25. Logan
Logan
Isnooze my alarm three times. It’s something I never do, but I can hear the sleet hitting my window and nothing in me wants to get out of this bed. The condo is quiet, I’m nice and warm, and the calmness in the air tells me Chase isn’t here.
We’ve hardly spoken or even seen each other since he fully moved in. The silence doesn’t feel laced with anger or animosity, though. In truth, it feels tinged with the kind of shyness that only comes from acknowledging desires that are based on uncontrollable lust.
I would know.
Throwing my covers back, I go through my morning routine at five p.m., smiling when I see Chase’s note and pull out the meal he left for me.
Perhaps feeding each other counts as a conversation.
Perhaps it counts as more.
I press delete on that thought, finish my meal, and get ready for work.
Carlos is still filling out paperwork from his last flight when I clock in.
“It’s rough, man. Be ready.”
“The flying or the calls?” I ask, opening my locker to make sure my gear is exactly how I left it.
“Both,” he answers.
“That chopper’s been a hearse more than a medical transport today,” he says in a somber tone.
“Oh, shit. Anything I can take off your plate?” I offer.
“I still need to restock. We had to wait for an MD to pronounce the patient DOA. They tried to tell me and my flight nurse to get him prepared for the OR, but my flight nurse did fourteen rounds of CPR en route. The guy wasn’t coming back. I don’t know why people insist on going out in this shit.”
If only it were as simple as staying inside. But here we are, him and me, out and about in this foul weather because we have to work. People rely on us. And those people out there have families relying on them. Sometimes staying in isn’t an option.
“Yeah, no problem,” I tell him. “I’ve got the restock. You finish up and get out of here. Be careful going home. The roads are worse than the skies,” I tell him.
He gives me a tired laugh.
“I don’t know about that. The snow is really coming down, and it’s mixed with ice.”
“Come talk to me after you do a search and rescue in Montana at two a.m. with blizzard-force winds throwing you sideways, nowhere to land while your fuel gauge freezes, and you’re running on nothing but blind luck and adrenaline.”
That was one of the scariest nights of my life, but also one of the most thrilling. Stone and I did shots together in the dark back in his office once that run was over.
Then it hits me: Chase was right.
Stone was around for every situation that made me feel alive. Maybe I somehow confused my love of high-stakes flying with the man who did it all with me.
It’s certainly food for thought, but that particular meal will have to wait until later.
Pushing through the doors to the roof, a gust of wind threatens to slam the door on me as I step toward the helipad.
“Jesus Christ!” I yell into the wind as snow and ice pelt my face. There are already close to two inches of precipitation up here.
I climb inside the chopper and drop the bag of supplies I assembled from the sheet Carlos had filled out.
As I’m restocking the chopper with medical supplies, the wind is rocking the helicopter, and I hate to admit it, but Carlos has some fucking balls flying in this shit.
At least in Montana, I just had to avoid the side of the mountain.
Out here, you’re dodging skyscrapers, billboards, and most dangerous of all—power lines.
When the chopper gets rocked again, I realize that whoever allowed Carlos to fly in this shit is a fucking moron. He can’t help anybody if he’s dead.
Making my way back inside half an hour later, I march straight to the physician’s lounge to talk to my boss, the director of aviation operations.
Not caring that it’s well past eight o’clock at night, I dial his number and wait for an answer.
“This is Mark.”
“Mark, Logan Kirkland here. We gotta talk about this weather.”
He aims for a joke, but I’m not in a joking mood.
“Wouldn’t think a mountain man like yourself would mind a little snow,” he says.
“I don’t,” I say through gritted teeth. “What I mind is trying to dodge the ICU tower during take-off while thirty-five-mile-an-hour wind gusts try to push me into it.”
“Have you gotten a call?” he asks, turning serious at my tone.
“No, but I’m not going to sit around on edge all night waiting for a call to come in and then have to have this conversation with you while someone’s life is on the line.”
“What would you have me do?” he asks, but my answer is ready.
“Call for more critical care ground units tonight,” I reply. But immediately, I hear my own words from earlier echo in my head. The roads are worse than the skies.
“And risk the drivers’ lives instead?”
“Shit,” I mumble before sighing.
“Look,” Mark says reasonably, “I don’t want to lose any of my pilots or the EMS guys tonight, so when the calls come in, use your best judgment. I won’t fight you on it. If it’s not safe, don’t fly. Emergency cases will have to make do at local hospitals until the weather moves out.”
