No Greater Love | Birth Pangs: Chapter 5

Waiting in the LZ. Will it fly? Fate vs Providence. The Only Real Security.

Previously, twenty-year-old Katie Whitefeather was knocked unconscious when an enemy rocket exploded into her medevac helicopter, instantly killing the pilot and wounding Katie.

Chapter Five

Leave No Man Behind

Tanger Valley, Kygyristan, January 1st

Somewhere deep within her mind, Katie slowly became aware of the darkness surrounding her, as if she were in a windowless room with no light. The voices were getting closer. They were frantically shouting, “Wake up! Wake up!”

She struggled to gather her wits and ascend out of the darkness. Finally, she gained control over her eyelids and willed them to open. She saw the crew chief, desperate in a cloud of gray smoke that filled the cockpit, frantically shaking her, yelling, “Wake up! Wake up!”

An odor filled the air … like a firing range when everyone shoots at the same time.

Along with the smoke and the smell, the noise of twin turbines, the vibration of transmissions and rotors, chaos, and fear filled the atmosphere.

She noticed a stabbing pain in her left arm. And the left side of her face felt strange, as if it was open to the air.

Dazed, she remembered the enemy soldier firing the rocket-propelled grenade directly toward her. She realized where she was and what had happened. As her mind cleared, she looked around to orient herself.

In the left seat, she saw Tiedown’s mangled, bloody corpse. The left half of his head was gone. Blood, brains, and charred pieces of flesh splattered the inside of the cockpit. She remembered his last words to her: “Rule number one. Don’t look back.” She looked away, toward her instrument panel.

The two Apache pilots were talking in her helmet earphones. She turned her transmit selector knob to UHF and said,

“Viper 3-1 this is Dustoff 2-3.”

The Apache pilot noted the female voice.

“Dustoff 2-3, what’s your status? We saw an explosion near you.”

Our status? She quickly surveyed her aircraft instruments and the warning light panel. Amazing! The aircraft still was alive, despite its trauma. Readings for both engines look normal. The main rotor is still turning overhead. This thing might still fly!

“Viper 3-1, we’ve been hit by an RPG. Our pilot is dead. Aircraft status is unknown. I’m seeing some warning lights, but nothing critical. As soon as our pax are loaded, we’ll see if we can fly. Standby.”

Above the engine noise, she heard her crew chief shouting frantically at her to get them out of the LZ. She pressed the intercom button on her control stick. “Have we got all our pax?” No answer. The intercom must be out.

She turned to look behind her to see if both patient stretchers were loaded. Yes, they’re both loaded, and the crew members are all on board. They were frantic, but she didn’t notice any obvious injuries on them.

As she turned back toward the front to prepare for takeoff, her peripheral vision caught the motion of another American soldier running toward the aircraft, carrying someone over his shoulder. Her crew had been focused on the two stretcher patients, and on the carnage in the cockpit, so they hadn’t seen them.

Wow, that takes a lot of strength! But hurry before another Kyrgi pops up with another RPG and finishes us.

Her crew yelled at her, “Let’s go!”

She pointed, directing the crew’s attention to the American running toward them. Realizing the cause of her delay, they made room on the Blackhawk’s cargo floor.

As they waited a long 30 seconds for the two men to reach them, she scanned the instrument panel to prepare for takeoff. Amazing! She thought, except for a few minor caution lights, everything looks normal.

She looked back to see the two soldiers pile onto the Blackhawk’s cargo floor. Katie noticed the powerful man’s nametag. Salvadore.

She looked back at the crew chief, nodding and holding her thumb up to ask him if everything was ready. He responded emphatically with two thumbs up. She nodded acknowledgment, then turned to face forward, scanning her instruments one last time.

“Viper 3-1, Dustoff 2-3 is pulling pitch in five seconds.”

“Roger Dustoff. We’ve got you in sight.”

She focused on the horizon ahead as her left hand slowly pulled up the collective pitch control to lift them to a momentary three-foot hover. It feels normal. If it’ll hover, it’ll fly. With that assurance, she pulled takeoff power and the Blackhawk quickly sped up and away from the LZ.

