The Last Run (35 page)

The way he is drifting in and out of consciousness, the way he is talking, the way he is shaking, Mark’s core temperature must have dropped below ninety degrees, Bob Doyle thought. It could be as low as eighty-eight. But how low can it go before he suffers a heart attack? I guess it depends on the individual’s body fat. Mark’s got plenty of that, thank God. And he is still breathing. He’s breathing and that’s all that matters. I’ve got to keep his head up. He doesn’t even have the strength to keep his head from falling forward into the water. I’ve got to watch that. If his head goes under for more than ten or twenty seconds, he’s had it. That’s all it will take. I can’t let him drown in my arms. I can’t let that happen.

“Keep your head back,” he said into the skipper’s ear. Morley had just snapped into consciousness again.

“Where are we?”

“I’m right with you, buddy. I’m right here.”

“They left us,” Morley said. His speech was slurring. “I know it… left us to die.”

“No,” Bob Doyle said gently. “No. We’re not going to die. They know we’re here. They know where we are. They’re tough. They’ll be back.”

“Why?”

“Why what, Mark?”

“Why, Bob?”

It was a whisper of a voice now, bled of any emotion.

“Hang on,” Bob Doyle told him. “Remember what I told you?” He got no answer. “Remember, Mark? Remember how I told you that we’re going to put you in the first rescue basket that gets close? You’re going up first, man. First man up. Ask Giggy, here. Giggy’ll tell you.”

“I … I know …”

“First one up —that’s you. I promise.”

“I can’t take it anymore.”

“They’ll drop the basket near us and I’ll get you right in.” A wave crunched them down. They came up and Bob Doyle went on, “You won’t have to worry about a thing. Hear me? I’ll put you right in the basket. They’ll haul it up. They’ll get you into a thermal bag. You’ll be good as new.”

A comber caught them from behind. When the sea spit them back out, Bob Doyle sputtered and called out his skipper’s name. But there was no answer.

“Mark!”

Just then Morley burst through the surface. Bob Doyle grabbed him and shook his head.

“Hey! Wake up! Wake up!”

“Oh… oh …”

“Don’t do to that to me, Mark,” he said. “Stay with me, Mark! Stay with me!”

“I can’t… I can’t keep my eyes open …”

“Hey.
Hey!”

Morley fell limp in his arms.

“Mark!”

Another wave rumbled down on them and the next thing Bob Doyle knew, Mork and DeCapua were floating alongside him.

“How’s Mark doing, Bob?”

“Not good.”

“Where the fuck are those Coasties?”

“How the hell do I know?” Bob Doyle said. “They ran out of gas. Maybe they went back to get more.”

“Back to Sitka?”

“Who knows?”

“They ain’t coming back.”

Bob Doyle coughed, rackingly. His mouth and throat were on fire.

“You quitting on us, Gig?”

“Who said I’m quitting?”

“Well, they won’t quit either. They’ll be back. I know it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Mork had DeCapua by the armpits and was leaning back, floating. DeCapua had not said anything for a while. He was groaning.

“Listen, you bastard,” Mork snapped at him. “You got to help yourself. You know? I’m getting tired. I’m getting real tired. You got to do more to help yourself.”

“Sorry, Giggy.”

“Fuck you’re sorry.”

“I can’t see.”

“Oh yeah? Fuck you.”

Another crasher hit, and this time Bob Doyle lost his hold on Morley. He felt as if he were suspended in thin air. He felt his father’s strong hand, shoving him backward, out of their aluminum skiff…

He broke the surface.

“You son of a bitch!”

It was Mork’s voice. That much he knew. He was screaming. Bob Doyle wiped his eyes.

“Get back here!”

Where was Mark? Where? In a panic, Bob Doyle whirled around, thrashing the water, kicking, feeling about him, and then Morley surfaced. Bob Doyle lunged for him, seized him by the hand and hoisted him up on his chest. He put his ear to Morley’s mouth. The skipper was still breathing.

He heard Mork hollering.

“
I said get back here!”

Something was missing. At first, Bob Doyle did not know what it was. He could not see his hand in front of his face. Everything had turned black. He bobbed, holding fast to Morley, swiveling his head, trying to see what was different. And then it came to him. The strobe was gone.

He thought: Mike’s got the EPIRB.

Where had he gone?

