The plane was canted to the left and Irene had to make her way along that side with a hand on the wall. The service area looked like a kitchen turned inside out and Irene, realizing she had lost her shoes, picked her way carefully past the broken glass. “Hello?” she tried but there was nothing but a nagging loneliness. She hurried forward, craving the closeness of human contact.
With a building tightness in her chest Irene stepped into the passenger compartment. It looked somewhat festive with a jungle of oxygen masks dangling from the overhead. But Irene focused. “Shit. Where’s the rest of my plane?” she mumbled out loud, searching around for the answer. The rear half of the DC-9 was gone. Irene looked along the aisle-way and out a gaping hole. And then she saw the bodies. There were four, still in their seats. Someone had tossed blankets over their faces.
Irene fought the scream that was building in her chest. Moving between the rows, using the headrests for support, she eased by the dead and stepped into the sunlight. The scene that greeted her wasn’t encouraging but her heart almost burst when she saw Alex.
The injured had been laid out in the shade of a large pine and a man with a medical bag was already hard at work. Alex was beside him, helping tie a sling around a man’s arm. Alex jumped up when she spied Irene stepping down from the wreckage and, with tearful eyes glimmering, she ran across the clearing.
She ran straight into Irene’s outstretched arms and spun her around. “Irene. Gosh, you’re alive.” In her enthusiasm she kissed Irene on the mouth. “I wanted to come find you but people were bleeding and dying. But you’re okay?”
“A little shaky but alive. Our girls?”
“We were strapped in forward. We’re good.”
Irene held Alex close in her embrace, hungering to absorb the warmth of her body. “God you feel good.”
Irene spotted a movement to her left and was startled to see a man take her photograph. She pulled back. The image of her in a uniform jacket without pants and kissing Alex on the mouth– Alex, who wore nothing more than a French bikini, would certainly raise a few eyebrows and make an enticing feature shot in some magazine.
“That the team doctor you’re helping?”
Alex nodded. “A steady guy; thank God. The younger one with him is an intern. He’s dating one of the American players. And the other two guys are trainers. We’ve got four dead in the plane and that woman on the ground; she won’t make it. She’s the wife of one of the dignitaries still onboard. The others have minor injuries.”
Girls in trim red, white and blue team-jackets sat in clusters, hugging and crying. Irene saw her bikini-crew consoling passengers and passing out bottled water. They were one girl short. Irene looked for Jordan, hoping that there had been some mistake; hoping to see her moving among the survivors, but the girl with the wardrobe closet was not among the living.
“Where’s the rest of the plane?” Irene asked.
Alex turned and pointed. “There. We’ve been too busy to go and look.”
About a quarter of a mile back, a column of black smoke bellowed above the treetops, the fires fueled from the tanks which were located in the wings. And between, it looked like a garbage dump. Suitcases were strewn about and clothing littered the ground and hung from tree branches. An unbelievable amount of paper was being scattered about by the wind.
“What have you done to your arm?” Alex was watching a steady trickle of blood dripping from Irene’s fingertips. “You better have the doctor take a look.”
“Later,” Irene said. “As soon as everything is under control here, I want you and the doctor to find the rest of the plane. There will be more injured passengers. Take the men and Sissy as well. She’s had medical training. And also Linda. She’s more capable than the others. You go to the bar and hide any liquor you find, somewhere in the forest. Bury it if you have to. Understand?”
Alex nodded. “Okay. I’ll round everyone up and we’ll get ready to go. Brad’s jacket?” Alex asked running a hand along the sleeve.
Irene saw the photographer lift his camera into position once again. He’s hoping for something juicy, Irene thought. The guy was standing with a group of three others and as Irene watched, she saw a bottle being passed. “Who’s the ass with the camera?” Irene asked.
“That scumbag? He’s with Stalker Magazine. The girls are afraid to bend over. He has that lens down the front of their tops, half-the-time. And focused on their asses for the rest. He’s a pig, a member of the gutter press and so are his friends. Brad’s been spending a lot of time trying to line them up with girls to photograph, like he’s getting a kickback or something. Where is Brad, anyway?”
Irene’s jaw hardened. “He’s not here? With you?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“He wasn’t in the cockpit.” Irene fought a stab of panic. “C’mon. He must have been thrown from the plane. We need to find him.” And Irene ran forward, around the side of the crumpled pink fuselage.
They were scouting the rocks, afraid of what they might find, when they heard the moan above their heads. “Oh Jesus,” Irene exhaled, looking up. Brad hung from the side of the aircraft, one leg caught in a jagged tear in the metal. She was sickened by the sight of his left foot, still in its shoe. It had been dislocated at the ankle and now dangled from a shred of flesh. Blood was streaming steadily down the side of the plane and dripping into a black pool that was congealing in the pine-needles.
“We’ve got to get him down,” Alex said, “he’ll bleed to death.”
“We’ll need some muscle.” Irene, facing this new demise, felt her resolve come flooding back. “Run and get the trainers. Tell the Doctor and his assistant to meet me in the cockpit. You bring the other two here. And we’ll need a stretcher.”
“Got it.” Brad moaned again and Alex looked up. “God. His foot is almost torn off. He must be unconscious.”
“Good. Let’s hope he stays that way. Get some help.”
“Gladly. If I stay here any longer I’ll puke.” And Alex turned on a heel and quickly moved toward the clearing.
Irene beat it around to the boarding door. With the plane resting on its side, she managed to get her hands on the sill and she pulled herself up. Irene worked her way back across the service area and into the cockpit. As if her movements had awakened him, Brad started screaming.