After climbing to 2000 feet, she transmitted, “Viper 3-1, Request you lead us back to base as a three-ship, taking care of the navigation and radios.”

“Roger that, Dustoff. Viper 3-1 is passing you on your right. You can follow me home. Viper 3-2 will follow behind you to monitor your aircraft status on the way back.”

“Viper 3-1, thanks.” Katie said.

Following behind Viper 3-1, she started to believe they might make it home to FOB Freedom. As her adrenaline ebbed, the pain in her face and left arm increased. Her left sleeve was shredded and blood-soaked. And when she wiped her left cheek with the back of her right hand, she winced in pain and blood saturated her glove. That’s not good. But worry about your face later. Focus on flying.

The trailing Apache pilot radioed, “Dustoff 2-3, this is Viper 3-2. Be advised you’re starting to trail white smoke.”

Katie responded, “Viper 3-2, thanks. Oil pressure looks a little low, but still in the green. Let me know if you see any fire.”

A few minutes later, “Dustoff 2-3, Viper 3-1. You’re cleared to land near the medical center. Ambulances will wait nearby to offload your pax. Follow me into a grassy area where you can land and shut down. Ambulances will come to you.”

Katie replied, “Roger, thanks.”

Freedom Forward Operating Base’s tower controller cleared the airspace of other traffic so the three choppers could fly straight to Katie’s landing spot. Viper 3-1 led Katie steadily down in altitude, crossing 500 feet over FOB Freedom’s runway, down to a vacant grassy area where she landed. As soon as their forward airspeed stopped, white smoke enveloped them, but the main rotor quickly dissipated it, like a big fan, after Katie shut down both engines.

Ambulances and fire trucks arrived before her rotor blades stopped. As medics and firemen ran to the Blackhawk, Katie flung her door open, unfastened her seat belt and shoulder harness, and took a deep breath. Her mind and body relaxed for the first time since Tiedown interrupted her breakfast.

A medic stepped up to her open door.

When she turned her head to look at him, he looked away, repulsed. Katie was beautiful, like her aunt Sarah, so she was accustomed to catching men gazing at her. She’d never seen his response. Wow, it must be bad.

He collected his composure, then looked back toward her and said, “Ma’am, you need to come with me to the clinic. You’ll need to get checked out.”

“Him first.” Katie ordered, pointing her left thumb at Tiedown’s corpse. The medic didn’t argue.

She watched him gently unbuckle Tiedown’s seat belt. Then, two medics removed Tiedown’s corpse, laying it reverently into a black body bag on the grass.

When the medic returned, she tried to lift herself out of her seat, but her arms and legs had little strength. Two medics steadied her as she stepped down from her copilot seat. Then they supported her arms as she wobbled to a nearby ambulance.

At the hospital, when the doctor saw Katie’s face, he said, “Ouch! That’s going to leave a mark.” Good bedside manner.

He had her lay back and laid a cloth over her eyes. She felt him inject something in four places around the left side of her face—an anesthetic, she assumed.

After a couple of minutes, her face was numb. The doctor started cleaning the wound and stitching. Katie didn’t feel the suture needle when it punctured her cheek, but she felt it when he pulled her head off the pillow 22 times. She still hadn’t seen the wound. As she laid there, she wondered, Am I going to look like Frankenstein when this is over?

When he was finally done, he helped her sit upright and handed her a mirror. She saw 22 stitches closing an ugly, jagged, diagonal gash down her left cheek.

“Looks like Miss America is no longer an option for me. Eh, doc?”

“Sadly, you may be right. Too bad. You might have won, depending on your talent competition. What’s your talent?”

“Does helicopter pilot extraordinaire count?”

“I don’t think so. Too hard to show on stage. Let’s fix your arm next.”

After numbing her arm, she watched him probe-for and remove an inch-long piece of shrapnel from the Klinatok clan tattoo encircling her left forearm.

She saw Captain Berry approaching her.