Mike DeCapua was in the fight of his life now. He was fighting the darkness, fighting the snarling, black hills of water, fighting his panic. Waves were blindsiding him, exploding in his face. He heard voices. They came from far off, then closer, then far away again. His stomach hurt. His lungs hurt. Everything hurt. He was flailing his arms, wriggling his hips, telling his legs to kick. The legs were not obeying.

He cried out for the others. A wave answered him.

When he came up for air, he clawed at the water and then a white flash blinded him. He fell on his back and a wave slipped under him, lifted him high, and then he felt himself sliding down into a trough.

A flash went off in his face again.

I’ve got the EPIRB, he said to himself. I ain’t lost. They’ll see it. They can see the strobe.

He heard the voices again.

“Mike!”

That was Bob Doyle’s voice. He was sure of it.

Then:
“Get your ass back here, you lousy son of a bitch!”

That’s Giggy, he thought.

“Mike!” he heard Bob Doyle shout. “We’re right over here! Come over this way!”

It was hard to tell how far away they were; hair was plastered all over his face. Not even the wind would blow it off.

He shouted:

“Where are you guys?”

“We’re over here! Right over here!”

“I can’t do it!”

“Get your ass over here! We can’t break up to go get you! Get over here, now!”

“I can’t!”

“You got to get over here, Mike!” That sounded like Bob Doyle again. “I can’t come for you. I’m holding up Mark! You can do it!”

He heard Mork again.

“You want to kill yourself? Go ahead! I don’t give a fuck. But throw us the fucking strobe! We need that strobe!”

He started slowly, banging the surface with his heavy, aching arms. His legs were not working well. The muscles were stiffening from the cold. He heard Bob Doyle and Mork shouting. He swam toward the shouts. He could feel the current swirl him and he splashed on until he thought his arms would drop off from the pain. He felt himself ride the crest of a swell, then tumbled down into a trough, and still he kept fighting his way, slugging at the ocean enveloping him.

“Move your ass!”

“Keep coming, Mike!”

The spray lit up in the blink of the strobe like a sparkler throwing burning sparks. There were walls of water toppling all around him. He heard them crashing even after he’d gone under.

He came up spitting and swinging his arms and he hit Mork in the face.

“Whoa,” Mork shouted. “It’s me.”

“Help,” Mike DeCapua said.

“I got you.”

“Help.”

“I got you,” Mork told him. He pulled DeCapua up on his chest and lay back and rode a swell. Mork said, “Say, why don’t you give me that strobe? I’ll hold on to it.”

“Like fuck you will,” DeCapua told him.

In the back of the helicopter, Sean Witherspoon was sitting with his eyes tightly shut. He had his gunner’s belt on. He was leaning against the back wall, trying not to make any sudden moves.

The seat went sailing off so he sat up sharply and looked ahead at the cockpit through the indigo light to make it stop. It’s the vertigo, he thought. Don’t look down. He felt around under his seat for the plastic bag he’d kept his flight helmet in. He found it and opened it. His toes were gone. He couldn’t feel them anymore. His mouth tasted of bile. Keep your head back. You’ve been here before. Keep your head back and try to relax.

The cabin was spinning fast. But he held it. He held it and held it and held it but then suddenly he couldn’t fight it anymore and hot vomit was coming up. It was all he could do to keep it out of his own lap.

His dry suit stuck to him. The cabin was going round and round and round. He grabbed Rich Sansone’s right arm. Sansone was on the radio, keeping their guard with Juneau.

“Rich,” Witherspoon said. “Look at my hands.”

“They’re shaking.”

“I’m cold. I can’t stop it. I’m shaking real bad. I can’t stop shaking, man.”

“What’s wrong?”

Witherspoon blinked and then his eyes closed and he threw up on Sansone’s leg. The rescue swimmer turned on the intercom.

“Hey, Mr. Adickes,” he said. “You’re going to have to take over comms for me.”

“Why?”

“We got a problem. Sean’s not doing great.”

“What do you mean Sean’s not doing great?” Bill Adickes sounded incredulous.

“He can’t stop shaking,” Sansone said. “He’s shaking out of control. He’s throwing up on me.”

“What?”

“He’s going into convulsions.”

“What?”

“Convulsions.”

“Okay, okay. I got the radio guard. Go ahead. You take care of Sean.”

“Roger.”

