Her Mistletoe Miracle

“Mick, no!” Marlee squeezed past two burly rangers. “Have you looked outside? It’s almost a whiteout.”

Mick’s solemn eyes found her in the crowd. “If not me, sis, who?”

CHAPTER THREE

RANGER WIVES CLOSED RANKS around Marlee Ames, because not only did her brother volunteer for the dangerous rescue mission, her husband did as well. Once it was ascertained there were three uninjured hikers, all ill-equipped for snow, Mick was elected to concentrate on the injured. Wylie was one of a hiking rescue party comprised of six rangers.

The meeting room where they’d gathered for the end of season feast doubled as a chart and map room. The captain pulled down a map and a blowup of the mountain region. Those slated to go crowded in to get a fix on coordinates and check the most direct access route.

Anxious, Mick wanted to race out and take off straight away because the longer they delayed the more they risked worsening weather. But he knew the value of good planning and coordination, so as Wylie slipped away to have a private word with Marlee, Mick crossed his arms and listened to everything that was being said. Two rangers far more familiar with the terrain pointed out potential trouble areas.

“It’s one-thirty. If I don’t spot the climbers on my first pass I may have to return to base and wait for first light. I don’t want to get caught trying to lift off from the mountain after dark. Especially if temperatures drop and it starts to freeze,” Mick said.

A ranger ran a finger over the topographical map. “They probably left their vehicles here. We can drive about three miles farther using the fire road.”

“One vehicle,” Mick said. “They all piled into a big jeep. I saw them head out.”

Wylie’s friend Bud Russell pulled the ring tab and let the map roll up. “Pack lights and climbing gear in a toboggan. I estimate we won’t reach them until eleven, or could be nearer midnight. We’ll take sandwiches, thermoses of coffee, and thermal blankets. Damn weather’s been practically balmy up until today. Their contact said they weren’t prepared for bad weather except for a few who wore long johns. He said they’re exposed to the storm.”

“They can’t be more than a mile on either side from a tree line,” one of the older rangers said. “I know he said his radio battery is running low, but shouldn’t we raise him again and suggest they leave the crevasse and hike to shelter?”

“I did suggest that while you guys were assembling volunteers,” Trudy said. “They vetoed splitting up. They’re worried about the snow obliterating the tree boughs they’ve cut and stuck in the ground to mark the crevasse. If their makeshift markers blow away, it’s as good as writing off those who fell.”

Mick shrugged into his jacket. “I’ll reach the site long before you guys. Give me the bulk of the blankets and hot drinks. Depending on how many injured we’re talking, and how severely they’re hurt, I can maybe get off the ground with three. Two, if they require stretchers. One additional if ambulatory,” Mick said. “If it comes down to a choice between flying out injured or dead, I’ll focus on those who need doctors and leave you to handle the rest.”

He could tell from the ring of stony faces that nobody wanted to think about dead bodies. Yet rangers were realistic. They all nodded grimly.

“Sounds like a plan,” the captain said. “What if you can’t set down up there?” He posed the question lurking at the back of Mick’s own mind, because the hiker on the radio hadn’t been sure the clearing was large enough to land a big chopper.

“If I can’t land, I can still drop supplies. I’ll stack blankets and food in the copilot’s seat. I volunteer with Angel Fleet, so my aircraft are all stocked with first aid kits.”

“Do you want a ranger EMT to ride shotgun with you?”

“That would be nice, but I’m concerned about wind drag. I saw clips of that rescue on Mount Rainier in Washington state that went into the toilet because of wind shears and weight. I don’t want a repeat of that. Can someone impress on the guy who radioed in that I have to grab the injured and get out? Even then it’ll be tricky getting to Kalispell before all hell breaks loose with this storm. Tell him to use the climbing ropes to pull the climbers out of the crevasse and patch up injuries as best he can for transport.”

Once Mick saw Trudy flipping switches on the radio to relay his message, he shoved open the door and stepped out onto the plank porch. Even under the overhang he got hit by quarter-sized snowflakes that seemed to be blowing in circles. “Damn them,” he growled, thinking aloud about smoke jumpers who should have better sense.

“They’re hotshots,” Bud said from over Mick’s shoulder.

“Yeah, but we work closely with Len Martin’s crews,” the ranger captain said as he hunched against the wind ripping away his words. “Len does get some green recruits. Kids who still think they’re invincible.”

“Three in this party are seasoned,” Mick said. “One’s a five-year veteran. Another, a woman I know, has spent three summers with Martin’s crew.”

Wylie jogged up to walk alongside Mick, as if he’d heard something more in his brother-in-law’s words. He drew Mick aside when the others split up to ready a vehicle and their gear. “One of those climbers wouldn’t be the woman you mentioned at the house last night? The gal you’re interested in who’s involved with another guy?”

“What if it is?” Mick’s steps didn’t slow, but his jaw tightened.

Wylie hesitated, seeming to weigh his next comment. “Marlee thinks you haven’t been yourself since Pappy died. She’s worried you might do something… rash today.”

Mick pulled up short in the shadow of the bird. He scowled as he dug a pair of leather gloves out of the cockpit. “What the hell does that mean, Wylie?”

