Climbing ropes whipped through their grip as they hauled the litter away from the edge. Franco handled his end with the nimble guitarist fingers that had earned him the homage of the Clapton nickname, Slow Hand. The immobilized body writhed under the foil Mylar survival blanket, groaning louder. Franco leaned over to whisper something.
Wade huffed into his mic, “Fever, we are ready for pickup. One survivor in stable condition, but coming to, fast and vocal.”
The wind-battered helicopter angled overhead, then righted, lowering, stirring up snow in an increasing storm as the MH-60 landed. Almost home free.
Wade hefted one end, trusting Franco would have the other in sync, and hustled toward the helicopter. His crampons gripped the icy ground with each pounding step. The door of the chopper filled with two familiar faces. From his team. Always there.
With a whomp, he slid the metal rescue basket into the waiting hands. He and Franco dove inside just as the MH-60 lifted off with a roar and a cyclone of snow. Rolling to his feet, he clamped hold of a metal hook bolted to the belly of the chopper.
The training exercise was over.
Their “rescue” sat upright fast on the litter, tugging at the restraints. Not in the least female, a hulking male pulled off the splint Wade had strapped on less than a half hour ago.
Wade collapsed against the helicopter wall, exhausted as hell now that he could allow his body to stop. “Major, have you ever considered an acting career? With all that groaning and thrashing about, I thought for sure I was carting around a wounded prima donna.”
Major Liam McCabe, the only officer on their team and a former army ranger, swung his feet to the side of the litter and tossed away the Thinsulate blanket. “Just keeping the exercise real, adding a little color to the day.”
The major tugged on a helmet and hooked into the radio while the rest of his team gaped at him—or rather, gaped at McCabe’s getup. He wore civilian climbing gear—loud, electric yellow, with orange and red flames that contrasted all the more up next to their bland sage green military issue. Laughter rumbled through the helicopter. The garish snow gear had surprised the hell out of him and Franco when they’d reached the bottom of the chasm. They’d expected McCabe, but not an Olympic-worthy ski suit.
McCabe could outpunk Ashton Kutcher. For the most part they welcomed the distraction at the end of a long day. McCabe’s humor was also a needed tension buster for the group when Franco went too far, pushing the envelope.
End game, today’s exercise hadn’t pulled out all the stops for a mountain rescue. Nobody had to parachute in.
Suddenly the major stood upright as he gestured for everyone’s attention. “Helmets on so you can hear the radio.”
Wade snapped into action, plugging in alongside his other five team members, some in seats, Franco kneeling. The major held an overhead handle, boots planted on the deck.
“Copilot,” McCabe’s voice piped through the helmet radio, “have the Rescue Coordination Center repeat that last message.”
“Romeo Charlie Charlie, please repeat for Fever two zero.”
“Fever two zero, this is Romeo Charlie Charlie with a real world tasking.” The center radio controller’s Boston accent filled the airwaves with broad vowels. “We have a request for rescue of a stranded climbing party on Mount Redoubt. Party is four souls stranded by an avalanche. Can you accept the tasking as primary?”
Mount Redoubt? In the Aleutian Islands. The part of Alaska the Russians once called “the place that God forgot.”
The copilot’s click echoed as he responded. “Stand by while we assess.” He switched to interphone for just those onboard the helicopter. “How are you guys back there? You up for it?”
The major eyed the rest of the team, his gaze holding longest on him and Franco, since they’d just hauled his butt off a mountain. His pulse still slugged against his chest. Franco hadn’t stopped panting yet.
But the question didn’t even need to be asked.
Wade shot him a thumbs-up. His body was already shifting to auto again, digging for reserves. Each deep, healing breath sucked in the scent of hydraulic fluid and musty military gear, saturated from missions around the world. He drew in the smells, indulging in his own whacked-out aromatherapy, and found his center.
McCabe nodded silently before keying up his radio again. “We are a go back here, if there’s enough gas on the refueler.”
“Roger, that. We have an HC-130 on radar, orbiting nearby. They say they’re game if we are. They have enough gas onboard to refuel us for about three hours of loiter, topping us off twice if needed.” The copilot switched to open frequency. “Romeo Charlie Charlie, Fever and Crown will accept the tasking.”
“Copy, Fever,” answered their radio pal with a serious Boston accent. “Your new call sign is Lifeguard two zero.”
“Lifeguard two zero wilco.” Will comply. The copilot continued, “Romeo Charlie Charlie copies all.”
The radio operator responded, “We are zapping the mission info to you via data link and you have priority handling, cleared on navigation direct to location.”
“Roger.” The helicopter copilot’s voice echoed through Wade’s headset, like guidance coming through that funky aromatherapy haze. “I have received the coordinates for the stranded climbers popped up on a data screen and am punching the location into the navigation system. Major, do you copy all back there?”
“Copy in full.” McCabe was already reaching for his bag of gear to ditch the flame-print suit. “Almost exactly two hundred miles. We’ll have an hour to prep and get suited up.”