"Poca, weren't you supposed to be grounded until you learned the local SOPs?"

Before she could process a response, he said, “Just kidding. Good job!” with a fatherly smile.

Staff Sergeant Ethan Salvadore, the strong Green Beret medic that carried the man into her helicopter, was waiting for his shrapnel surgery on a cot nearby, to her right. He heard the conversation with Captain Berry and saw her tattoo.

With no other apparent injuries, the doctor prescribed her a round of antibiotics and released her to ride back to her squadron with Captain Berry.

Seeing that she was about to leave, Ethan Salvadore gently grabbed her right forearm and said, "Thank you, ma'am. I'd either be dead or captured if you hadn't waited."

“How’s your buddy?” she asked.

“He was already dead. But, like you, I didn’t leave him behind.”

***

FOB Freedom Theater, January 5th

With outdoor temperatures well below freezing, Katie’s Squadron Commander, Major Strickner, convened the entire squadron for a mandatory Memorial and Awards formation inside FOB Freedom’s theater.

One hundred fifty officers and enlisted men and women gathered at 1300 hours for the event. All wore XyloVirus masks and tried to observe social distancing requirements.

First, the commander eulogized Tiedown. “Lieutenant Marion Horowitz was a fine officer and aviator who sacrificed his life saving others. He will be missed. His wife will receive Bronze Star and Purple Heart medals in his honor.”

The squadron bugler played taps, and everyone observed a moment of silence.

Then, Major Strickner called Katie, who formally presented herself on the stage, facing the commander at attention. Her XyloVirus face mask almost covered her swollen stitches.

He read this citation:

Warrant Officer One Katarina Whitefeather is hereby awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross, with Valor device. While assigned to C Squadron, 2nd Battalion, 117th Aviation Regiment at Forward Operating Base Freedom, Kygyristan, Warrant Officer Whitefeather demonstrated heroism and exceptional skill while piloting a medical evacuation flight in the Tanger Valley. While loading wounded soldiers, an enemy combatant fired a rocket-propelled grenade into her helicopter, instantly killing the pilot and wounding WO1 Whitefeather. Miss Whitefeather’s heroic performance under enemy fire, along with her skills as an aviator, saved the lives of her patients and her crew. She is truly deserving of the Distinguished Flying Cross.

The Commander pinned two medals on Katie’s uniform, the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Purple Heart. She saluted the Commander, then exited the stage.

***

In Katie’s Quarters

After receiving her medals, she went directly back to her room and locked the door.

One of the few benefits of being the squadron’s only female officer was that Katie didn’t have to share her living quarters. Like a small hotel room, she had a bed, a desk and chair, a laptop with an Internet connection, and a private bathroom. Her few pictures included her Uncle Andy, Buster, their cabin, Andy’s plane, and the view of their cove from his front porch.

She sat quietly at the desk, thinking, What’s wrong with me? Why am I so conflicted?

I’m glad to be alive, and I’m proud to be awarded a DFC. Given the circumstances, I think I earned it.

That’s the problem … I’m proud of the DFC, and that makes me feel guilty because Tiedown’s death put me in the situation to earn it.

But, I didn’t choose what happened to Tiedown. So, I shouldn’t feel guilty about it. I’m not responsible for what happened to him. I had no part in it. Zero.

Besides, if that RPG would’ve been aimed one millimeter to the left, I’d be the one in a body bag and Tiedown would get the DFC. It’s the chance we all take.

***

Does God choose who lives and dies in these situations? If He does, what’s his criteria? Questions like that make my brain hurt. Some things we can’t know. But I do know that, if I’m living in communion with the Lord, death doesn’t matter. I have nothing to fear from death if it takes me back to that beautiful meadow forever.

In the meantime, do everything as unto the Lord, and choose to follow the truth in every situation.

So, don't think about it. Just do your job, enjoy flying, and keep doing what’s right every day.

“Good talk with myself,” she said, smiling. She unlocked the door, put on her XyloVirus mask, and ate a solemn dinner with T-BAR and Shrek at the mess hall.

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