47. Logan
Logan
“Roger. I’m a life flight helicopter pilot back home,” I confirm.
“Today’s our lucky day, then,” the accented voice says informally, wasting my time.
“Request immediate landing. Medical assistance required upon arrival. Will need proper shutdown instructions.”
“Ground control confirm. All traffic, hold position. EMS en route. Mr. Kirkland, I need you to head due west,” the voice says, returning my professionalism.
“Copy that,” I respond.
The airport is a blinking green dot on my radar, making it pretty easy to find.
My only concern comes with the touchdown. If I stall out before we land, all of this will be for nothing, and I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t get Chase on the ground safely.
Chase.
I hear him counting in the back. I wish we were able to help each other right now, but all our attention needs to be completely focused on the tasks in front of us.
As I cut across the island and approach the landing zone of the airport, I can see the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles on the tarmac.
I’m almost certain we’re carrying a dead man to his final resting place, but I guess there’s hope until a physician says there isn’t any, and Chase is still working.
Suddenly, I hear him shout.
“Holy shit! HOLY SHIT!”
I don’t have time to ask him what’s happening as I bleed my airspeed down to forty knots while closing in on three hundred feet above ground.
Instructions for shutting this bird down are coming through my headset from ground control. Knowing we’re going to make it has me dizzy with relief.
Hold it together, Logan, we’re not on the ground yet, and the man in the back could still be dead for all we know.
As soon as we touch down, I flip the switches in the order they’re told to me as the side is ripped open and people begin pulling Erik out of the back row of seats.
Chase’s voice fills my ears as I sign off with ground control and take the helmet off.
“AED advised no shock due to asystole. Two one-milligram vials of epinephrine were administered intravenously three minutes apart. Nine total rounds of CPR. Pulse restored, albeit weak,” he rattles off.
“Thank you, Dr. Matthews. We’ll take it from here.”
I’m still seated in the cockpit, as the adrenaline leaves my body wracked with tremors, when Chase climbs into the seat next to me.
“Hey,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid of startling me. “That was some good fucking flying.”
I give him a weak smile.
“Sounds like it was also some good fucking CPR.”
Chase shrugs.
“It was mostly the drugs that saved his life.”
I purse my lips.
“That’s like saying it was mostly the rotors that saved ours,” I point out. “Both were critical, but they also needed to be controlled by someone who knew what the fuck they were doing.”
Chase lets out a deep breath.
“So much for a relaxing sunset flight over the island.”
“What? You aren’t relaxed?” I tease.
Suddenly, Chase bursts into laughter, and my tired, adrenaline-soaked body follows suit.
Chase and I are gripping each other tightly, half laughing, half crying into each other’s necks when we’re interrupted by a knock on the helicopter’s frame.
“I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m certain what you’ve been through was very traumatic, but there is an officer here needing to ask you some questions.”
“Yes, of course,” Chase says, climbing out of the helicopter.
I stay inside for another few seconds, trying to collect myself. I don’t think Chase understands quite how close a call it was. To survive a low-G pushover just to end up in a vortex ring state is like being struck by two bolts of lightning at the same fucking time.
A knock on my side of the helicopter jolts me back to the present.
Chase is opening my door and holding out his hand.
By the time we’re done giving our statements and going through the order of events for the police, the news crews have arrived.
Thankfully, we’re being hailed as heroes and not painted in some sketchy tourist kind of light.
Next to me, Chase looks incredible as he handles most of the interview. Poised and dressed to kill for what was supposed to be a romantic date in khaki linen pants and a flowing white button-down, he easily commands everyone’s attention.
“I didn’t know what we were up against until the AED advised no shock. After that, it was pretty clear, but I wouldn’t have been able to do anything to help Mr. Halstaad if my boyfriend hadn’t first saved our lives by pulling the helicopter out of that death spiral.”
I feel heat creeping up my cheeks at his praise as the eyes of the media collectively turn toward me.
“Mr. Kirkland, can you explain what happened?”
I take them back through what I remember to the best of my ability. How Erik slumped over, pushing the cyclic stick—aka the joystick—forward, sending us careening toward the ocean. I try to leave out the technical jargon, but it can’t be completely avoided.
“My biggest concern was trying to avoid mast bumping while pulling us out of the low-G pushover. If I had tried to correct the lateral tilt first, we would’ve encountered a major mechanical problem that would’ve been uncorrectable.
Luckily, bringing the nose up first needed to happen anyway, so we didn’t strike the water.
The vortex ring state was probably the kindest secondary problem the universe could’ve thrown at me, because I just needed to move laterally out of the downwash.
Banking the turn was a no-brainer at that point; I just had to hope like hell the chopper didn’t roll because of the pushover.
We were incredibly lucky,” I say again before realizing I’m probably saying more than she actually wanted to hear.
But then she asks another question, so… maybe not.
“How is it that you know so much about these things?” she asks, thrusting the microphone at me once more.
“I’ve flown for the Forest Service and for ski patrol out west in the U.S.”
“What do you do currently?”
I huff a bitter laugh.
“Well, I’m currently unemployed because my previous employer fired me for trying to do my job.”
“Which was?” she asks.
“I flew a MEDEVAC chopper for a hospital in Boston,” I answer, diplomatically leaving the hospital’s name out of it.
“Would you say what you did today is standard knowledge for helicopter pilots?” our primary interviewer continues.
“Um,” I stall, rubbing the back of my neck.
“I mean, most helicopter pilots probably encounter one of those things during simulation training. The fact that we experienced both at the same time in real life was pretty crazy. I’m not even sure it was standard knowledge for me. As I said, I just got lucky.”
Chase leans in and moves the interviewer’s microphone to his mouth.
“What he means is no, it’s not standard knowledge, and we’d be dead if it weren’t for his quick thinking, intuition, and experience flying helicopters in dangerous terrain.”
As he straightens back up, Chase’s hand finds the small of my back, and I lean into him as our interviewer finally sets her sights on my boyfriend.
“And what about you? Can you tell us what happened from your point of view?”
“Well, I was pretty certain we were going to die, but until we were actually dead, I just tried to help by doing what I’m trained to do.”
“You’re a physician, is that correct?”
Chase nods.
“I’m currently a trauma surgery resident, but I’m actually hoping to change specialties once we return home.”
Our interviewer throws a surprised glance at Chase.
“Because of today’s events?”
Chase shakes his head.
“Not entirely. I believe everything happens for a reason. While I’m grateful for the training that allowed me to help save our pilot’s life, today’s events confirmed what I already knew: trauma isn’t for me.”
Chase seems happy to leave it there, but our interviewer is nothing if not thorough.
“Will you still be pursuing medicine?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Chase says with a grin, gripping me a little tighter. “But I’ll hopefully be switching to pediatrics. I want to work with children.”
We answer questions for another fifteen minutes before we’re finally allowed to leave. The police give us a lift back to our resort since our scheduled pickup isn’t for another hour.
By the time we make it back to our room, I’m mentally and physically done.