Thanks: go to the kind people on the LJ community little_details who answered my call for information on the airlifting of injured people from rough terrain; and to Dusty, who pointed out that Jim's truck was in no way drivable after its initial encounter with Quinn.
Author's note: I love most of "Survival", but the ending has never worked for me. Blair, in his stretcher, dangling from a helicopter, screaming Jim's name for our amusement - it's awful. So I've fixed it. You're welcome.
Chasing Sandburg
by Helen W.
As "Survival" is ending...
The Search & Rescue chopper rose rapidly, swinging Sandburg's Stokes basket beneath in a way that just seemed wrong.
Simon could tell it made Jim uneasy too. "He's getting to a hospital hours faster this way," Simon offered.
Jim nodded his agreement, but then said, "He's still screaming."
"Well, that's a good sign, right? Where there's breath and all that." Simon didn't dare ask Jim what the kid was saying; he could guess, and he knew it was tearing his friend to pieces.
"We're done here," Simon announced to nobody in particular; but he was a captain in the Cascade PD; and he'd just had a hell of a couple of days. Nobody was going to stop him, not even the lovely FBI agent Blair'd just scored a date with. "Come on, Jim, let's go chase Sandburg."
Jim was kind enough not to ask him if he was up to the hike along the overgrown dirt-and-gravel driveway, now deeply rutted, that connected the old mine to the closest paved road. Though he knew Jim Ellison was more than capable of catching up to Blair without his help, Simon found he wanted to keep his detective company. And, yeah, maybe see for himself that Blair was getting appropriate care, was going to be okay.
There were at least ten vehicles up on Rt. 854, but none of them were Jim's truck, and the young deputy that had been assigned babysitting duty wasn't sure where it had ended up. Maybe Momma's Garage and Towing, down in Weaverville? A quick call determined that it was indeed at Momma's, but (a) wasn't in driving condition, and (b) was evidence, and wasn't leaving the area any time soon.
"So how do we get out of here?" Simon wondered aloud.
"Momma's also rents cars," said the deputy. "And sells doughnuts, if you're so inclined. I'd give you a lift down there myself, but that'd be at least an hour there and back." At Jim's glare, he added, "Let me see if I can get someone else up here..."
It was another 20 minutes before another officer came up the path - a Sheriff Tennyson, and obviously he and Jim had some history because Jim began building up a head of steam as soon as he got a glimpse of the guy emerging through the woods. But Tennyson, after introducing himself, said, "Holden, run these two wherever they want to go, I'll watch things here."
Once in Holden's squad car, Simon in front, Jim crunched into the back, the young deputy turned and said, "Do you want to go see if they've landed your guy down in Weaverville? I bet that's where they pulled him inside the chopper. Right on the high school ball field."
"They have a high school?" Jim asked.
"I was class of 93."
"Can't you raise them first?" Simon asked.
"Search and Rescue? Different systems," said Holden. "What, you think we talk to each other?"
En route, Simon got a call through to the Weaverville PD and learned that Blair had, indeed, been landed in the town; but instead of pulling the Stokes basket inside the helicopter, he'd been passed off to local EMTs, who'd taken him to the Weaver Medical Complex.
A high school, a police department, and a hospital. Weaverville must be hopping.
"You just missed him," the woman at the information desk said. "The Search and
Rescue guys, we don't like to have them do transport. Pulls them away from here, which seemed like a real bad idea today, given the shootings and all. Didn't know what else might come down. Plus, they don't have the same training as a medevac crew."
"So he's back in the air?" Jim asked.
"Yeah. We, uh, had to sedate him pretty heavily to get him on board."
"I bet," said Simon. "Where're they taking him?"
"Down to Cascade."
"Which hospital? We have more than one."
"Well aren't you lucky? I'm sorry, I don't know. Which one has a helipad?"
"All three major ones," said Jim. "Let's go get a car."
Simon drove while Jim worked the borrowed radio, calling the station to find out what they knew (nothing), then Mercy General, Cascade Memorial, and County General (more nothing). Another call into the station got him the names of likely hospitals in the Seattle area, just in case they'd decided to go a little further; but Harberview and UW Medical also hadn't been notified to expect any shooting victims.
"Give them time," Simon advised. "Where to?"
Jim closed his eyes briefly. "Got a coin?" Then, "Cascade. At least we'll be home."
Like Simon expected, it didn't take too long to hear back. Mercy General had heard they were getting a cop named "Alexander Blair" and called the PD; and someone at headquarters had been bright enough to map that name to their semi-missing-person.
