The Last Flight Read online

  “Good morning, sir,” Killian replied warmly as he looked sharply across the room. “Just trying to keep our heads above the mounting paperwork and putting out the usual fires. How are you today, Mister Connor?”

  “Slow and grouchy. Feeling like an old hound dog with nowhere to hunt.”

  Killian and Mayo both chuckled as Killian set his mug on the side of the desk. “Missing the action in the sandbox, sir?”

  Connor forced a smile. “Not so much, really. I was referring more to my age than a desire to battle the faithful followers of Islam. Although dodging bullets might put some motivation in this tired butt. There’s nothing like the fear of death to get your adrenaline flowing.”

  Killian nodded before flashing a look of remorse. “Sitting stateside while our soldiers are getting shot at is eating at you as much as me, I bet.”

  Connor sighed before answering. “I guess you’re right. We’re old and slow, but experience trumps youth. At least that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Can’t say I wouldn’t trade one for the other though.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Killian’s eyes brightened at the prospect. “Ten less years of experience for ten less years of age sounds like a hell of a deal.”

  Connor paused, thinking about the idea. “One for one? Hadn’t thought of it that way. At this point I’d gladly give ten for one … shit, even twenty for one.” He smiled faintly. “But I still get to stay stateside.”

  “No way!” Killian could see the yearning in Connor’s expression and didn’t believe the comment. “You’d be the first one in line if you got the chance, sir.”

  “And I’ll be right behind you both, once the MPs drag me on the plane in shackles,” Mayo added with a wink.

  “Right,” Killian stated sarcastically, a hint of a smile creasing his mouth. “Let’s see, who recently asked if they could take my place to join the battalion next week in Afghanistan? Something about being stateside behind a desk was like a prison sentence.”

  Mayo shrugged. “I believe I wasn’t in full control of my emotions. The wife had been nagging me more than usual, and at the time the idea seemed like a sure plan of escape.”

  Connor grinned, forgetting his own problems for the moment, sharing a chuckle with Killian as Mayo smiled and joined in.

  “That may be,” Killian added. “But I know you’d be on the plane with me if you could, both of you.”

  Connor’s demeanor became serious. “What’s the latest from battalion?”

  “Nothing new. Flight operations are continuing as normal—mostly reconnaissance and support flights. No losses or injuries for over a month. Occasional damage now and then from small arms fire but no big stuff being sent their way.”

  “Good. They’re fine soldiers. They know what to do if the situation turns ugly.”

  “Yes, sir. We should be there with them. I know you want back in the fight.”

  Connor nodded his head. His expression changed as if thinking of something far away. “One last battle? Yeah, I’d go. Until then us old dogs will have to contend with guarding the hen house.”

  They returned his stare, nodding in agreement. Connor reflected on his many lost friends for a moment, his eyes diverting outside. A flash of sorrow was noticeable before quickly disappearing.

  Joking about serious issues was easy for soldiers. Trivial matters bothered them the most. Soldiers were adept at hiding emotional turmoil behind a mask of indifference or humor. Connor was no different and, if anything, was better than most. His change in mood this time was out of character.

  Both Mayo and Killian watched Connor as he held a long glance out the window, studying the horizon as if deep in thought. His expression of remorse faded, replaced by a slight smile carrying a hidden secret. That, too, quickly changed.

  “Maybe you’re right First Sergeant,” Connor finally added, focusing his attention back inside. “Always better to go down fighting, right? I’m not ready to be put down just yet.”

  Connor’s comment surprised them both, not for the words themselves but for the hard slate of determination evident on his face.

  Mayo and Killian exchanged a quick glance, the relaxed mood somehow broken by the abrupt seriousness. Mayo was the first to break the momentary silence, deflecting the conversation to less important issues.

  “Rumor has it the unit might be sent home early. Looks like the towel-heads are ready to give up the fight and embrace the American way. Only problem is, they’re asking for ten virgins and twenty goats a piece.”

  He paused for effect before continuing. “Of course, the president knows that’s unrealistic, so he countered with five hookers and ten virgin goats.”

  Killian chuckled and Connor smirked, barely holding back a wide smile. Mayo always had a way of making him laugh.

  Keeping a straight face as if telling a breaking news story, Mayo continued. “Half the hajjis are willing to accept the offer and the other half want double the amount of goats, male or female.”

  The laughter from Killian was louder. He wiped his eyes before responding. “Where did you hear that, late night with David Letterman?”

  Mayo finally cracked an expression of humor. “No, Al Jazeera.”

  Connor laughed with them, his usual demeanor having returned. He suddenly felt much better. His choice was clear.

  “Thanks, Sergeant Mayo. I can rest easier now, knowing the war is almost over. I’ll let you two get back to work.”

  “All right, sir.” Killian didn’t sound enthusiastic about the prospect. “Feel free to return at your leisure. We can always use an interruption.”

  “Good to know. Personally, these tired bones could use a nap,” Connor quipped in feigned sarcasm. “But I will settle for a cup of fresh coffee. Provided, of course, the pot in the briefing room has been refilled after your generous helpings.”

