The major shed her parka. “I’m coming,” she declared, and began to get into her flying suit.
Kimsey went quickly into the main hangar bay where Tiny Heneveld met him at the number one aircraft. “Are we going?” Heneveld asked. It was less a question than an urging.
“We’re going to try,” Kimsey answered.
Det. 4 was at full strength within five minutes. Then Kimsey spoke quickly and precisely to the other officers of his command. “Here it is: Jolly One will depart ASAP. Dick, you cock number two and keep in communication. Be ready to pick up the mission, if you can, if we run into trouble. The weather is right on edge — we may not be able to make it.”
“The chances will be better if we both go,” Mulder countered.
Kimsey shook his head. “You might have to come and get us — we don’t want to have to divert to get you. But give us full back up, please.” He saw over his shoulder that the number one helicopter was being pushed forward as the main hangar door began to open. “Any more information?” he asked.
An NCO was there with the answer. “Yes, sir. The girl is eight years old. She was out with her father feeding the dogs when she apparently tripped and fell down. As soon as she was prone the dogs jumped her. She’s been bitten and lacerated. Dr. Pedersen says that her only chance is to get her into the hospital as quickly as possible.”
“Any weather from Kanak?”
“Yes, sir — very tough. Ole, the Dane in charge there, advises extreme care. He didn’t tell us not to come.”
“He couldn’t,” the major answered. “All right, let’s go.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Although winter was yet to come, the Arctic was already showing its strength in the winds that whipped across the ramp and in the whirling mists of early snow that cut visibility to a few yards. It was fully dark as Forest Kimsey, seated behind the controls of Jolly One, began the complicated checklist.
He was interrupted briefly once by the flight mechanic, who reported that Lieutenant Ferguson was ready in flight gear and asking to come along. “Why?” Kimsey asked.
Ferguson, who already had a headset on, answered for himself. “I can make a hand, and help the flight nurse. On this one it might be useful.”
That was true and Ferguson knew the risks; he was an experienced pilot fully familiar with Arctic conditions. “All right,” Kimsey said and then returned to checking out his own aircraft. He had firm doubts that he would be able to make it to Kanak, but he was determined to try. In the rescue business the safety of aircraft and their crews was always secondary to the mission of saving human life — the ARRS PJ’s were living proof of that. He himself had often been moved by those men and the work that they did. Expert parachutists and scuba divers, they were prepared at any time to jump under any conditions whatsoever to save anyone. Their heroism was legendary.
“Checklist complete,” Seligman reported.
Seconds later the first of the big Sikorsky’s turbines began to come to life. As it caught hold, ground personnel on signal pushed the aircraft out onto the ramp and into the blast of the wind. The second turbine fired up, then the overhead main rotor began to turn. As it picked up speed the helicopter rocked on its gear, resisting the wind that challenged its right to even attempt to fly. As soon as the hangar door closed behind it, it was black in every direction; the field lights were on, but they were all but invisible.
Major Kimsey made an immediate decision not to follow usual procedure and go to the end of the runway for takeoff — the ground gusts were much too strong for that. He nodded to Seligman, who called the tower and asked for immediate takeoff from where they were. It was a useless formality; nothing else would be in the air for hundreds of miles in any direction. The tower gave permission, but warned that Phase One might be declared at any moment.
Seligman acknowledged and broke off. The main rotor whirled faster, the Sikorsky rolled forward a few feet and lifted off.
As soon as he was safely airborne, Kimsey set up a long climbing turn toward the north. His aircraft bucked underneath him and swayed dangerously as sharp gusts hit it, but he had expected that. It was an insane night to be flying, but that consideration had to be ignored. At 3,000 feet he leveled off and set up the best cruising speed that he dared under those weather conditions. He pushed the transmit button. “Thule from Jolly One,” he said. “Tell Kanak we’re on our way.”
As the helicopter continued to fight her way through the violent Arctic night, Major Dashner checked the contents of her medical kit and chose the location where she wanted the litter rigged. Around her the men on board were firmly strapped in, riding out the storm quietly, although each one of them knew that the hazard level was high.
Thule called to report Phase One. Seligman acknowledged and asked if there was any further information from Kanak, especially weather data. Nothing more had been received, which meant little; all of the men on board the HH-3, including Ferguson, knew that putting down on the helipad at Kanak, in the face of the winds that would be tearing across the ground there, would be a risky business.
The howling of the turbines remained constant; the main rotor absorbing the shocks and the gusts as the mission continued. At times the aircraft skidded sideways or bounded upward in response to a vertical gust, but the pilots held control and kept a steady heading. “Half way,” Seligman reported sometime later from the cockpit.
As if in reply, the aircraft caught a particularly bad gust that shook her from stem to stern, but the rotor settled in and held steady. Off toward the east a rising watery moon provided a limited, ghostlike light that barely showed the massive whiteness of the ice cap. Navigation was a problem under those conditions, but both of the pilots had made the trip many times before and what landmarks they could detect told them that they were substantially on course.
Ten minutes later the gusts seemed to become sharper and more violent. Controlling the helicopter became a more acute problem as a consequence; Major Kimsey began a letdown in the hope of finding less violent air. If that helped at all he could not detect it; the aircraft bucked and yawed as it churned its way through the sky. Thule called for a report; Seligman answered that they had descended to 2,000 feet and that the ETA at Kanak was approximately twenty minutes. There was no fresh news from the Eskimo village.
In the cabin, Ferguson almost regretted that he had asked to come. The constant bucking of the aircraft was beginning to disturb him a little despite his nearly 3,000 hours of flight time. It was one thing to be sitting up front doing the flying; it was quite another to be sitting in back, helpless to do anything but ride out the bumps as best he could.
In the cockpit Bob Seligman took over the flying while the major peered ahead, looking for the lights of Kanak. Sometimes, even in fairly heavy snow, they could be seen at a distance, but the blackness of the night was virtually unrelieved and it was no longer possible to fix the position of the helicopter by landmarks or radio aids. As she continued to buck and skid in the insatiable gusts, the Arctic closed in around her, waiting for her to falter in her struggles, or for either of the pilots to make a single serious mistake. But the HH-3 flew on. The pressurized blades continued to whirl overhead; the highly intricate rotor head responded to the commands it was given as the Sikorsky fought onward through the violently unstable air.
Three minutes short of the ETA the lights of Kanak had not been sighted, but that could be due to the greatly reduced visibility. Then the small transmitter at the village came on the air and within a few seconds the ADF needle pointed the way ten degrees to the left. Kimsey took back the aircraft, made the correction, and began to descend; ninety seconds later Seligman pointed dead ahead. A tiny pattern of faint lights appeared to flash off and on through the swirling snow. Seligman began to read off the before-landing checklist.