Although I appreciate the support, his words don’t do much to lessen my anxiety. I’ve never been one to leave someone stranded.
My eyes stay glued to the weather report for the next several hours.
It’s five a.m., and instead of dying down, the winds have sustained their gusts ahead of a winter storm that will supposedly dump close to nine inches on Back Bay by tomorrow afternoon.
The gusts coming off the water are certainly concerning and have my stomach in knots.
I think back to the research I’ve been doing on the Coast Guard Auxiliary.
Flying over open water is a whole different beast than flying over land.
Although I’m confident I could be trained for it, and it would definitely sharpen my skills as a pilot, the thought of not going home terrifies me in a way it never has before.
Despite the rift between us, the thought of not getting home to Chase leaves me nauseated and appreciating the mundaneness of my job for the first time ever.
The thought damn near knocks me on my ass.
Okay, so maybe I’ve got some feelings I need to address where Chase is concerned. It seems Chase has been right about a lot of things.
It’s time to stop running.
Feeling better after resolving to come clean, face the music, and talk to Chase about how I’m feeling and what’s going on in my head, I sit down with my book and attempt to wait out the rest of my shift.
I have six chapters of Mockingjay left when the call comes in.
“Life Flight Team Bravo Chopper 1, Metro Dispatch. Scene call, snowmobile vs motor vehicle collision, Carlisle, Havenbrook Ct. and Highway 6. Time out 4:47.”
I don’t hesitate to respond, which is kind of a relief.
I’ve spent the last several hours thinking through what I’d do if the call came in.
Would I go? Or would I refuse? I know which option is smarter and safer, but I also know that anytime a snowmobile goes up against a car, it doesn’t end well for the driver of the snowmobile, and there’s a damn good chance that person won’t see tomorrow if I don’t get to them in time.
Racing toward my locker, I’m thankful for the barest hint of gray light coming in through the windows in the hallway. I’ll need all the help I can get with visibility.
“Metro Dispatch, LF1449, copy scene call snowmobile vs motor vehicle collision, Carlisle, Havenbrook Ct. and Highway 6. 4:47. We have two crew on board. Fuel on board: one hour forty minutes. Time to takeoff five minutes.”
“LF1449 copy.”
My flight nurse is also in the locker room. Helen is smart as hell and a no-nonsense kind of woman. She gives me a curt nod as we simultaneously tug our flight suits on over our day clothes.
“It’s going to be a rough ride,” she says, her voice steady and even, fully aware dispatch is still on the line…unlike Chase.
My chest pinches at the thought of Chase. I wonder if he’s in this building. Did he have any trouble driving in?
I force myself to focus, remembering that I’m going to talk to him when I get back. Enough is enough with this tension.
“Nothing we can’t handle,” I reply to Helen, finally believing it.
This is what I do. This kind of danger is what I’ve been wanting, so why the fuck am I getting all freaked out about it now? It’s not like we haven’t had bad weather since I’ve been here.
Because it’s the first time the possibility of not making it back actually matters, I remind myself.
Helen and I make our way to the helicopter on the roof.
As she straps into the back, I activate the battery power, run the fuel pumps, and engage the starter.
After introducing fuel for ignition, I monitor for stabilization.
The familiar hum and vibrations of the chopper soothe my anxiety.
I’m comfortable here regardless of the weather.
After sweet-talking the machine and confirming stabilization, I look over my shoulder at Helen and smile.
“Pray that if the wind must gust, it blows us south. Otherwise, the ICU will have a new decoration.”
I swear she almost smiles. Which makes me grin wider.
Turning back to face the windshield. The flight phone is still with me as I unmute it and respond.
“Metro Dispatch, LF1449 ready for takeoff, in need of coordinates.”
“Roger that, LF1449. You are heading forty-two degrees, thirty-one minutes, forty-five seconds north and seventy-one degrees, twenty minutes, fifty-eight seconds west.”
I set the dial on my watch and enter the coordinates into the GPS system in the helicopter and repeat them back to ensure I have them correct before engaging the clutch and increasing the throttle that will lift us into the air.
“Metro Dispatch, LF1449 wheels up from Boston Memorial at 5:06. Request flight following to LZ,” I say.
“LF1449, copy wheels up at 5:06. Visibility is low with precipitation falling across the state. Wind seventy-five at twenty, gusts to thirty-nine. You are tracking,” dispatch confirms.
I’m flying against the wind, which is nice, but it’s going to be hell staying on track getting back. I’ll need to adjust my speed heavily or risk the wind pushing me off the roof of the hospital.
