A Time for Patriots (10 page)

“Everybody calm down and relax,” Patrick said. “Let's stay heads-up and keep on doing our jobs until we set up an orbit around it. John . . .”

“Got it,” John said. On the repeater, he radioed, “Battle Mountain Base, CAP 2722, maneuvering to investigate a possible target contact, remaining at five hundred AGL.”

“Roger, 2722.”

“Battle Mountain Hasty copies, and we have 2722 in sight on the horizon,” Bellville radioed. “We're about twenty minutes away.”

A few minutes later, Patrick had set up his orbit around a blue-and-white light aircraft. The belly was badly crumpled, as if it had pancaked in at a high rate of descent; the landing gear and wings were gone, and soon they saw that the engine and propeller were ripped off the fuselage too. “Call it in, John,” Patrick said. “Good job, Leo.”

“With pleasure, sir.” On the repeater, John radioed, “Battle Mountain Base, CAP 2722 has made target contact, fuselage of a white-and-blue light plane, undercarriage, engine, propeller, and wings missing, no evidence of fire, no sign of any persons yet.”

“I got one,” Leo said as he snapped pictures. He saw the grisly sight of a body half protruding from the right side of the windshield, bent backward along the right side of the fuselage at a very unnatural angle. “I see one victim sticking out through the windshield.” John called it in.

“B
ase, this is Hasty, we found a section of wing,” Fitzgerald radioed a few minutes later. They passed by the crumpled piece of aluminum without stopping. “Marking the position. We're ten minutes out. We copy the report of a victim.”

“Okay, guys, you heard it,” David Bellville said, stopping to address his cadets and let them rest. Each member of the team was carrying his Seventy-Two Hour pack; Brad and Ron were carrying the canvas bag with the medical equipment, while Ralph and Michael were carrying the water and camping equipment. They all immediately doused their heads with water while David spoke: “We have at least one victim. Fid and I will check the scene first for survivors. If there are any, we'll have you come in, and you'll have to do your best to work around the victims. If there are no survivors, we'll photograph the scene, then talk about what we see until the rescue helicopter and sheriff arrive. No one has to go near the victims if you don't want to—”

“But doing so will teach you a lot and help you do your jobs in the future,” Fitzgerald cut in. “We're not going to force you, but do a gut check right now and stay part of the team.” Bellville looked at Fitzgerald, silently telling him to shut up, but he said nothing. Fitzgerald noticed the expression. “They're level twos, and McLanahan is a level one—they're expected to go on in and stay as a team.” Again, Bellville said nothing. He actually agreed with Fitzgerald, but Civil Air Patrol regulations never required anyone to go near a crash scene with victims, especially cadets. After a few minutes, they continued on toward the circling Cessna in the distance.

Soon enough they arrived at the scene. Brad was surprised at how clean it looked—no postimpact fire, no billowing smoke, no big crater in the ground—just a white-and-blue piece of battered aluminum lying in the desert, as if someone had dragged it out there and discarded it rather than its falling from the sky. But soon they could also make out the person sticking through the windscreen.

“Oh,
man
. . .” Ralph whispered.

“Looks like it shot through the windshield, then got caught in the slipstream and bent all the way backward, still stuck in the glass,” Ron said. “Wicked. Looks like a chick, too—all her clothes ripped off.”

“Button it, Ron,” Brad said quietly after he noticed Ralph's wide eyes and face almost drained of color. “Make yourself useful and take pictures of the scene.” When Ron left, he turned to Ralph. “You can wait back here, Ralph.”

“N-no, I want to help,” the younger cadet said. “I'll get the medic gear ready just in case.”

“Good idea,” Brad said. “Keep hydrated and listen up on the radios.”

“Yes, sir.”

Brad grabbed his camera and approached the aircraft. It was indeed a woman protruding from the windscreen, he noticed, but she was so badly mangled by the crash and so completely covered with dirt and sand that she was hardly recognizable as human.

“McLanahan . . .” Bellville started.

“I'm okay, sir,” Brad said. “Spivey is taking pictures, and Markham is back in the van getting the medical kit out.”

Bellville nodded, giving silent approval to stay.

