Chapter 39
Chapter 39
T he airfield, unprotected from the wind, was a howling abyss. Pete and Mackintosh, normally so relaxed about everything, were out shoveling furiously still. The grit and salt had done their work too; everything around them was white, but the runway was black.
Morag checked her phone and sighed.
“What?”
“Helo is still out. Climbers trapped all over the place; one with a broken leg, exposed. That beats some kids in a cave, I’m afraid.”
“Well, it shouldn’t,” said Ranald.
“They’ll be fine,” said Morag, once again, trying to make herself believe it.
They looked at one another.
“The pilots won’t have any more legal hours left in them,” said Morag, saying what she knew Ranald was thinking.
“They’ll get some in from the rigs.”
“They would,” said Morag. “If they didn’t stop decommissioning all the bloody rigs. They’re miles away.”
R ANALD CHECKED THEY were full on fuel—it could take them there and back twice if they needed to, or they could circle. Anything flexible. Air traffic control wasn’t an issue, given nobody else was flying near them that day; everyone was avoiding the storm. Glasgow wished them well and promised to keep an eye out, and thanked them.
The bags were loaded; they were fuel heavy and weight light, which was useful and something to bear in mind. Morag and Ranald looked at each other once again, and then ahead at the swirling flakes on the runway.
“You do the honors,” said Morag. Ranald was due to retire in the next year or two. There wouldn’t be many more opportunities like this.