“Just that this is a ranger call. I have to know if you’re depressed enough, or personally involved enough, to get reckless with your life. If so, I’ll have to order you to stand down. If need be, I’ll handcuff you to one of the damned fence posts.”

Surprise passed through Mick’s lean frame, and then he found Wylie’s swashbuckling attempt comical. Wiping a hand across his face to dust off the snowflakes stuck to his eyelashes, he laughed. “Are you seriously suggesting that if Hana doesn’t make it, I’m gonna fly into the side of the mountain?”

“Put that way, it does sound extreme.”

“Damned right. Tell Marlee my head’s screwed on straight.”

His hip objected to the shift in weather, making it difficult for Mick to hoist himself into the cold cockpit. Neither man spoke again, but their eyes met. Blowing snow cast a muted golden halo over the camp. All sound seemed muffled except for the ropes clanking against the flagpole that marked the entrance to the ranger station. The U.S. flag, the Montana state flag, and the forestry flag, all attached below a snow-covered brass ball, flapped wildly in the stiff wind.

Wylie gave in first and raised a hand for Mick to clasp. “Fire her up. I see Bill coming with the supplies. I’ll toss extra pillows and blankets in the hatch and lock her down.” Several heartbeats passed, then he shouted to be heard over the first whir of the rotors, “Good luck, Mick.”

A lump rose in Mick’s throat, so he busied himself arranging the blankets and food Bill handed him, firmly in the copilot’s seat. Then he donned his earphones. That done, he was in control of his feelings enough to flash his brother-in-law a thumbs-up.

He felt the chopper rock as the men buttoned up the back, but waited until he saw them bend over and run clear before he lifted off.

Mick’s thoughts threatened to turn into worry for Hana. He refused to let that happen. Instead, he concentrated on the landscape fanned out below. As he climbed steadily, flying got dicier. Crosswinds alone could be wicked for rotors. Add blowing snow to the equation and bad conditions increased tenfold. The saving grace, if there was one, was that the snow was still dry. It blew off the Huey’s blades instead of weighing them down.

Below him, trudging slowly in single file down a steep ravine, were three bighorn sheep. They had grown shaggy winter coats and their brown hair was dusted white with snow. Any other time, he’d linger over the rare sight. The fact that the sheep knew to prepare for winter so soon lent an urgency to Mick’s mission. The jagged peaks he’d admired from home yesterday cast shadows across neighboring slopes—slopes he needed to see so he could land. First, though, he needed enough light to spot the stranded hikers.

Higher up into the foothills, fog drifted in in deep pockets. Yet another element against him. The snow and fog mix was beginning to hide the terrain below.

Mick turned up the heat inside the Huey, hoping to melt the flakes beginning to stick on the clear part of the bubble. Still, he had to use his glove to wipe off the condensation building up inside the plastic.

He’d been in the air forty minutes when a hole opened and he saw a red light winking atop a radio tower. The first of three point markers Wylie’s captain said he’d come across. Mick’s stomach unknotted. He hadn’t realized until then how tense he’d become.

It shouldn’t be long now before he’d see where the hiker said they’d staked tree boughs in the shape of an arrow. He wondered how far up the mountain Wylie and the other volunteers were. He knew they had radios and would try to stay in contact with the hikers. Mick cursed himself for not having asked for their frequency so he, too, could keep tabs. He fiddled with the dials, but got only static.

The arrow.

He adjusted his speed, brought the Huey lower and hovered above the marker. People came into view. One motionless body was propped against a fair size rock that was being used as a wind break. It was impossible to tell if the figure was a man or a woman, since a jacket was draped around the shoulders and another tented his or her whole head.

To the left of the rock, Mick identified three more figures lying flat around a dark gash in the hillside. The crevasse. Damn. By the look of things he’d arrived before the crew had complied with his request to have all of the injured ready to be flown off the mountain.

Although the wind didn’t seem quite so erratic now, Mick wondered whether he’d be able to lift off again once he’d landed. He quickly calculated the area, angle of descent and wind velocity. Wind, unfortunately, was unpredictable.

Where the climbers were more or less dictated that he had to perch on an incline. Would the weight of the Huey cause it to slide down the slick slope and keep sliding until it crashed into the line of trees below?

One of the figures at the crevasse hopped up and waved frantically. Mick wanted to yell at the foolish hiker and say, “Forget about me. Get those folks out of the hole.”

But as fast as his anger flared it fizzled. He knew what it was like to be in need of rescue. He felt his palms sweat as he remembered getting the hell shot out of his F/A-18. Falling. His chute jerking open. Floating down as gunfire rained around him. His heart slamming against his chest as he hauled in his chute and detached it from his hips, one of which ran red with his blood. He’d dragged himself into underbrush, scared he’d die on unfriendly soil.

But he hadn’t died. Six Black Hawks had shown up. Five fended off the enemy as one landed and rescued him.

Gritting his teeth, Mick wrestled the whirlybird onto a snowy perch. He hadn’t fully shut down before opening his door and tumbling out in a crouch. His first aid kit in hand, he ran bent over to the person slumped against the boulder.

Kari Dombroski, he discovered. She was the one who’d brought Mick the money the hikers had collected to pay for the climbing supplies Jess had ordered. Mick still had the money wadded in his jeans pocket, where he’d stuffed it yesterday.