“Good on you, McLanahan,” Fitzgerald said. “It's part of the job.” He continued his careful inspection of the aircraft. “I see the pilot underneath,” he said. “Looks like he's been crushed.” He bent down for a closer look. “I've seen victims look worse than this who were still alive, but he has no head that I can see.”

Brad decided to stay on the right side of the fuselage—he wanted to participate, he told himself, but only if the victim needed help, which obviously that one did not—but in reality, he admitted finally, he just didn't want to see a crushed human body. The dead woman sticking out through the windscreen was pretty horrible too, but he wasn't afraid—he just felt sorry for her.

“Can you see an ELT shutoff switch in there, Brad?” Bellville asked.

“Stand by, sir.” Brad strained to look behind the front passenger seat, which had left its rails, and scan the instrument panel. Most newer planes had a manual-activation and shutoff switch for the emergency-locator transmitter. “I can't see one, sir, but the left side of the panel is pretty busted up.” He apprehensively looked in the rear of the plane, expecting to see yet another horrific sight . . . but he didn't see what he expected. “Sir?”

“Yeah, Brad?”

“The third soul is missing.”

“What?” Fitzgerald asked.

“The third passenger is missing, sir.”

Fitzgerald looked at Bellville, and Bellville turned to Brad. Brad immediately understood his silent command. “Sergeant Markham!” he shouted.

“Sir?” Markham replied immediately.

“Examine the area around the plane for a child's tracks, then organize a line search immediately.”

There was a brief hesitation, but a few moments later he heard Markham reply, “Yes, sir!” and Markham trotted over. He was careful not to step any closer to the plane than he needed to, but now that he was there, he was frozen in place, uncertain as to what to do next.

“You know exactly what to do, Ralph,” Brad said quietly so the senior members couldn't hear. “Think about it, then verbalize what you need to do.” Markham was still unsure. “Let's get with it, Sergeant,” he said, a little louder this time. “We have a missing child. Tell me what you want to do.”

Ralph still seemed confused, but that slowly seemed to fade away. “Lieutenant Spivey!” he shouted.

“What do you want, Markham?” Ron shouted from across the crash scene.

“Pr-prepare a go-pack for a line search,” Ralph said rather weakly. “St-stand clear of the—”

“I can't understand what the heck you're saying, Marky.”

Ralph looked at Brad, silently imploring for help, but Brad said nothing—he just looked back at Ralph, telling him without words that he had to take charge, and do it quickly. “I . . . Lieutenant, I need you to—”

“I'm busy over here, Marky,” Spivey said. “Don't bug me right now, okay?”

Brad looked at Bellville, who shook his head, silently telling Brad to take charge and get the search going. But just as Brad was going to speak, Ralph shook his head, looked over at Spivey, inflated his lungs to full volume, then shouted, “Lieutenant Spivey, get a go-pack and stretcher ready for a line search,
right now
! And don't you screw up any tracks in my crash scene!”

“What?”

“You heard him, Lieutenant,” Brad said. “This is an actual line search for a missing boy. Sergeant Markham is in charge.” Ron was still standing there, confused. Brad finally went over to him and said impatiently in a low voice, “Jeez, Ron, what's your major malfunction? Ralph is trying to set up a line search to find the third victim and get his tracking sign-off. The seniors are waiting. Get with the program, would you? This is not an exercise.”

Ron finally seemed to catch on. He nodded at Brad, then said, “Well, why didn't you say so, Sergeant? I'll get the medical go-pack.”

“Okay, Sergeant, we've wasted enough time,” Brad said. “Sing out. What do you see?”

“Stand by, sir,” Ralph said. He quickly scanned the ground, starting at the right-side door. “The plane obviously slid quite a distance, judging by the smooth sand. I see your footprints right near the door . . . and I see a smaller set, soft-soled, not combat boots, and not as deeply set. Could be a child's footprint.” He scanned the area. “They . . . they lead toward the victim in the windshield, close but perhaps not within touching distance, then . . .” He looked around, almost in a panic. “The prints are gone. I don't see them anymore. I lost him.”