Once he had a destination, Jim's mood seemed to lighten a little, and he suggested some gas station coffee. "This," he said, his hands wrapped around the brown and white cup, "is wonderful. Hadn't realized how cold I was."
Simon nodded his agreement. "At least Sandburg's probably warm."
Jim drove the rest of the way to Cascade, pulling into Mercy around 2 p.m.
"Gunshot? They sent him to County General," said the volunteer at the information desk.
They both somehow managed to not shoot the messenger. (Being out of ammo helped.)
Finally, at 2:16 p.m., they pulled into County; Sandburg, who'd arrived several hours earlier, was being worked on, they were told. Yes, he would be fine; and, no, they couldn't see him; and would they sit over there please?
Simon settled into a not-terribly-awful chair in the almost-empty waiting room. After two or three minutes of restless pacing interspersed with pauses and that far-away look that meant he was trying to hear something, Jim did the same.
"Long day," Simon said. They hadn't talked much during the drive into the city; Jim hadn't seemed to be having any trouble staying awake, and Simon just hadn't felt up to making conversation.
"Days," said Jim. "You sleep at all last night?"
"What do you think?"
"Yeah, me too."
Simon settled more fully into the chair. Should he call into the office, have someone bring over some paperwork? There was the Latham-Ungar case… that darned Abbott case…
"Sirs? Sirs, excuse me… which of you is Jim Ellison?"
Simon found himself out of his chair before he fully registered he'd been asleep; Jim was two steps ahead of him. Ah, combat experience, had to love it. "Blair Sandburg's in post-op ICU, fourth floor, 423, take the second bank of elevators…" the LPN called after them.
"Jim, for God's sake, slow down!" Simon said as he caught up. "There's no fire."
"Right," Jim said, then, more calmly, "Right."
They continued at a more reasonable pace, taking the elevator despite the presence of a stairwell. Once one the 4th floor, Simon considered hanging back a little - but, darn it, he'd been chasing Sandburg all afternoon, he might as well see the guy ASAP and then get home.
Jim paused near the placard reading 423 and caught the eye of a nurse behind the closest counter. She smiled and asked, "You're Jim Ellison?" At Jim's nod she continued, "Mr. Sandburg is groggy but fine. We'll move him to a regular room as soon as he's feeling a little better."
Jim pulled aside bay 423's curtain far enough to allow both of them access. Blair was lying in a hospital bed, head and shoulders slightly raised, one leg bent, the other - the one that had taken the bullet - above the sheet, stretched out flat, and thoroughly bandaged. Blair's face had been washed, but his hair was a tangled mess, and, not for the first time, Simon wondered how he ever got a comb through it. And of course there was a line going into his right hand; couldn't be in a hospital without one of those.
Blair's eyes opened as they entered. "You both look like shit," he said.
"So do you, Chief," said Jim.
Jim crossed the room and rested a hip on the side of the bed, then reached around the saline drip to grasp Blair's shoulder. "You okay?"
Blair gave a noncommittal half-shrug. "Worst. Day. Ever."
"No, actually, it's not," said Jim. "Not by a long shot."
Blair closed his eyes and nodded; whether Jim was reminding the kid that he'd lived through some truly horrible shit, or just that any job you walked (or, at least, were carried) away from was a good one, Simon couldn't tell. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Blair crossed his free hand across his body and closed his fingers around Jim's forearm. "Are you okay being here? Nothing overwhelming your senses?"
"I'm fine," Jim answered. "It's not too bad. Been here all afternoon."
"They said you were asleep. I told them to wake your lazy ass up."
"Gee, thanks."
"Well, if they made me wake up, I might as well share the pain."
Jim's tone changed slightly as he asked, "Is there pain?"
"Not too much… but you know how much I hate feeling drugged."
"Yeah, I hear you."
The moment stretched, but neither Jim nor Blair seemed anxious to end it, and Simon was debating saying goodbye or just leaving when the nurse who'd woken them minutes before materialized. "Excuse me, are you Simon Banks? Captain Banks?"
"Yes…"
"I'm so relieved! I had no idea you were you! The police department has been calling us all afternoon, the ER's been wondering where you are, the FBI has some guy here… you've got to come downstairs right now so that they can document your condition!"
"Oh." Policing 101 and he'd spaced it. "Gentlemen… I expect to see you both in the office, 9 a.m. tomorrow."
"He's joking, right?" Simon heard Blair ask as he started back down the hall toward the elevators.
* * * THE END * * **
Liked it? Hated it? I'd love to know, here or at helenw at murphnet dot org.