For some reason he remembered Michelle Whittier’s words before the landing. What had she called it? Oh, yeah. Her “benediction.” She hoped God would be with them. Of course she had to know that there were, in fact, at least some atheists in foxholes. That old phrase insulted atheists and thumped agnostics, and he had imagined himself one or the other. In fact, he’d always worn an agnostic attitude as a slightly snobbish badge of honor. But if his cynical point of view was right and there was nothing else beyond this life, the Marty Mitchell he knew and had once been very proud of was about to evaporate. The irony was, he’d never know it. He’d never know anything. All that life and experience gone. All that training as a pilot. All that memory. Poof. Something was deeply illogical about that, he mused. Maybe in these last minutes he should at least consider that there might be something after this mortal excursion.
Marty looked down at the prepared items and reached for the bottle.
“Time to find out,” he said to the wind as he uncorked the whiskey. “Checkmate!”
Boulder — 8:05 pm
A frantic Judith Winston glanced at her brass wall clock, stalking around her office, cell phone glued to her ear. It had been less than an hour since she’d rushed back to try to convince someone to organize a rescue to Rocky Mountain National Park. Fortunately, her secretary was working late on a weekend, and she pressed him into immediate service.
A voice returned to the other end of the line, causing a head shake.
“No,” she replied. “I need General Stone. I need to speak to the adjutant general of the Colorado National Guard, as I told you. And yes, he does know me, and this is an emergency, and I can tell you with certainty that someone is going to die if I can’t get through to him!”
She rolled her eyes at the response.
“No… no, sergeant, listen carefully. That was not a threat! I’m trying to prevent a suicide on a mountain top that apparently only your helicopters can reach, okay? Now please, drop your defensiveness and call the general!”
Her secretary had been waiting, leaning in the door, and Judith motioned him to come, punching the mute button in the process.
“Anything?”
“This may be his home number. I’m not sure.”
“Call it and see if you can get him on the line.
Judith stopped to look at her hastily taken notes. She’d talked to the National Park Service, two hospital emergency rooms, and a longtime friend who owned a jet charter company out of Broomfield, as well as two medical evacuation helicopter operators, both of whom claimed their choppers couldn’t go to fourteen thousand feet. She supposed that was truthful, but it was hard to accept, knowing that someone had recently landed a helicopter on Mt. Everest at 29-thousand feet. She’d even seen the YouTube video.
Her secretary was back and holding a portable office phone.
“It’s General Stone,” he whispered.
“Great. Tell whoever comes on here that we found him. It’s on mute.” She handed over her cell phone and took the offered portable.
“General, Judith Winston here. We met last fall at the benefit in Cherry Creek for… oh. You do? Good. Well, I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I’ve got a crisis on my hands and I’m told that only your team can help, but I can’t get hold of anyone in your outfit who’ll dare to make a decision.”
Denver
Across town in the Centennial Airport command post for RescueFlight, the shift chief was drumming his fingers on the desk and thinking about the rescue he’d had to reject. Despite being the primary source of medical helicopters for central Colorado, Long’s Peak summit was not a place their choppers could safely reach. What had snagged his attention, however, was the name of the person needing rescue.
He thought for a few more seconds, turning over the question of whether tipping off a reporter he knew could get him in trouble.
Hell, we’re not really involved. Not my monkeys, not my circus.
Scott Bogosian answered on the first ring.
“Hey, Scott, Jeremy here at RescueFlight, although this call never happened, okay?”
“Sure.”
“I remember you told me you were considering doing a book on the Regal accident, and I’ve got a bit of breaking news involving that airline captain who’s on trial.”
Boulder
The callback to Judith from the head of the Colorado National Guard affirming that a powerful Blackhawk helicopter would be airborne inside a half hour propelled her into motion northbound to the Estes Park area. Technically the LZ — as the landing zone they were preparing had been described — was the Long’s Peak trailhead parking lot south of Estes. The rescue attempt would be launched from there, and if Marty Mitchell could be found — and if it wasn’t too late — there would be an ambulance waiting at the LZ.
Fortunately, the night seemed mild, the sky clear, and no ominous clouds were approaching the front range. Probably as ideal as it could be for a helicopter rescue, she thought.
She had checked the GPS location of Marty’s phone again before darting to the parking lot, and once again the target had moved slightly, still on the summit of the peak, but at least a few feet away. That had to mean he was still alive, she concluded. At least she hoped that’s what it meant.
North Denver
Three rings had come and gone on the best number Scott Bogosian had for the Superintendent of Rocky Mountain National Park, but so many people now forwarded one phone to another, he decided to stick with it. On the fifth ring, a no nonsense voice he knew well, a voice laden with a heavy southern accent, barked a hello.
“Joe? Scott Bogosian.”
“Hello, Scott! What’s up? I’m a bit busy right now.”
“Does that have anything to do with someone on Long’s Peak?”
There was a distinct chuckle on the other end. “You wouldn’t ask me that if you didn’t already know. Yes. And this is off the record, okay?”
“Absolutely.”
“We’re arranging a landing zone for a National Guard Blackhawk… near the Long’s parking area. You know the location?”
“I’m a veteran of that lot.”
“Thought so. I’ve got to get moving… I’ll be there myself in thirty minutes. You didn’t hear this from me, okay? And I do NOT want to hear about it on KOA or KNUS.”
“You won’t… at least if you do, it won’t be from me. I’m a print reporter, not broadcast, remember? And I owe you, Joe.”
“You always owe me Bogosian! When you gonna pay up?”
“Well, when you tell me in what form payment should be rendered for past intelligence provided? Cash, check, liquor… women?”
“Women? Shit, Scott, your sense of humor is gonna get us in deep trouble one of these days when the call gets monitored by NSA or something and someone posts it on Facebook.”
“You started it, old friend. Okay, I’m in motion.”
Long’s Peak Trailhead Parking Lot, Rocky Mountain National Park