Ralph was obviously starting to panic a bit. “Easy, Ralph,” Brad said. “They couldn't have just disappeared. What's the boy thinking right now? Put yourself in his place.” He could see Ralph's eyes grow large in horror and his lower lip tremble a bit. “Verbalize, Sergeant. We're not mind readers.” The young cadet hesitated, his mind's eye still filled with a horrific image of his own making. “You can do it, Ralph.”

“N-no, I can't,” he said.

Brad nodded. “It's okay, Ralph,” he said. “This is an actual, and it's a bad one. We'll wait for a SAREX or encampment to get your sign-off. No worries. Ron, take Ralph's place and conduct the search.”

Just as Spivey started to move forward, the younger cadet said, “No . . . no, I'll do it, sir.”

“You sure?” Brad asked.

Ralph looked at Brad warily, then nodded his head and looked off into the distance. “He's . . . he's just seen his dead mother,” he said in a low voice after a short silence. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, immersing himself again in the image of the crash scene coalescing in his mind. “He's probably already seen his dead father. Maybe he tried to awaken him, then realized he was dead. He didn't recognize his mom at first, but he can tell something awful has happened to her. He climbed out of the plane. Now he can see his mom, or what's left of her. He's scared and alone, surrounded by death. They were . . . were swatted out of the sky by the angel of death, but he somehow survived, and . . . and he's wondering how? Why? Why was I allowed to survive—”

“For Christ's sake, Ralph,” Ron said perturbedly, “let's not get so
Twilight
here, okay?”

Brad held up a hand to silence his friend. “He's doing it his way, Ron,” he said. He turned to Ralph. “What else do you see, Ralph? What's happening?”

“He didn't stay with the plane,” Markham said curiously. “Why wouldn't he stay? The plane wasn't on fire, and except for the farm equipment, there's no sign of civilization within sight. His parents are dead, but they are still his parents. Why didn't he stay? Why . . . ?”

Ralph swallowed, and Brad saw a tear run down his cheek. “He thinks it's his fault his parents are dead,” he said weakly. “He's running because he's scared and . . . and he doesn't want to be found.”

“What?”

“He thinks it's
his
fault,” Ralph repeated. “He thinks he'll get in trouble, maybe be arrested and put in jail if he's found, so he ran and now he's . . . he's hiding.”

“What a load of crap,” Ron sneered.

“We need a direction, Ralph,” Brad said after shooting Ron another “shut up” glance.

Ralph scanned the ground, his head darting back and forth—Brad thought he looked like a golden retriever hunting for a faint scent. Finally, Ralph looked toward the west, away from the hay baler, and held out his arms out to his sides. “This way, sir,” he said. “Away from the crash site and civilization.”

“Verbalize what you want, Sergeant,” Brad prompted him again.

“Line abreast, six paces between,” Ralph shouted. He got out his compass and took a bearing on a distant mountain peak. “Initial bearing will be two-six-zero.”

“Let's go,” Bellville said. They lined up, with Brad in the middle.

“Make a report to the air team, sir,” Ralph said. “We may have a survivor that doesn't want to be found—that'll make it more difficult.”

“Good call,” Bellville said, impressed with the young cadet's procedures and growing confidence. He pulled out his portable FM radio. “CAP 2722 and Battle Mountain Base, this is Battle Mountain Hasty, we're beginning a line search for the third soul, a boy. We believe he's running and may be hiding from searchers. Initial heading from the crash site will be two-six-zero.”

“How confident are you in that bearing, Hasty?” Rob Spara radioed from base.

Bellville looked at Ralph, then smiled and nodded. “Very confident,” he replied.

“Very well, proceed,” Spara radioed. “CAP 2722, suggest you begin an expanding-square search just in case that's not a good bearing.”

“Two-seven-two-two copies,” Patrick radioed from the Cessna orbiting overhead. John programmed the GPS aboard the plane to begin the search from the crash site, which would describe a square-shaped pattern that started at the crash site and got larger after each leg was completed.

Meanwhile, on the ground, the team began to move westward, staying roughly in line and carefully scanning the ground. After about a hundred yards, Ron shouted, “I spot a sneaker, and it looks fairly clean. How about that? Marky guessed right.”

“Good call, Ralph,” Brad said.

“Is it a left or right sneaker?” Ralph asked.