When everything was properly set, the major turned on the landing lights and lowered the gear. At 400 feet he crossed the tiny village and set up final approach to the helipad that was a scant quarter-mile away. The HH-3 settled, holding her course directly toward touchdown. The ground wind was very strong, but it held steady for four or five seconds and that was all the major needed to fly the Jolly directly onto the ground.
The side door was already open with the safety bar in place. Sergeant Prevost looked back toward the village, and saw the advancing lights of some kind of vehicle. In his judgment it was at least Phase One, but the flight out was over and it was always shorter going home.
Less than a minute later Major Kimsey jumped to the ground in time to meet Dr. Henrik Pedersen, whose long lean frame was partially encased in a well-worn parka. “My prayers are answered,” the physician said. “I have her here in the truck. She is sedated, but I very much fear that she is in serious danger. From rabies; Dr. Markley will know that already.”
“Have you talked with him?”
“Not from tonight, but he understands the great danger of that virus up here. Almost always it is fatal, but if she can be saved, he has the facilities and the knowledge.”
The nurse came out of the opened rear ramp and joined the men.
“Are you coming back with us, doctor?” Major Dashner asked.
“With you to care for the patient, I can stay here, and I am needed. In just a few hours, I have a delivery. It will have to be Caesarean and there are some complications.”
Two fur-clad Eskimo men slid a litter out of the truck and carried it to the helicopter. Sergeant Prevost directed them and with another crewman rigged it into position.
“What is the patient’s name?” Linda Dashner asked above the noise of the turbines.
“She is called Bebiane Jeremiassen. She is eight years of age. Three bites, several lacerations. I have given Demerol. If she needs anything further during the flight back, you have my permission to administer it.”
“Very well, doctor.”
The Danish physician produced an envelope from one of the pockets of his parka. “I have here written everything I can for Doctor Markley, and it is for you to read also. Now hurry, please, for her condition is not good.”
“Good night, doctor, thank you,” Major Kimsey said and went back into his aircraft. The rear ramp had already been closed and the main rotor was still turning. He checked to be sure that the patient had been properly secured and then climbed quickly into his own seat. The girl looked so tiny and pathetic underneath the blankets that had been wrapped around her, he wondered how much the hospital could do for her. But his part came first. “Checklist,” he ordered while he was still fastening his harness.
Within a minute the main rotor was whirling powerfully, the twin turbines splitting the blackness of the night with their blast of sound. Then the helicopter rose into the air, turned quickly almost in a hover, and began to climb rapidly toward the south. “Gear up,” Seligman reported. A gust jolted him so hard his teeth collided, but they were high enough now so that they could not be flung back down against the ground.
As soon as he had 2,000 feet, Major Kimsey called Thule and advised that he was on the way back. Thule acknowledged and warned that conditions had deteriorated since the flight had departed.
“How do you read me?” the major asked.
“Three-by-three, proceed with your message.”
“Advise Major Mulder to have the hangar open as soon as we touch down. Have the ambulance inside. We will taxi directly in after landing; ear protection will be necessary in the area.”
“Understood. Wilco. Over.”
“No further message. Out.”
Major Linda Dashner was pale and perspiring — the beginning symptoms of airsickness — but she was making a determined effort to take care of her patient. The frequently violent movements of the aircraft made it almost impossible for her to keep her footing beside the litter. Ferguson saw her problem and responded; he braced himself as securely as he could and then held her around the waist. It was less than entirely satisfactory, but it worked well enough. The fact that he had not been that close to a woman in months might have affected him, but the incessant gyrations of the helicopter wiped every other circumstance out of his mind. When he could, he looked at his wristwatch and counted off the agonizingly slow minutes that were passing.
The little girl lay on her back with her eyes closed. Despite the injection she had been given, she stirred quite a bit and once her eyes opened for a brief moment. They would have been attractive, almond-shaped eyes if they had not been clouded by pain, bewilderment, and shock. Emergency dressings had been applied to several places on her small body; the nurse checked them and replaced two that were blood-soaked. There were clear tooth marks on one side of her jaw; when Major Dashner saw them she pressed her lips together, looked at Ferguson, and shook her head. “That’s very bad,” she said.
“If she needs Mood—” Ferguson began.
The nurse interrupted him. “I wouldn’t dare to rig it, not in this turbulence. Only as a last resort.” She checked in her kit and prepared a fresh injection of Demerol in case it would be needed. “If something happens,” she explained, “I want to have that ready.”
“I’m sure we’ll make it,” Ferguson said. He looked once more at his watch and was immensely grateful that eleven minutes had been ticked off; every additional minute that they flew on reduced the risk and brought their arrival back at Thule closer. Although he was not qualified in rotary-wing aircraft, he had to admire the technique of the pilots who were successfully battling the worst flying weather he had ever experienced. Every few seconds the cabin would pitch with alarming suddenness in one direction or another, but the men up front recovered each time. They couldn’t rely on the automatic flight control system; the weather was far too bad for that. They had to be flying by hand — and under instrument conditions that were close to intolerable.
To keep his mind occupied, he concentrated his attention on the thin little patient who had been so savagely mauled. He tried to evaluate her chances of recovery; as far as he could see she should be all right if they got her into the hospital within the next hour. He focused his mind on the toughness of the Eskimo people; they were continuously exposed to severe conditions and their physical stamina was remarkable. Young and little as Bebiane was, that heritage could help her.
When he realized that Linda Dashner was beginning to have stomach convulsions, he handed a wax-lined bag to her just in time. She seized the bag, thrust her face into it, and allowed the contents of her stomach to discharge. After a few seconds she coughed and then vomited again; the bag was already full. Sergeant Prevost provided another while Ferguson, whose own stomach was giving him considerable trouble, disposed of the full one in the aircraft’s trash container.
“Feel better now?” he asked.
The unhappy young woman nodded her head enough to answer him as she fought to regain her self-control. Every motion of the aircraft was agony to her; she bent over and made use of the fresh bag, gasping for air as she did so. With Prevost’s help, Ferguson got her to sit down and strapped her in. The little Eskimo girl was quiet, mercifully unaware of the stormy ride she was enduring. As the flight nurse sat with her head almost between her knees, the helicopter changed attitude and Ferguson realized that they were beginning to descend.