Page 66 of Asystole

Helen and I make our way to the helicopter on the roof. As she straps into the back, I activate the battery power, run the fuel pumps, and engage the starter. After introducing fuel for ignition, I monitor for stabilization. The familiar hum and vibrations of the chopper soothe my anxiety. I’m comfortable here regardless of the weather.

After sweet-talking the machine and confirming stabilization, I look over my shoulder at Helen and smile.

“Pray that if the wind must gust, it blows us south. Otherwise, the ICU will have a new decoration.”

I swear she almost smiles. Which makes me grin wider.

Turning back to face the windshield. The flight phone is still with me as I unmute it and respond.

“Metro Dispatch, LF1449 ready for takeoff, in need of coordinates.”

“Roger that, LF1449. You are heading forty-two degrees, thirty-one minutes, forty-five seconds north and seventy-one degrees, twenty minutes, fifty-eight seconds west.”

I set the dial on my watch and enter the coordinates into the GPS system in the helicopter and repeat them back to ensure I have them correct before engaging the clutch and increasing the throttle that will lift us into the air.

“Metro Dispatch, LF1449 wheels up from Boston Memorial at 5:06. Request flight following to LZ,” I say.

“LF1449, copy wheels up at 5:06. Visibility is low with precipitation falling across the state. Wind seventy-five at twenty, gusts to thirty-nine. You are tracking,” dispatch confirms.

I’m flying against the wind, which is nice, but it’s going to be hell staying on track getting back. I’ll need to adjust my speed heavily or risk the wind pushing me off the roof of the hospital.

My ETA to the closest landing zone to the crash site should have been twelve minutes. In this crap, it takes eighteen, and those six minutes can mean life or death. As soon as we’re close, I radio dispatch one more time.

“Metro Dispatch, LF1449 two miles from LZ. Please connect to ground operations.”

“LF1449, ground contact is Trooper David Simmons on 139.872. Transitioning now.”

“Roger that.”

There’s an audible click, a second of static, and then I know my contact has changed. Needing to establish ground support, I begin speaking again as I adjust my altitude and scan the area. It’s rural compared to Boston proper, but it’s certainly not as open as Montana.

I’m fully locked in now. Nothing matters but hitting the landing zone and getting this patient loaded and back to the hospital.

“Trooper Simmons, this is LF1449 from Boston Memorial. One mile out. Do you have a secure LZ?”

Then he speaks words every helicopter pilot dreads hearing.

“Negative. Established LZ has a downed power line. Do not approach.”

Because time is of the essence now, we lose the formal conversation and just say what needs to be said.

“Copy that. Can you reroute me?”

“Winds are blowing southwest. You don’t have a clear approach from the north,” he says. “I repeat, you do not have a clear approach.”

In the background, I hear someone yell, “GET THAT DAMN BIRD ON THE GROUND NOW OR WE’RE GONNA LOSE HIM!”

“Trooper, I only need a forty-five-by-forty-five-foot square. Let me worry about the approach. Can you just mark it out with flares?”

“Wilco,” he says. It’s not a term I hear a lot, but it’s the only sign-off that not only means I heard you, but more importantly, I will comply.

Sure enough, as I drop my altitude and swing wide, directly into the wind for maximum stability, I see the eerie red glow of the flares signaling my landing zone.

With my left hand firmly gripping my joystick—because the wind really wants to fuck with me today—I use my right hand to adjust the cyclic and tail rotor to manage my drift. I overshoot, though, and end up off course.

“Fuck,” I swear, trying to get back into alignment. I’m losing time, and I have to make sure I stay high enough that I don’t stall out. My engine is whirring loudly, the higher-than-normal RPMs taxing the motor, but after a final push, I set the bird down in the small square.

Sweat is running down my back in rivulets.