Her Emergency Knight. Alison RobertsЧитать онлайн книгу.
released the bag she’d forgotten she was clutching. ‘Who’s Digger?’
‘The pilot.’
‘Oh.’
‘This wasn’t his fault.’ The swift reaction to any implied criticism in Jennifer’s tone was sharp. ‘If Digger hadn’t coped with that engine failure as well as he did, we’d all be dead.’ Turning abruptly, Dr Knight walked away.
Jennifer pushed herself to her feet, pleased to find her legs working far more normally. She was standing in the space between a wing that had broken completely free and the bulk of the Cessna. The propeller blades of the single engine were crumpled almost beyond recognition and the front window and part of the plane’s roof had been torn away.
Lettering on the other end of the fuselage was distorted. B…P…L. No. An echo of Jennifer’s dream sounded in her head. That last letter was a T.
‘Bravo Papa Tango…Mayday…Mayday…’
Jennifer’s gaze slid involuntarily to her fellow passengers now lying beside the wreckage. She should check that they were, indeed, beyond any help a doctor could provide, but she didn’t move. Nobody could survive the kind of head injury Bill had clearly sustained and she had been in close enough contact with Shirley for long enough to know that she, also, was dead. Taking the time to confirm what she already knew was pointless. Turning her back on the fatalities, Jennifer picked her way over rocks and tussocks, following her new companion to where the sharply bent, sheared-off wing had created a kind of wall. The man with tufty grey hair lay behind the wing tip. Guy was standing beside him.
‘Digger? Can you hear me, mate?’
The response was incoherent and Jennifer’s view of the other survivor was blocked as Guy crouched in front of her. It was tempting to focus on the injured man herself but Jennifer needed a moment or two to orient herself first. This was no well-equipped emergency department with extra staff and facilities available automatically.
How ironic, to find herself in a situation like this, having travelled the length of the country to give GPs her expert advice on how to handle emergencies in precisely such situations. Now she was about to find out, at first-hand, what it was like to depend on limited resources and personal skills. Already she was listening for the sound of an engine. A buzz that would evolve into the chop of rotors as a rescue helicopter arrived to break the barrier of isolation.
No sound broke the overwhelming silence around them, however, and Jennifer’s gaze was drawn as involuntarily towards the horizon as it had been to the bodies beside the plane. She knew she would see a reality she would rather not confront. She also knew that it had to be confronted before she could move on. Scanning the clear blue of the sky in the hope of seeing a sign of movement offered no reassurance, but what she did see took her breath away.
Alongside and above for as far as she could see were the sharp peaks and valleys of the Southern Alps—a mountain range that provided a spine for the south island of New Zealand. Sunlight turned patches of snow into the blinding glare of mirrors and shadowed surrounding grey rock into inky darkness. Barren heights became the kind of tussock-covered terrain she was stranded on at present and bush-covered slopes fanned out below, a thick, green blanket softening variations in the terrain that were probably as sharp as those created by the towering peaks.
Jennifer had grown up in this country. New Zealand was home and it had always offered the security of being small and relatively isolated from the evils the rest of the world had to endure, but there was nothing remotely small about this landscape. The vast emptiness made her feel astonishingly insignificant.
No wonder people—and planes—got lost out here, never to be recovered. Even with a beacon sending out a distress call, Jennifer had no idea how long it might take for their exact location to be pinpointed. Maybe you had to fly within range to pick it up in the first place, and there were thousands of square miles to cover out there.
She was alone.
No. They were alone.
Jennifer swallowed past the constriction in her throat as she dragged her gaze back to the crouching man in front of her. She found herself the object of a speculative glance.
‘If you’ve finished admiring the view,’ Guy Knight said mildly, ‘I could use some help here.’
ANSWERING a call to duty was automatic.
Absorbing the reality of what had happened and where they were had taken only seconds, but the effect was an anchorage from which Jennifer could now function without distraction. Locking into the practice of what she was most competent to perform was a relief. A way of taking back control in the midst of catastrophe.
‘Airway?’
‘Clear.’ Guy Knight was opening the red sports bag. Jennifer could see neatly rolled packages and caught a glimpse of cardboard splints lining the base of the bag as some items were pulled clear. She should take the time to use one to splint her forearm, but it didn’t actually hurt too badly anymore and she could wriggle her fingers and even make a fist without causing more than fairly tolerable discomfort. It was a minor injury compared to what the man on the ground had suffered and, as such, it could wait.
‘Has he been conscious at all?’ Jennifer stepped around Guy’s feet to get to the other side of their patient. The two-inch heel of her shoe caught between two rocks but she ignored the discomfort the lurching movement provoked. She had obviously collected quite a few sprains and bruises, but hopefully the only broken bone was in her arm. ‘What’s his name?’
‘He was alert enough to get out of the plane by himself. He was obviously short of breath and said his ribs hurt, but it took a bit of convincing to get him to sit down while I went back to see about the rest of you. It wasn’t until I’d got Bill out and went back to check that I found him less responsive.’
He’d still gone back to help Jennifer out of the wreckage, however. She owed both these men the best she had to offer right now.
‘Name?’
‘Jim Spade. But he hasn’t willingly answered to anything other than “Digger” for as long as I’ve known him.’
Jennifer leaned close and rubbed a knuckle on the older man’s sternum. ‘Digger! Can you hear me? Open your eyes.’
The man groaned and his eyes opened briefly. He jerked his head and his hands moved, but any struggle to speak was clearly too much of an effort.
‘Breathing’s inadequate,’ Jennifer stated. ‘Do you carry an oxygen cylinder in that bag?’
‘No.’
‘Bag mask?’
‘No.’
‘Stethoscope?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Jennifer’s tone implied that he had, at last, provided an acceptable answer. She took the item from Guy’s hands and flicked off the leather jacket draped over Digger’s chest. It was only then that she realised why Guy seemed so inappropriately clothed for the cold temperature. He had been wearing this jacket over his polo-type shirt when he had boarded the small plane.
Digger had a woollen plaid bush shirt on, the buttons of which only opened a short distance.
‘Got some shears?’ Jennifer queried.
‘Don’t think so.’
‘We need this shirt off. I can’t see what’s going on.’
Guy leaned forward. He gripped the shirt at the base of the neck opening and ripped the heavy fabric apart as easily as if it had been a light cotton.
‘Sorry, Digger. It’s about time you treated yourself to a new one anyway.’