  Killian raised his mug in a mock toast and glanced at Mayo. “We have the utmost confidence that should it not be so, you will graciously take the matter into your own hands, sir.”

  Connor ran a hand through his hair and cracked a well-intentioned smile. “I will, First Sergeant. Thank you for your concern.”

  Mayo watched Connor push himself carefully away from the doorframe. “How’s the back doing, sir? Still giving you problems?”

  “Just a little stiff this morning. Nothing serious,” Connor lied. “Old age has a way of catching up on all of us.”

  “You sure you don’t want to stay, sir? We can use a break.” Killian motioned toward the cushioned chair near his desk. “I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

  “Don’t bother, please.” Connor held up his hand and stopped Killian before he could lift himself away from the desk. As much as he enjoyed their company, he didn’t want to waste more time. “I have plenty of work to catch up on. Maybe later.”

  “All right, sir,” Killian said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “The same here,” Mayo added. “If you get a chance this afternoon, I’d like to talk with you. Nothing important. Reno’s doing well, by the way. I think he misses you.”

  Reno was a German shepherd mix, trained for bomb detection. He was friendly and very protective. Connor acquired him after his handler was killed in Iraq and the military determined he was no longer effective. Mayo and his family occasionally looked after the dog, and before long he was more part of their family than his. He decided to let them keep him. The kids loved Reno, and he was a great companion.

  Connor was silent for a second before glancing at his watch. “Good, I’d like that.”

  “One other thing, sir,” Killian added. “Sergeant Jackson has an award recommendation that needs your review. I need the paperwork in by the end of the week if you can take care of it?”

  Connor tried not to hurry his exit. He answered while acknowledging them both with a short glance. “I’ll make sure the paperwork’s completed. Have a good morning, gentlemen.”

  Killian winked at Mayo as Connor departed. He enjoyed talking with the senior wa
rrant officer. His personality and position as first sergeant didn’t normally allow the same openness with subordinates and other officers. Connor and he held a mutual respect for each other, a respect only career soldiers could understand. As such, they occasionally shared a good-natured jab at each other but only in very close company.

  Mayo forced a smile. There was something in Connor’s mannerism that seemed out of place. He seemed different, as if he was hiding something. There was a determination in his eyes that had been absent for a long time.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The summer mission schedule was uncommonly slow. Few emergencies had materialized for the 95th Air Medical Company over a typical season of visiting tourists, weekend pilots, and novice adventurers seeking the great outdoors. Only a mother in labor and two lost hikers on an overnight camping trip had broken the spell of inactivity. Boredom and complacency were barely kept at bay by a weekly training flight. Flight time was limited, reserved for the other pilots deployed overseas.

  Alaska was a welcome escape from combat duty for the two aircrews, although a temporary one. The few allowed the privilege of remaining behind were mostly recuperating from medical conditions or had family issues requiring attention. They would rotate overseas with another group in a few months.

  Two UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters were left behind to support the civilian community in central Alaska. The decision was purely political, based on prior precedence and influenced by the state’s senior ranking senator.

  By regulation, civilian assistance was secondary to military obligations, but after nearly three decades, the military’s support of civilian communities became routine. MAST, short for Military Assistance to Safety and Traffic, became a useful tool. Civilians received vital emergency medical support while aircrews received real-life, hands-on experience required for potential combat missions.

  Since most of Alaska was without roads or inaccessible by airplane, military helicopters were often the only means of getting into remote locations. The 95th Air Medical Company provided emergency support by having an assigned aircrew on duty in the hangar, twenty-four hours a day. A helicopter remained ready for departure within twenty minutes, day or night, every day of the year. A second helicopter could be launched within two hours, depending on the status of the previous crew.

  The mission schedule was normally accomplished with a full contingent of twelve helicopters and flight crews, rotated on a daily basis for training, support of other military units, and emergency standby duty. Due to the battalion’s recent deployment, only two crews remained, each kept on a cycle of one day in the hangar and one day of rest. The day of rest was problematic-dependent on not being called for a second mission.

  Even when air medical units were at full strength, medical evacuations, or medevacs, were often more demanding than other aviation missions. Aircrews despised the cycle of repetitive duty sitting on the ground but loved the feeling of accomplishment when involved in an actual mission.

  The standby crew in Alaska was composed of two pilots—a pilot-in-command, who was delegated by flight ability and experience, and a copilot. A flight medic and a crew chief made up the rest of the crew. The medic was responsible for patient care and the crew chief for maintenance on the aircraft.

  Each morning, a new aircrew replaced the outgoing crew and began a twenty-four-hour duty cycle in the hangar. The helicopter was the first priority. Flight gear, survival equipment, and medical supplies were loaded, if not already aboard. A preflight was conducted and the aircraft taken through a complete engine run-up. Fuel tanks were then topped off, flight gear left on the seats, and the aircraft secured, enabling a quick departure.

  Only after the helicopter was deemed mission ready could the crew work on other tasks, but they always remained within ten minutes of the hangar. Flight planning was completed by the pilots, including a weather forecast for the next twenty-four hours. Performance data, based on environmental conditions and the mission configuration of the helicopter, was then computed. A general flight plan was also prepared, based on the same parameters.

