Chatman had done cardiac surgery in a plunging aircraft.
The flight officer squirmed forward and then back. “Touchdown in about a minute,” he told the doctor, and the crew made only brief preparations. Everything was already as tied down as it could be. The EMT at Hewitt’s head stayed close and put both hands on the patient’s shoulders. The doctor ignored them all. His patient’s heart was beating. It wouldn’t have mattered to Chatman if they had been in a balloon floating over the Eiffel Tower. He was working to field-dress the incision and was lost in his own world. I heard the engine beat decrease, and seconds later, the transition from air to pavement came as only the slightest jar.
I found out later that runway 3, from the initial touchdown point to the intersection with runway 8, where the ambulance sat waiting, was almost eight thousand feet long. Our pilot used it all. Slow taxi was not in his book. He let the Navajo roll under considerable power. I opened my eyes and saw the big intersection of two other runways flash past. We must have been humping along at close to seventy miles an hour. Finally the nose dipped and we braked, not violently but insistently. Before the aircraft was stopped, the flight officer had the door unlatched. I looked out as we rolled up toward the ambulance and saw that the aircraft engine on that side was already windmilling to a stop.
“Let’s move it,” the doctor snapped, and in seconds the transfer was made. If I had taken time to blink I would have been left behind. I did see the Gallup police car, and the two men in it. I assumed one of them was Chief White. I could have ridden down with them, but I stuck with the ambulance. The explanations could come later.
It wasn’t many minutes to the downtown hospital, but the nurse found thirty seconds to offer me a handful of facial tissues. I mopped the sweat that ran freely on my face.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“The hell with me. How’s he going to be?”
The nurse nodded and smiled slightly.
“I thought we’d lost him back there for a minute,” I said.
She pursed her lips and looked as if she was going to scold me. “Dr. Chatman does not allow that to happen on his airplane,” she said.
“Damn right,” Chatman said without hesitation.
I suppose the logistics of what they had done was simple for them, but all I could do was sit there and wad Kleenex. Punk, I thought, you’re on a roll. Keep those numbers clicking.
Once inside the hospital, all I could do, along with Chief White and Detective Stan Buchanan of Gallup, was sit, talk, and wait.
Chapter 12
The nurse sneezed discreetly, but it was enough to jar me awake.
“You look like you could use about forty-eight hours straight,” Dr. Harlan Sprague, Jr., said quietly. He was sitting nearby, a slender briefcase leaning against the chair leg. He let the journal he was reading fall closed, but kept the place with his thumb.
I rubbed my eyes and pushed myself upright in the chair. “Must have dozed off.” I looked at my watch. Two hours of dozing. “When did you come up?”
“About an hour ago. I flew in.” He fully closed the journal and put it in the briefcase. “Your two compadres left?”
“They had some kind of problem they got called on. Someone else from Gallup was supposed to be here by now.”
Sprague nodded. “I’ve got a two-day conference that promises two days of boredom. Had I known you were going to make the trip, I would have offered you a ride in my plane. More comfortable, I suspect, than the air ambulance.”
“It wasn’t too bad. I appreciate the thought, though. About all we’ve been doing is waiting. Hurry up and wait.”
“I can imagine,” Sprague said gently. “Anyhow, I saw you here and thought you probably wouldn’t be asleep too long.” He glanced up at the wall clock. “I have about an hour, if there’s anything else you need. I’m impressed, by the way, with how thorough your Detective Reyes
The flight officer squirmed forward and then back. “Touchdown in about a minute,” he told the doctor, and the crew made only brief preparations. Everything was already as tied down as it could be. The EMT at Hewitt’s head stayed close and put both hands on the patient’s shoulders. The doctor ignored them all. His patient’s heart was beating. It wouldn’t have mattered to Chatman if they had been in a balloon floating over the Eiffel Tower. He was working to field-dress the incision and was lost in his own world. I heard the engine beat decrease, and seconds later, the transition from air to pavement came as only the slightest jar.
I found out later that runway 3, from the initial touchdown point to the intersection with runway 8, where the ambulance sat waiting, was almost eight thousand feet long. Our pilot used it all. Slow taxi was not in his book. He let the Navajo roll under considerable power. I opened my eyes and saw the big intersection of two other runways flash past. We must have been humping along at close to seventy miles an hour. Finally the nose dipped and we braked, not violently but insistently. Before the aircraft was stopped, the flight officer had the door unlatched. I looked out as we rolled up toward the ambulance and saw that the aircraft engine on that side was already windmilling to a stop.
“Let’s move it,” the doctor snapped, and in seconds the transfer was made. If I had taken time to blink I would have been left behind. I did see the Gallup police car, and the two men in it. I assumed one of them was Chief White. I could have ridden down with them, but I stuck with the ambulance. The explanations could come later.
It wasn’t many minutes to the downtown hospital, but the nurse found thirty seconds to offer me a handful of facial tissues. I mopped the sweat that ran freely on my face.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“The hell with me. How’s he going to be?”
The nurse nodded and smiled slightly.
“I thought we’d lost him back there for a minute,” I said.
She pursed her lips and looked as if she was going to scold me. “Dr. Chatman does not allow that to happen on his airplane,” she said.
“Damn right,” Chatman said without hesitation.
I suppose the logistics of what they had done was simple for them, but all I could do was sit there and wad Kleenex. Punk, I thought, you’re on a roll. Keep those numbers clicking.
Once inside the hospital, all I could do, along with Chief White and Detective Stan Buchanan of Gallup, was sit, talk, and wait.
Chapter 12
The nurse sneezed discreetly, but it was enough to jar me awake.
“You look like you could use about forty-eight hours straight,” Dr. Harlan Sprague, Jr., said quietly. He was sitting nearby, a slender briefcase leaning against the chair leg. He let the journal he was reading fall closed, but kept the place with his thumb.
I rubbed my eyes and pushed myself upright in the chair. “Must have dozed off.” I looked at my watch. Two hours of dozing. “When did you come up?”
“About an hour ago. I flew in.” He fully closed the journal and put it in the briefcase. “Your two compadres left?”
“They had some kind of problem they got called on. Someone else from Gallup was supposed to be here by now.”
Sprague nodded. “I’ve got a two-day conference that promises two days of boredom. Had I known you were going to make the trip, I would have offered you a ride in my plane. More comfortable, I suspect, than the air ambulance.”
“It wasn’t too bad. I appreciate the thought, though. About all we’ve been doing is waiting. Hurry up and wait.”
“I can imagine,” Sprague said gently. “Anyhow, I saw you here and thought you probably wouldn’t be asleep too long.” He glanced up at the wall clock. “I have about an hour, if there’s anything else you need. I’m impressed, by the way, with how thorough your Detective Reyes
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