Murder 101: Adaptation of Helicopter Chase Scenes and an Epilogue
by JoAnn Stuart
Summary: Spoilers for Murder 101. Most of the spoken dialogue comes directly from the episode.
Author's Note: Thanks to Lisa for the beta. You're the best! Originally published at Cascade Library
Disclaimer: The Sentinel and its characters ©Pet Fly Productions, UPN, and Paramount. All rights reserved. No infringement of any copyrights or trademarks is intended or should be inferred. The settings and characters are fictitious, even when a real name may be used. Any similarity to actual persons, living or deceased, or to actual events is purely coincidental and is not intended to suggest that the events described actually occurred.
"Keep with him, Sandburg."
Temporarily frozen to the ground, I mutter, "Why did it have to be a helicopter?"
Oh, man. I sound like Indiana Jones. Interesting how seemingly irrelevant media sound bites infiltrate our thoughts and we make connections to our current situations. Make my day. I'll be back. Frankly, Scarlet, I don't give a damn. Most adults can sing along to the theme song from Batman- oh wait. That didn't have any words. Something like The Beverly Hillbillies, then, even if they haven't heard it in years. I bet my experiences would make a good TV show, too. Cascade Sandburg. Hmmm. Doesn't have quite the same ring, although my adventures would surely rival those of that celluloid hero any day. Maybe when I'm done with the diss, I'll write my memoirs.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Simon grimace and I know he's wondering yet again why he puts up with a crazy anthropologist-cum-police observer. "What would you prefer? A boat?" he snaps before shooing me after my partner. "Go!"
Simon's words, combined with his fairly gentle push, effect a quick thaw and suddenly I'm sprinting across a broad expanse of green grass towards the police helicopter where Jim is already climbing in next to the pilot. As I run, I think that maybe Banks is right. I am nuts. Why else would I be standing there thinking about Indiana Jones, and the pervasiveness of the popular media, and writing my memoirs? Okay, so I know it's actually a self-preservation tactic to distract me from thinking about... Oh man. Look at this thing. It looks so flimsy. No doors. No windows. Nothing but a scrawny little lap-belt between me and... Me and... Don't think about it... Don't think about it... Do not think about it... Your place is with the Sentinel, Sandburg. Focus on that.
I let the momentum of my dash across the lawn propel my body into the rear seat of the bird before my mind can countermand the action. As I sit down, my fingers scrabble for the seatbelt. Man! What is with my hands? They feel clumsy, like I'm wearing oven mitts. I can't get this damned thing buckled. I'm going to fall... I just know it... I am going to fall...
I hear Jim yell, "All right, let's move! Let's move!" The rising whine in the pitch of the engine tells me that we're starting to lift off.
Wait, damnit! I don't have... C'mon... C'mon... C'mon... Oh, man. I'm losing it. Now is so not the time for an anxiety attack. Pull it together, Sandburg... Pull it together, Sandburg... Pull it... There! I did it!
As we lurch skywards, I glance at the ground, my throat working convulsively against both my rising nausea and my rising panic. I laugh hysterically inside my head and jerk my gaze up to the ceiling of the chopper. Everything's going up. Up. Up. Up. Upset anthropologist. Upheaval. Upchuck.
Why do I follow Jim like this? Stupid. Stupid Guide Tricks. Maybe this could be another chapter in my diss. Yeah. What drives the guide to accompany the sentinel into situations and places where the guide would not normally choose to go? I'll write a whole new section on instinctive behavior of guides as triggered by sentinel behavior. I'm almost done now and this'll give me more time to keep hanging around... Hanging around. Now there's a poor choice of words when you're a bazillion feet above the ground with nothing between you and the ground but a thin, little strap of...
No, no, no... Don't think about it... Don't think about it... Do not think about it. Like I can think about anything else. I thought confronting your fears was supposed to alleviate them. Instead of becoming less afraid of heights, I've picked up new vertically-inspired phobias. Like riding in helicopters. Thank you Quinn and Kincaid. Oh, now that is real helpful, Blair- thinking about people who still give you nightmares when you're already stressed out.
I look around the tiny interior of the bird, feeling isolated even though Jim is sitting less than two feet in front of me. I see his lips moving, but I can't hear him over the rush of wind outside the helicopter and the rush of blood within my ears. I feel like I'm going to stroke out here. Can't he hear me? Can't he hear my heart beat over the thump thump thump of the chopper blades? It's got to be beating just as fast, if not faster... Oh. Look. Headphones.
