16 Souls

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Present Day — August 14^th, 9:35 pm

Thanks to the “he’s with me” stewardship of Joe Johnson, the barrel chested chief park ranger now standing next to him in the trail head parking lot, Scott Bogosian had been spared the task of pushing through the normal official defenses thrown up against invading reporters.

Word had been radioed from the flight crew that they had the target on board and were electing to land back at the LZ and transfer the man to a waiting ambulance, a decision Scott interpreted as hopeful.

“Any idea where they’ll take him, Joe?” Scott asked.

“Don’t know. Usually our mountain rescues are all about broken bones and hypothermia, so helicoptering directly to a Denver trauma center is the best idea, but I don’t know what they’re dealing with. Could mean he can walk to the ambulance. Could mean they recovered a body.” Joe turned and regarded Scott for a few seconds. “So, what’s this all about, Scotty? Why are you out here in the cold tonight? I know it’s not a social visit because you didn’t bring any scotch.”

“A book I’m thinking of writing. Maybe.”

“Really? Well, that figures. In the old days you would have never shown up without a photographer rattling at least one bag full of Nikons. You aren’t acting like you’re under deadline pressure.”

Scott smiled, shaking his head. “How times change. The TV guys are doing it solo these days too, and so are reporters. At least we are Rocky Mountain News refugees.”

“Tell me about this book idea.”

“There’s a lot to this, Joe. You remember last January when a Regal Air jet hit a commuter?”

“Of course.”

“That’s the Regal Air captain they’re bringing off the mountain right now.”

“Really? What is he doing on my mountain at night?”

“That’s… one of the things I need to find out,” Scott replied. “Maybe he had an accident and couldn’t climb down. Maybe, I don’t know, maybe he was up there for the night communing with the universe. I imagine it’s an incredible view of the starfield.”

“You have no idea!”

“Joe, I’ve been studying the NTSB raw material, the reports from each of the investigatory groups, and there are a number of strange things I’m trying to understand. I’m sure the NTSB is working on the same puzzles, but they haven’t held the hearing yet or even gotten close to issuing their final report.”

“Seems diabolically simple. They had a midair, the little airplane’s stuck on their wing with live people, and the captain refuses to follow his company orders and as a result, lives were lost, and now he’s been charged with murder for insubordination. Right?”

“Well… somewhat. Those are the basics. But there’s so much more here. First, I can’t even imagine the pressure this guy was under to either sacrifice the people he’d rammed in that smaller plane in order to make a safe landing, or keep them safe and imperil the passengers on the big jet.”

“Have you talked to this fellow? The captain?”

“Only his lawyer… that woman right over there. She’s built a brick wall with concertina wire around him until the trial. And, of course, that’s the other thing. It’s unsettling when you try to crucify someone for a human mistake. You know, a professional makes a totally unintentional mistake and then tries his best to do his job and make decisions under pressure and some district attorney decides to convict him for it. That’s third world shit, it doesn’t belong in the U.S. But the public doesn’t seem the least upset about it, while to me it’s clearly malicious prosecution.”

A broad smile spread across the big ranger’s face as he regarded his friend of at least two decades.

“Scott, you remember that long-ago tv detective played by Peter Falk?”

“Columbo? Lord, that’s been off the air forever.”

“Well, you do know you’re a bit like Columbo when you latch onto something, right? I mean, you don’t have the seedy trench coat or the weird accent, but little things get your attention.”

“Hey, I’m not a bit like Columbo!”

“You drive an old Volvo, right?”

“He didn’t drive a Volvo… did he?”

“I really don’t recall.” Joe chuckled. “It was an old beater, though.” He paused, both of them watching the sky.

“So, what, in this case, is keeping you up at night, Mister Scott?”

“Unexplained lights.”

“Excuse me?”

“On final approach that night, after everything that had happened in the middle of the blizzard, the captain said in his hospital interview with the NTSB that suddenly bright lights snapped on just to the right of the centerline, and he reacted instinctively to avoid hitting whatever it was. He figured it was a snowplow in the wrong place, but the airport flatly denies any snowplows were anywhere near that runway and they’re got video of their equipment parking garage which seems to support the point.”

“Is the man lying?”

“I doubt it. He could have just imagined it afterwards, a trauma-induced false memory, but his history just isn’t that of someone who tries to lie his way out of things. But you asked… and that’s what’s bothering me.”

The landing lights of the approaching Blackhawk were suddenly visible and the two men watched as the thunderous roar of the blades and engine approached and the National Guardsman set the chopper back down in the landing zone. The door slid open and the two paramedics who had been waiting in their ambulance now scrambled aboard , and out again within a minute. They retreated to respectful distance as the pilot lifted the Blackhawk into the night sky once more and headed east.

Scott shadowed Joe Johnson as the ranger approached the two paramedics.

“What’s going on, fellas?”

“No time to take the patient by road, sir,” one of them said, folding an unused blanket and preparing to leave empty.

“Why’s that?” Joe pressed.

“Excuse me, sir, you are…?” the paramedic asked.

“I’m the chief ranger here. I summoned you.”

“Okay, sir, just… checking before I breach confidentiality.”

The medic was looking at Scott but Joe didn’t flinch and it was enough to declassify him as an interloper.

“So, why did he need air evacuation?”

“Well, when you have a suspected overdose, especially a barbiturate, there’s no direct antidote, and they’ve got a bunch of things that have to be done fast. We don’t have everything we’d need aboard.”

“Overdose? You mean as in attempted suicide?”

“Off the record, probably. The crew chief said he recovered a prescription bottle and other stuff up there indicating the patient didn’t intend to come down alive. They’ll have him at a trauma center in fifteen minutes. It would take us an hour.”

“What are his chances?” Scott interjected.

The medic shrugged. “Honestly, I have no idea.”