Sansone laid the big man out on the cabin floor, pulled out a thermal sack —a hypothermia bag—and slipped it over him. Sansone did not want to cut the dry suit. If we have to ditch, he’ll freeze to death in a New York minute. Who am I kidding? We all will.

He slipped a mask over Witherspoon’s mouth and opened the valve on the oxygen tank.

“Do you know where you are?” Sansone asked him gently.

“No.”

“What’s your name?”

Witherspoon just shook his head.

“How are you feeling?”

“I —I can’t stop shaking.”

“Are you sure?”

“Help me.”

“Everything will be all right. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Witherspoon turned his head and threw up again. Sansone rolled him over on his side and held a plastic bag near his mouth.

“Sean?”

Witherspoon had gone pale; fat beads of sweat had broken out all over his face and neck. Sansone put the water bottle to his lips but he wouldn’t drink. His eyes fluttered open and closed. His legs jerked. The flight mechanic’s respirations were well above twenty, his pulse was twice what it should have been and his core temperature was 92.6 degrees.

“Mr. Adickes?”

“What now, Rich?”

“How far are we from base?”

“I don’t know, Rich. Another hour —maybe an hour and a half. Depends on the winds.”

“Sir,” Sansone said. “Make sure there’s an ambulance on deck when we land.”

“What for?”

Sansone said, “I think Sean is going into shock.”

F
or twenty minutes the crew of Rescue 6029 searched the seascape for the strobe. They saw nothing but froth. The waves were running everywhere. In the eye of the storm there was no pattern to them or to the wind and the seas stacked up jaggedly, in white peaks. The turbulence was a lot worse, too. It felt like flying in the mountains. The waves were almost like mountains and the wind would come screaming up the back sides of the waves just as it would howl up the side of a glacier, and many times it caught the helicopter off guard, always from a different angle, and flung it backward into the wind stream or down into a trough. The wind was confused and the sea was confused and the crew was confused and startled by the ferocity of the storm, but they kept combing the cratered ocean in three-mile-long search legs, hoping to spot the flash of a beacon the size of a bowling pin.

When he was not monitoring their altitude and fuel-burn rate or backing up David Durham on the controls, Russ Zullick kept scanning the ocean with his night-vision goggles.

We’re wasting too much gas, he was thinking. But there is nothing else we can do except this. And hope. Sure. We could use some of that.

He snapped on his direction-finding radio again and maxed out the volume so as to catch even the weakest signal from the EPIRB. He remembered what an old instructor in flight training school once said:
Fishermen tie themselves together when they go in the water and they tie the EPIRB onto themselves. If they go down, they all go down together.

Zullick spoke up. “Whoever it is, they drifted far.”

Durham did not answer him.

All of his energy was going into monitoring his dash instruments and his cyclic and collective inputs. Zullick noticed the sweat sliding down his cheek.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Zullick said. “I mean, there was only, what, fifteen or twenty minutes lag between when the 6018 left and when we got out here. How far out can these guys be?”

“I’m going to make a turn,” Durham said. “Back me up on the controls.”

“Roger that.”

Zullick scanned the display. “Let’s try looking north and west of here.”

Earlier, he had set his BINGO fuel mark at 2,800 pounds, which was about five hundred gallons of gas. The H-60, under normal conditions, burned about 1,200 pounds an hour. Zullick had figured they would use one-eighth of a tank to get on scene and another quarter of a tank to perform the rescue. That left a half tank of fuel to fly home with. But he had not counted on 75-knot headwinds and 140-knot-plus gusts. Just attempting a hover was degrading their fuel endurance. And they had already been airborne an hour and fifty minutes. They should have been well into hoisting by now, not searching.

Zullick was thinking about his reserve and recalculating their fuel-burn rate on the computer when he heard Chris Windnagle, the flight mechanic, shout over the intercom: “I see a light! I see a light!”

“Where?”

“There!”

“Where? Where?”

“Turn us around! Ninety degrees! Hard right!”

Doing that, however, was not possible; they were cocked hard into the wind line. If a gust snagged their nose they would flip over like tumbleweed.

“I’m going to turn her easy,” Durham said. “Back me up.”

“Roger,” Zullick said.

But when Durham tried to swing them around, the helicopter just kept on sailing downwind, as if skidding on ice, until they were a mile downwind of the survivors.