With trembling hands, I fumble with the wires and finally get the instrument properly situated over my ears. I adjust the mouthpiece and speak. "Hello, hello!" I'm moderately surprised that my voice doesn't squeak. "Hello, hello, hello, hello!" Both Jim and the pilot glance back at me. I see an expression of disdain on the pilot's face, but I don't care, because Jim's words are just for me. "We got you, Chief."
He has me. It's okay. He has me.
Jim continues talking to the pilot, his focus once more on the mission. I listen to the sound of his voice, grateful for the distraction from my own thoughts. Then his words register with me. He said, "Let's keep them in sight. When we get over a clear area, we'll try and force them down."
Wait a minute! Force them down? That so does not sound good. Gentle down, yes. Force down, no. We are so high up at this point that... No, man, don't even go there. I have to relax or there's no point in me being here. I'm calm. I am calm. I. Am. Calm.
I try to focus on the mission. I try to focus on the Sentinel. That's what I'm here for, after all. To help the Sentinel. To backup the Sentinel. He's the one who zones. Not the guide. I put my right hand on the back of his chair to ground him. Yeah. I'm grounding him. In case he zones. Focus on Jim. Be like Jim. Not afraid. He's not afraid of anything. Except fear. And deep water. No deep water down there. Just a shallow river... Don't look out the window, Blair. Hah! What window? No, no, no. Look at Jim. Focus on Jim. Let Jim watch for the other 'copter. I just watch Jim. That's my job.
Watch Jim's back. I can do that. But I can't help glimpsing the treetops in my peripheral vision as we flash past them, no matter how hard I try. I also sense the emptiness around us. Lots and lots and lots of empty space between us and the ground. And although the headphones dampen the shrieking of the wind, I can still feel it tearing at me, pulling wisps of my hair free from my ponytail and whipping the strands about my face. It almost feels like the wind has fingers that want to grab us out of the helicopter and... Whoa, whoa, whoa, Blair. Do not go there. Focus on the Sentinel. I hear the pilot say, "Hang on. It's going to get rough."
How much worse can it get? The helicopter swerves and tilts as we give chase. I see the trees and the riverbed rushing past, even though I don't want to look. The bumpy ride makes it hard for me to keep my head stable and the shifting angles of our trajectory afford a breathtaking view that this observer has absolutely no interest in observing. I sit rigidly, clutching the back of Jim's chair with one hand, my other gripping a handlebar on the side of my seat. Conversation between my partner and the pilot washes over me.
"Just stay with them," urges Jim. "He's going to try and lose us in a ravine." "Don't let him get out of your sight." "I lost visual." The pilot slows to a hover while scanning the horizon. "See them?"
Is Jim asking me? I look around, despite my better judgement. "Uh-uh." No, man. That's not my job, man. My job is to watch you. Otherwise, the only thing I see is lots and lots of empty space. High, empty space. And the tops of trees. Got a bird's-eye view here. But, I'm not a bird. I knew there was a reason my spirit animal is a wolf instead of an eagle. Wolves don't soar above the treetops. What am I doing up here?
Jim's eyes search the skies. "Come on. Where are you?"
But even sentinel vision can't see through trees. Before I can tell Jim to try piggybacking his hearing onto his sight, he spots the other helicopter. "There he is."
The pilot shouts, "Look out!"
Look out? What does he mean, 'Look out?' I look through the windshield, and I see what he means. I see it coming straight at us. Oh, man, I so do not want to see this.
As the other craft passes us, our own 'copter begins to rock and buck in what most assuredly is a very bad way. I feel my stomach where my heart should be, and my heart must be in my mouth, because I can't speak. I can't even shout. There's no air. Air, air everywhere, and not a breath to breathe. All of a sudden I find the air and I'm screaming, just like I did last summer on that stupid roller coaster ride called The Blender that I let Jim double-dog-dare me into riding. And I'm finding it even less amusing now than I did then.
"Hang on." Jim yells, probably for my benefit.
Not in the least reassured, I bellow, "Are we going to crash?" I barely comprehend the pilot's response of: "We're caught in his rotor wash."
In a panic, I lunge forward to hang onto the back of Jim's seat, seizing handfuls of his jacket in the process, practically ripping it off him in my anxiety.
"Hey, Chief, get a grip- on something other than me!" he exclaims, trying to ease the pressure from my grasp of death. After what seems like hours but is merely seconds, the chopper steadies and ceases its mad dancing in the wind. Now that it appears we're not going to crash, I'm totally embarrassed. I let go of my partner, giving his shoulder a small pat in apology as I lean back into my seat. "All right, all right," I manage to croak out. "I'm good. I'm cool."
