The crew of the inbound Army Blackhawk spotted the LZ almost thirty miles away. Cordoned off by ranger vehicles and sheriff’s SUV’s, all with red and blue beacons flashing urgently, it was impossible to miss. Using their GPS anchored displays of the terrain, the pilot guided them though the wide valleys leading up to the mountain and settled the twin engine turboshaft machine onto the concrete for a quick pre-mission brief.
The crew had shut the helicopter down and had used the hood of a car to layout and examine a terrain map. Now, a half dozen park rangers pushed in around the pilot and his crew as he looked up from the terrain map they’d been examining.
“Okay, folks, weight is a factor, even for a Blackhawk, but we’ll have one flight nurse and the most terrain-savvy ranger with us. So, five of us — two pilots, two crew chiefs, and our one flight nurse — plus Ranger Wilson here, who knows the summit very well. No one else. We’re not going to use night vision goggles because we will need to use our night sun to illuminate the area when we arrive, and we’ve got pretty good moonlight with moonrise in a few minutes. We’ve been briefed that there is no flat, open terrain up there on which to set the machine down, so I’ll either hover just above with the crew chief using the winch as necessary, or I’ll balance one of my main wheels on the flattest rock available to get people in and out, and essentially remain barely airborne in the meantime. Weather at the top this evening is very moderate, winds should be no more than twenty knots from the southwest. Any questions?”
Judith could see the position lights and the beacon of the Blackhawk lifting off from the LZ as she turned off the main highway. She had briefed the Guard command post by phone since she knew that riding along was not possible. As she pulled around the circle of ranger SUV’s and parked, she could still see the machine climbing toward the north. Judith watched for a few seconds, startled when a uniformed man materialized at her window.
“Ma’am, we have a rescue operation going on…”
“I know that. I called it.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m the one that asked for this.” She still wasn’t making sense and she held out her hand instead. “Judith Winston. The guy we’re trying to save on the peak is my client.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Present Day — August 14th, 9:05 pm
Summit of Long’s Peak
Trying to get comfortable enough to die was more of a challenge than he’d expected — dammit! Even the spot he’d used during the afternoon felt like precisely what it was: a bed of rocks!
He stood unsteadily, aware of being at least intoxicated, but wondering why the barbiturates he’d finally received from an offshore pharmacy two weeks ago hadn’t kicked in yet. The thought that they might not be as potent as they were supposed to be had crossed his mind, but hey, he had all night.
What had really propelled him to his feet was a growing anger that had harpooned his idea of a peaceful departure — a deep sleep to oblivion. He had been a good captain, dammit! But wasn’t he a freaking human being? Weren’t humans supposed to be imperfect? Yes, he misunderstood a radio call and failed to question his bumbling copilot, but it seemed it was just diabolical chance that put that Beech 1900 in front of them! Chance or a higher power that hated him.
“GODDAMMIT!” He screamed into the wind, the effort making him dizzy. He braced himself on the edge of a huge boulder that had been his companion for hours and stood and railed again. “FUCKING GODDAMMIT TO HELL! WHY? WHY ME? YOU HEAR ME? WHY? THERE ARE WORSE BASTARDS OUT THERE TO TORTURE!”
Maybe it was the lack of oxygen, but screaming felt better than lying on rocks and wondering when it was all going to be over. He let go of the boulder and took an unsteady step forward, shaking his fist at the now starry sky. “YOU BASTARDS SET ME UP! YOU’RE THE ONES WHO SHOULD BE ON TRAIL… TRIAL… WHATEVER. I WAS A GOOD MAN! I WASN’T TED FUCKING BUNDY OR CHARLES MANSON OR SOME SCUMBAG WIFE BEATER!”
Somewhere in the corner of his mind was the question of precisely who he was railing at. Who were the stated bastards? But there was a therapeutic impetus to the screaming, and it was like a huge boulder that had started rolling downhill with too much momentum to stop.
More yelling now, shaking both fists, and turning toward where Denver ought to be before realizing he was too dizzy to know which direction to look.
I’d better sit down, he decided, but another idea slowly crawled into his frontal cortex and he summoned the energy and the anger to stand once more, middle finger offered to the skies as he screamed: YOU… YOU COWARDLY MOTHERFUCKERS! I CHALLENGE YOU! YOU HEAR ME? SHOW YOURSELVES AND FIGHT ME! COME ON, BASTARDS! I KNOW YOU”RE UP THERE… OR OUT THERE SOMEWHERE! COME ON! I DARE YOU!”
A slightly familiar, rhythmic sound reached his fuzzed up hearing and he steadied himself and turned in that direction, watching something descending toward him as a blinding light hit him like a million suns. He covered his eyes and screamed ineffectually against the oncoming Valkyrie or angry devils or whatever it was that was accepting his challenge. He felt like a mouse flipping off an eagle a microsecond before the talons closed, but that tiny rebellion felt good!
“YEAH! THAT’S RIGHT! YEAH, BABY! BRING IT ON, YOU BASTARDS!”
The light was blinding, the sound apparently the beating of huge wings. What the hell had he summoned, a pterodactyl?
So this is what dying is like! he thought
The breeze had risen to a hurricane and the merciless blazing light was even brighter as he kept his left arm and hand above him, middle finger defiantly thrust toward the invited intruder. He unshielded his eyes and screamed one last heartfelt epithet at the top of his lungs: “FUCK… YOU!” as he slowly lost his tenuous hold on consciousness, his eyes rolling back in his head, the bulk of his body slowly oozing down among the boulders like an escaping octopus.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Present Day — August 14th, 9:35 pm
Thanks to the “he’s with me” stewardship of Joe Johnson, the barrel chested chief park ranger now standing next to him in the trail head parking lot, Scott Bogosian had been spared the task of pushing through the normal official defenses thrown up against invading reporters.
Word had been radioed from the flight crew that they had the target on board and were electing to land back at the LZ and transfer the man to a waiting ambulance, a decision Scott interpreted as hopeful.
“Any idea where they’ll take him, Joe?” Scott asked.
“Don’t know. Usually our mountain rescues are all about broken bones and hypothermia, so helicoptering directly to a Denver trauma center is the best idea, but I don’t know what they’re dealing with. Could mean he can walk to the ambulance. Could mean they recovered a body.” Joe turned and regarded Scott for a few seconds. “So, what’s this all about, Scotty? Why are you out here in the cold tonight? I know it’s not a social visit because you didn’t bring any scotch.”
“A book I’m thinking of writing. Maybe.”
“Really? Well, that figures. In the old days you would have never shown up without a photographer rattling at least one bag full of Nikons. You aren’t acting like you’re under deadline pressure.”
Scott smiled, shaking his head. “How times change. The TV guys are doing it solo these days too, and so are reporters. At least we are Rocky Mountain News refugees.”
“Tell me about this book idea.”