  Since time was often critical in medical evacuations, preparing in advance reduced time spent on the ground. Each pilot-in-command has a personal routine that included mandatory procedures and their own individual preferences.

  At noon, the crew began a mandatory rest period in the duty lounge on the top floor of the hangar. Separated from the rest of the company, they could relax or sleep in a quiet environment, ensuring adequate rest should a mission arise at night or early morning.

  On occasion, the standby crew conducted a local training flight, remaining in constant radio contact with Flight Operations and flying no further than a fifty-mile radius from the airfield. This ensured adequate response time should further refueling be necessary.

  On a typical day the telephones in any military flight operations office would be ringing continuously. The 95th Air Medical Company was no exception. But following the majority of the unit’s deployment, a noticeable reduction occurred in requested missions. When the phone rang, the purpose was generally an innocent inquiry or personal call for one of the soldiers. Not a single medevac mission had been received in the previous month.

  Sergeant Donovan barely moved from his chair as the telephone rang for only the third time that morning. He looked up from the training manual he was reading as a soldier sitting at a nearby desk picked up the receiver.

  The young private’s expression remained placid at first, changing after a few seconds. He sat up straight and locked eyes with his supervisor, asking the person speaking to hold. Cupping his hand over the phone, he spoke quickly to Sergeant Donovan while reaching for the mission book.

  “We have a request from the RCC in Anchorage,” he said, using the common acronym instead of rescue coordination center. “A satellite picked up an ELT signal ten minutes ago. The signal was confirmed by another satellite several minutes later. I’m getting the full information now.”

  An ELT signal was an emergency distress transmission sent by an Emergency Locator Transmitter. The device was designed to activate during a crash and was required on all aircraft operating in the United States. When activated, the equipment could broadcast an international distress signal for up to five hours.

  Most ELTs were wired into the aircraft electrical system but also contained an internal battery. They could be operated manually or in automatic mode, allowing orbiting satellites and aircraft to monitor the signal.

  Donovan nodded at the private’s hurried explanation, immediately sliding his chair over to a large handset wired into a loudspeaker system. He flipped the power switch and tapped the microphone, hearing muffled thumps through the speaker.

  During the standby crew’s mandatory rest period, they would normally be found next door in the duty lounge but at other times were often scattered throughout the hangar performing routine tasks. The potential for delay was obvious. Since a fast and simple method of notification was necessary, a loudspeaker system was installed. With the simple press of a button, each crew member could be quickly and conveniently made aware of the situation.

  “Standby crew, standby crew, report to the operations office.” Donovan’s voice broadcast through the speakers with a slight echo. “This is a mission alert. Standby crew, report to the operations office.”

  The private hurriedly wrote information on a mission request log as Donovan stood and looked over his shoulder. The form was simple yet efficient, providing essential details such as location, patient information, requesting agency, point of contact, and other pertinent data. Operations personnel could process the request quickly, ensuring an equally effective response from the standby crew.

  Regulations dictated mission requests could only be received from five sources—a rescue coordination center, hospital or clinic, the state troopers, a medical dispatch authority, or other military units. The process ensured information was accurate and a military helicopter was necessary. The transportation of non-military
patients was specifically prohibited unless there was a life or death situation, and only if a military helicopter was the most expedient travel available.

  The requirement assured civilian medical services were not undercut by the military and patients received timely and appropriate care. Mission requests in Alaska were usually not an issue. With most of the state inaccessible, except by helicopter, a military medevac was often the only option.

  Search missions were another component of the unit’s duty requirement. Locating the source of a distress signal or a missing aircraft often entailed a joint effort between military and civilian agencies. If a helicopter was used and able to verify the signal as a legitimate emergency, evacuating the injured would then become the primary mission.

  With thousands of private, commercial, and military aircraft operating in Alaska, inadvertent activation of an ELT was common. An unintentional signal from an airfield could usually be located by airport personnel without the use of additional resources. In remote areas, however, an accidental signal could often only be verified by launching aircraft to investigate. Small bush planes were usually the cause. On rare occasions the signal was authentic, and a real emergency would arise.

  Donovan quickly jotted the two sets of coordinates onto a piece of paper. He moved to a large map hanging on a nearby wall and plotted the locations. The area map was pieced together from sectional charts and provided an easy method of geographical reference.

  There was a discrepancy of several miles between the coordinates. Satellites had fixed different positions off the signals, both approximately seventy miles southeast of Fort Wainwright and situated in the mountains of the Alaska Range. One location was in the middle of a long, curved glacier and the other further north near the confluence of the glacier and headwaters of a river valley.

  Donovan bent forward to read the map, noting the names of various terrain features. The Crosson Glacier, extending from the heart of the mountains and flowing north into the foothills, encompassed both sets of coordinates. He followed the glacier with his finger, tracing the shape into a large ice field spreading in multiple directions between the peaks. The expanse was massive, covering over fifty square miles.