I am such a liar. I am so not good. I am so not cool. I am so mortified! Well, better to die of embarrassment than to die for real, I guess. I wonder if grabbing for Jim was some kind of instinctual Guide-Seeks-The-Sentinel behavior? Or, maybe it's not that complex. The fear of falling seems to be a primal instinct among all living creatures. Except for those Mohawk and Iroquois construction workers who can walk across high rise girders just as comfortably as if they were strolling along on the ground. Maybe it's more like some kind of instinctive primate behavior, like the way baby monkeys always know to cling to the mother. Well, that's certainly a flattering image, Blair. Jim may act like an ape from time to time, but I probably look more like one. Or, maybe I'm just a big wuss. I'm not doing the Sentinel any good up here like this.
I hear the pilot's voice. "Lost them again." Where could they be? It's not like they can turn down an alley up here or duck inside a parking garage. How on earth can you lose a helicopter? Hah. That's the problem. We're not on the earth. We're sitting in the middle of nowhere. There's nowhere to hide. It's just empty air up here. And nothing to be afraid of. I vacillate between fear and embarrassment, then make the jump to anger. "Where the hell did he go?" I'm getting tired of this. I notice Jim looking at something and I follow his gaze. There's the helicopter, heading north. "They must be making a run for Canada," I say, trying to make myself useful. If I can focus on what we're here for, I can forget my fear. Right. "I'm on them," says the pilot.
Jim is still focusing on the chopper. "No. Keep heading south." The pilot shoots a glance at him, confused. "What?" "They're not on board. He must have dropped them. Move out over the water. They could be on a boat."
The pilot complies without further question and we head out over the lake, dropping down as soon as we see a small, white speedboat. We're getting closer and closer to the water, low enough that I can bear to look out and watch what's going on. I'm sure Jim already knows who's on board, or he would have told the pilot to abandon the pursuit by now. We close the distance to where even I am able to identify Brad Ventriss and Suzanne Nadine, our fugitives, sucking face in the back of the boat. A third person stands in the front of the boat, driving.
"Follow that boat!" Jim orders the pilot. "Roger that."
Picking up the microphone, Jim announces over the loudspeaker, "This is the Cascade Police Department. Heave to and shut off your engine."
I see Brad stand up and run to the front of the boat as they attempt to flee. I look around. Where do they think they can go? I wonder how far they can get before they run out of gas. For that matter, I wonder how much gas we have. Running out of gas would be a very bad thing. We really need a plan here. "How... how're we going to stop them?" I ask my partner, my apprehension making me stutter. I hate that.
"Like a runaway stagecoach," he answers, eyes intent on his quarry.
I gape at him in astonishment. "What are you talking about?" I know what he's talking about, but I just do not want to believe it. "That means jumping!" My heart leaps to match the word. "Right." I can't keep the fear out of my voice or eyes as I lodge my futile protest. "Well, that's crazy!" "Right."
Even he admits it. This is crazy. "What if they swerve and... and... and you miss?" He's making me crazy. "That leaves me!" My voice keeps getting higher and higher as I voice my opinion that this plan really sucks. Majorly.
"Right." Mr. Cool and Collected. That's Jim. Sometimes.
"Don't miss!"
My voice cracks as I shout out that last bit and the pilot looks over at me like I'm the crazy one. I glance at him. Hey, man, I'm not crazy. Don't look at me like that. I'm not the one planning to jump out of a helicopter onto a boat. You'll never see me doing that. No way.
I fix my attention back on my crazy Sentinel. What is with Jim and jumping onto moving vehicles? Buses... cars... trains... helicopters... Now boats. Does he actually think he's a damned jaguar or something?
"See if you can get right over them," he calmly orders as he unbuckles his seat-belt and starts to move to the edge of the chopper. The pilot brings the 'copter even lower, aligning it with the fast moving boat beneath us.
As Jim braces himself on the frame, I mutter, "Ah, you're crazy." Silently, I add, 'Please, God, don't let him miss. Don't let him miss.'
I watch as Jim totally focuses on his objective, and hear him say in an incredibly composed voice, "Bring it over." And then, just like that, Jim lands right on the front deck of the boat. I exhale the breath I didn't know I held. He made it! Yeah, I knew he would. I knew it. Piece of cake. Oh. And, thank you, God.
The chopper pilot stays on course just behind the boat, tailing it even as it swerves. The sharp motion of the craft causes Jim to slide off the edge of the boat, his hands barely catching the railings at the last second. I watch in horror as Ventriss uses a big, hooked staff to try to knock Jim off. He bashes at Jim's hands and I see my partner struggling to hold on. I stop breathing again, afraid that he's going to fall in. I know he's afraid of deep water, and this is some seriously deep water. Cats hate water. I wonder if that's why he... What am I thinking about this for? Get a grip, Sandburg. Focus on the Sentinel. