now. You’re supposed to write the awards for these guys. You’re not supposed to be out there in that mess. How can I bow out of this gracefully?

He said: “Yogi, you know, I think you’d be a lot more help to Steve Torpey in the cockpit than I would be.”

“Uh, Captain,” Pearce said, “I won’t be able to go until at least four o’clock.”

“Why?”

“Well, sir, I was over at the Eagle’s Nest tonight. Almost all of the pilots were there. I’d already had a couple of beers when Mr. Durham called.”

“Oh,” Ted LeFeuvre said quietly.

“Mr. Durham asked if I’d come in to work the desk. So I did.” He gave his captain a sideways glance.

“Sir,” he added, “there is no one else.”

Well, that’s it, Ted LeFeuvre thought. You’re too old for this. You are entirely too old for this. But you heard him. You’re the last pilot left. Talk about scraping the bottom of the barrel. Go on. Quit stalling, you gutless wonder. Tell him you hoped it would be like this. Say something cute.

But all that slipped out of Ted LeFeuvre’s mouth was a short, stiff “Okay.”

B
y eleven that night the air station was at full tilt. People had been coming in all evening, even those who were supposed to have the weekend off. There were more people working that night than on any day that winter. Mechanics were towing helicopters back and forth; flight engineers were loading flares, gear and fuel; aviation techs and pilots were poring over aircraft maintenance records, inspecting engines and rotor heads; electronics crews were running last-minute circuitry and instrument checks; rescue swimmers were testing immersion suits, wet suits, life vests and mesh vests; supply clerks and petty officers were staffing the phones, working radios, plotting positions on aeronautical charts and gathering the latest weather information; cooks were rushing out eggs, pancakes, bagels, sausages, hot soup, sandwiches and coffee; and even the airbase doctor reported for duty. It was the first time in recent memory that the light in his office had been on past five o’clock.

Ted LeFeuvre was up in his office, changing into his flight gear. He was thoughtful and deliberate, not plodding, but not rushing himself. Everything had been done that had to be done up to that point. All orders had been given. Everyone knew exactly what he or she was to do that night and in the morning. He was thinking either the rescue would turn out well with the coming of daylight or it would not. I believe it will it turn out according to the Lord’s will. That is all we can do, anyway. Believe.

And then, for the briefest of moments, he had a creepy, unreal feeling about everything that was going on, as if he had been through this rescue once before.

And maybe you have, he thought. Remember New Orleans? Ah. Nice try. This is not the Gulf of Mexico. This is more. Much more.

But there was no panic or excitement in his heart when he admitted this to himself. Those feelings had begun to drain out of him the moment that he had accepted in his heart that this mission was the Lord’s will and that God was leading him toward something. Perhaps he was a little jittery at first. But as soon as he saw Steve Torpey stride into the operations center and they began debriefing and drawing up a flight plan, the nervousness dripped out of him and he felt the calmness of old return. Then he knew he was all right.

Now, as he pulled on his dry suit, there was nothing but the calmness. His mind was clear and he was thinking the way he had always liked to think. Analyzing each facet of the mission. Ordering his priorities. Excising all nonessentials. Uncertainty, fear, loneliness—he had to compartmentalize them.

It was strange, he thought, that he had once been incapable of saving his own life, and yet here he was, ready to step into a helicopter to save someone else’s. Well, this is God’s will, he thought. Only He knows why this is important. Just go with the flow. That’s all you can do.

He was sure now that the third and last helicopter on the base, the 6011, would take off with him flying it. That was certain. What else? He was flying with the Coast Guard’s best. These were men who flew helicopters not because they wanted medals or thrills on a Friday night. They were going out because they were professionals and because others depended on them to act like professionals. Well, maybe Torpey still had a little top gun in him. That was to be expected. He was young. He still had the zealousness. But he also had the gift. Oh, did he have the gift. He just hadn’t been tested yet. Neither had the others. Well, Steve Torpey and Fred Kalt and Mike Fish. Prepare to be tested.

The mission would end. It could end badly. But it would end, and the Lord would be watching. He was sure of this and the thought comforted him. Certainty was always comforting.

He stood there, suited up now, feeling the tight, polar-fleece dry suit warming his skin, the dragging on his neck from the pull of the survival gear, the weight of the scuba tanks on his back, and the puffiness of his inflatable life vest. In his left hand he held his flight gloves and in his right, his flight helmet. It was an old helmet and had a few dings on it, a few scrapes. It was well worn but it had served him well for many years and had always stayed dry and out of the water.

Ted LeFeuvre turned off the light and pulled the door until it clicked and started down the hall. He needed to go to maintenance control. There was just one more thing he needed to do before getting on the aircraft.

Now the four of them were standing in a circle in the maintenance control center, facing one another.

“That’s it. That’s the latest,” Steve Torpey said. He had just finished briefing everyone on the most recent information radioed in by Bill Adickes, whose crew was just outside of Sitka Sound.

“Okay,” said Fred Kalt. He had been anxious to get out on the hangar and check over the aircraft. “Let’s go.”

“No,” Torpey said. He looked over at Ted LeFeuvre. “I want to wait.”

Torpey felt awkward when he said it, as awkward as a kid saying goodbye to his girl on the front porch of her house the day before he was to go off to college. It was not usual to hold up a launch. On a SAR case you had thirty minutes to get airborne. If you didn’t launch within that thirty-minute window there had to be a darned good reason, and you would be expected to give that reason later in writing.

What made it tougher was that his crew was ready to go. And it was 11:35
P.M.
; the survivors, if they still were alive, had been in the water four hours and forty-five minutes. The chances of those survivors drowning or dying from hypothermia were rising by the minute.

He looked at Ted LeFeuvre.

“Why wait?” Kalt said. “Let’s get going.”

“Hold on, Fred,” Ted LeFeuvre said to Kalt. “What is it that you’re thinking, Steve?”

“Well,” Torpey said, “there are no more night-vision goggles in the station. The other crews took them all. I say we wait for the first crew to come back before we launch. Adickes will be back in fifteen minutes. We can get their goggles, debrief and launch.”

He looked around.

“I’d feel a whole lot better flying at night with the goggles.”

“Agreed,” Ted LeFeuvre said. “We wait.”