A Fountain Filled With Blood

“Hey! Clare!” Russ emerged from the woods, closely followed by Peggy, who was carrying a large sailcloth L. L. Bean bag. Clare ducked under the tail boom to talk to them. Russ’s shirt was clinging to his chest in damp patches and his hair was plastered to his scalp. Peggy reached into the bulging bag and handed him a bottle of water dripping with condensation. He unscrewed the top and dumped half the contents over his head, shaking his shaggy hair like a dog.

“Is he still alive?” Clare asked. Peggy pulled an identical bottle out of the bag and handed it to her.

Russ swigged most of the rest of his water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yes. He didn’t answer me when I called to him, but he shifted a bit. He’s about twenty, twenty-five feet down. Ms. Landry says you have some cockamamy idea about using the helicopter to get him out?”

Clare swallowed a mouthful of the almost painfully cold water and turned back to the ship. “It’s not a cockamamy idea.” She moved to the left side of the fuselage to check the engine compartment and the transmission.

“The hell it’s not. It’s not that I doubt you can fly this monster, but how do you think you’re going to rescue him?”

She looked up from the hydraulic servos. “I’m not going to do it alone. You’re going to help me.”

He held up his hands. “Whoa.”

“The chopper is fitted out for cargo. I fly over to where Waxman is and hover. You get in the net, I lower you to the bottom of the crevasse, you get Waxman, and I pull you both up.”

His face was set in a mask of denial. “That’s insane.”

“No it’s not. I admit that I wouldn’t want to try it on a gusty day, but it’s perfectly calm. The winch can be controlled right from the cockpit. I can do it all without getting out of my seat.” She secured the transmission cowling and climbed up to the top of the fuselage to check the hydraulic reservoir.

“What if something happens? What if you have a choice between leaving the cockpit and…and me falling?”

She looked up from where she was examining the main rotor system. He sounded almost panicky. “It has a four-axis autopilot, Russ. If you need me, I’ll be there.” She gestured toward the locked shed at the edge of the clearing. “I didn’t see any headsets in the cabin, so I suspect they’re in there. We’ll have to break in, I’m afraid. But with those on, we’ll be able to communicate with each other the whole time.” She swung herself down and crouched under the ship’s belly to check the landing gear.

Russ crouched down across from her. “I can’t do this.”

“Sure, you can.”

“No. You don’t understand. I can’t do this.” He spoke each word slowly and distinctly.

The import of his words finally sank in. “Are you afraid? To fly?”

His jaw worked. “Helicopters,” he said.

“You’re afraid to fly in helicopters. You were in the army, for heaven’s sake. You must have used helicopter transport before.” She stood up on tiptoe to check the wind-screens. He stood up as well, leaning across the Bell’s pointed nose.

“I had a bad experience.” His voice was barely louder than a rumble. He obviously didn’t want Peggy to hear anything. “A very bad experience.”

She slapped the windscreen. “Get over it.”

“What?”

She backed away from the ship and strolled slowly around it, giving it a last once-over with her eyes, half her attention on looking for anything out of place, the other half on getting Russ to fall in with her plan. It wasn’t the first time she had had to deal with a panicky crew member. “What happened? You took incoming fire? Lightning fried your electrical system?” She looked up at him. “It’s not going to happen here and now. Here and now, a man may very well die if we don’t get him up out of that gorge. So get over it.”

He stopped dead. “I can’t believe you. This isn’t some sort of whim I just made up. This is real. You think I go around confessing to anyone how I feel? What kind of priest are you anyway?”

She swung around to face him. “I don’t know, Russ. I guess I’m the kind who flies helicopters and speaks without thinking and screws up on a regular basis.” She wiped her oily hands on her shorts, instantly converting them from good to trash. “But I’ll tell you one thing,” she said, stepping into his space, crowding him, hissing her words. “I’m not the sort who would let a man die because she’s too chickenshit to climb into a machine!” She pointed to the shed, never breaking eye contact with him. “Now break into that shed and get me those headsets!”

He stepped back. She saw his Adam’s apple bob up and down. He stared at her. “Ma’am,” he said. “Yes, ma’am.”

She marched behind him to the shed. Although the door was chained and padlocked, the shed itself was a flimsy affair, the sort you could buy prefab at a home and garden center. Russ circled the shed, ran his fingers assessingly over the chain, then headed straight for one of the two Plexiglas windows set into the side walls. He pushed against it and felt around the edges. “You care if this looks pretty or not?” he said.

“No.”