My ETA to the closest landing zone to the crash site should have been twelve minutes. In this crap, it takes eighteen, and those six minutes can mean life or death. As soon as we’re close, I radio dispatch one more time.
“Metro Dispatch, LF1449 two miles from LZ. Please connect to ground operations.”
“LF1449, ground contact is Trooper David Simmons on 139.872. Transitioning now.”
“Roger that.”
There’s an audible click, a second of static, and then I know my contact has changed. Needing to establish ground support, I begin speaking again as I adjust my altitude and scan the area. It’s rural compared to Boston proper, but it’s certainly not as open as Montana.
I’m fully locked in now. Nothing matters but hitting the landing zone and getting this patient loaded and back to the hospital.
“Trooper Simmons, this is LF1449 from Boston Memorial. One mile out. Do you have a secure LZ?”
Then he speaks words every helicopter pilot dreads hearing.
“Negative. Established LZ has a downed power line. Do not approach.”
Because time is of the essence now, we lose the formal conversation and just say what needs to be said.
“Copy that. Can you reroute me?”
“Winds are blowing southwest. You don’t have a clear approach from the north,” he says. “I repeat, you do not have a clear approach.”
In the background, I hear someone yell, “GET THAT DAMN BIRD ON THE GROUND NOW OR WE’RE GONNA LOSE HIM!”
“Trooper, I only need a forty-five-by-forty-five-foot square. Let me worry about the approach. Can you just mark it out with flares?”
“Wilco,” he says. It’s not a term I hear a lot, but it’s the only sign-off that not only means I heard you, but more importantly, I will comply.
Sure enough, as I drop my altitude and swing wide, directly into the wind for maximum stability, I see the eerie red glow of the flares signaling my landing zone.
With my left hand firmly gripping my joystick—because the wind really wants to fuck with me today—I use my right hand to adjust the cyclic and tail rotor to manage my drift. I overshoot, though, and end up off course.
“Fuck,” I swear, trying to get back into alignment. I’m losing time, and I have to make sure I stay high enough that I don’t stall out. My engine is whirring loudly, the higher-than-normal RPMs taxing the motor, but after a final push, I set the bird down in the small square.
Sweat is running down my back in rivulets.
Usually, I stay in the chopper while EMS loads the patient and my flight nurse gets to work, but with the weather the way it is, EMS isn’t here.
“I’m gonna need your help, Kirkland,” Helen says.
I appreciate that she didn’t compliment the landing. She knows the hardest part is yet to come.
Unclipping, I need help getting the door open. The wind is hell-bent on seeing me fail today.
And I might have considered letting it…until I saw the broken boy bleeding in the snow, his leg at an unnatural angle and his eyes closed.
It’s only when Helen yells, “Grab the AED! We don’t have a pulse!” that I get my ass in gear.
I pull a towel and the device from the back of the chopper and race over to her, dropping to my knees in the snow. The kid looks maybe eighteen, nineteen? Too young for this to be his last day on Earth, that’s for damn sure.
Helen is doing chest compressions as I grab the scissors from the kit and work around her to cut his shirt and jacket open. Sure, it’s twenty-two degrees out here, but hypothermia is survivable; not having a heartbeat isn’t.
I wipe his chest off as Helen gives two breaths.
Placing the pads on the right side of his chest and his left abdomen, I hit the button to analyze his heart rhythm and sit back as it advises a shock.
“Switch,” Helen says, calling for me to do chest compressions while she recovers.
We both know if we can’t get a heartbeat back before we load him on the chopper, he’s as good as dead.
Leaning my full weight into the compressions, I think back to the night Chase taught me how to do this on the floor. I don’t want to have to tell him I failed. I don’t want to have to tell this kid’s family I failed.
So, I double down, counting out loud, making sure the compressions are deep and steady, and the breaths take at least one second each.
After six agonizing rounds…three long-ass minutes, we get a heartbeat.
He’s not out of the woods, but he’s not dead yet, either.
Helen gets him loaded with the help of the trooper and the two other officers on the scene while I climb back up front, put my headset on, and get things ready for the return flight.
“Metro Dispatch, LF1449 lift off from scene 5:37, patient on board. Destination Boston Memorial Hospital. ETA twelve minutes.”
Because fuck this weather. This kid’s not dying today.
“LF1449 copy, lift off 5:37, patient on board. Destination Boston Memorial. ETA 5:49. Notifying trauma team now.”
“Roger that.”
Okay, Chase. Tag, you’re it.