“Crap!” Irene looked down at him from the shredded metal that had once been the starboard side of the flight-deck.
“Don’t you touch me, you bitch,” Brad shrieked. “Get the fuck away. Oh Christ, look what you did to me,” he cried piteously. “Get away, bitch. I’ll kill you for this. I will. Don’t come any closer.”
“Brad. Try not to move. The doctor’s coming.”
Brad screamed, clenching his fists. “Fuck the doctor. I’ll look after myself.” And he struggled to lift himself.
“Hi. I’m Doctor Dixon. Where’s the patient?” The voice was cheerful and came from behind.
Irene followed the sound and met a gray-haired man as he stepped through the shattered door with a black case in his hand. He was into his retirement years and wore half-glasses on the end of his nose. “Alex didn’t tell you?”
“Just told me to meet you in the cockpit. This is Ricky, by-the-by.”
The team doctor introduced a tall good-looking kid stooping to poke his head past the shattered doorway. He would have to be tall if his was dating one of the volleyball players.
“We’re here.” It was Alex’s voice from outside.
“The patient?” Doctor Dixon asked again.
There was another scream and Irene jerked a thumb toward the hole.
Doctor Dixon looked down. “Heavens. Ricky, a hypo. Morphine, enough to knock out a horse.”
“We’re getting low,” Ricky said, opening the medical kit.
“I know but this poor chap will need all we got, and some.”
Ricky quickly loaded the needle from a vial and passed it across. Irene stepped over her fallen chair to give them more room and spied one of her shoes.
Dixon took the hypodermic syringe in his right hand and reached out toward Brad. “Don’t come near me with that thing,” Brad shouted. “I’ll pound the shit outta you.”
“You’ll get your chance as soon as we get you down,” Dixon countered and reached with the needle. “Hell. Can’t manage it. Ricky? Need those long arms of yours.”
Ricky squeezed by the cabin door, nodded to Irene and took the hypo from Dixon.
“Get him in his good leg so he doesn’t bleed it out; in the thigh and as close to the crotch as you can reach.”
“Got it, doc.” And Ricky leaned out the hole in the fuselage. A moment later, Brad screamed.
Rick leaned back in. That’ll hold him. You see the foot?”
“Yeah. Outside my field of expertise. You’re the surgeon.”
“Let’s get him down first. That leg is mangled. I can amputate the foot but that might be the easy part.”
Dixon nodded and checked back out the hole in the side of the plane. “You men. Get something to stand on and lift him down. I don’t have to tell you to be gentle.”
Ricky was closing the medical bag. “I’ll run down,” he said.
Dixon nodded and his eyes drifted to Irene. “You’re our pilot?”
“Was.” Irene looked around for her other shoe. “As you can see, I’m currently unemployed.”
“Mmm,” he said, eyeing the uniform jacket. “Your chair’s not where it’s supposed to be.”
Irene had an ankle crossed over a knee, pulling on a high-heel. “House cleaning.”
“And why are you bleeding all over the place?”
“Wood splint. From the cabin door.”
“I’d better take a look.”
“I have to warn you, I’m not appropriately dressed under this jacket.”
He pursed his lips. “You got nothing I haven’t seen before, Miss. Take it off.”
Once Dixon had helped Irene shrug back into Brad’s jacket, they walked back out through the plane. Irene saw that a fifth body, draped in a blanket, had joined the others. The woman who wasn’t going to make it, didn’t, Irene thought. And they had brought her body here to be with her husband. Irene’s plane had become a makeshift morgue and it was a problem, she realized. Rescue was a long way off and they might need the plane to provide for the living, not the dead.
Dixon handed Irene down from the aircraft. “I need you to check the rear section of the plane for survivors,” Irene said once she had her feet on the ground.
“Yes. It’s been on my mind. Let me just check with Ricky before I head out.”
Around the side of the plane, they found Ricky stooped over the stretcher trying to control the flow of blood from what was left of Brad’s mangled limb. Alex sat on the pine-needles, her face the color of putty. Dixon ran to her and pushed her head down between her knees before she had the luxury of passing out.
“I’m not very good at this,” Alex apologized, after gulping breaths.
“You’re in better shape than that poor chap,” Dixon reassured her, helping her up.
Irene brushed Alex’s hair from her face. “Once you’re ready, gather up the others and find the rest of the plane. Take the doctor with you. I’ll stay behind and do what I can to help Ricky.”
“I’m okay now,” Alex said, taking Dixon by the arm. “Let’s go while we still have plenty of daylight.”
Firewood! Irene thought. I have to get someone gathering firewood. And she mentally ticked-off another job.
“How is he?” Irene looked over Ricky’s shoulder and felt a lurch in her own stomach.
“It’s a mess.” Ricky straightened his back without turning. His leg is shattered, two major bone fractures, dislocated knee and, well you’ve seen the foot. This would be a challenge in a fully-staffed operating theater, but out here in the woods, without an x-ray.” He shook his head.
“Can you help him?”
“I’m doing everything I can before we lose the advantage of the morphine. I’ve set the bones as best I can and I will try to save the foot. Are there more medical supplies on the plane?”
“Just a first aid kit,” Irene said.
“Ah well,” Ricky sighed. “We’ll make do with what we have. There are two arterial blood vessels in the ankle. I need to repair those first. Then reattach the ligaments. If you can take hold of that hemostat, we’ll get started.”
Irene swallowed hard and dropped to her knees beside Brad’s tortured leg. “You ever do this kind of thing before?”
“I’m an intern,” Ricky said, removing a curved needle from a cellophane pack, “one year outta med school. I’ve never done anything before.”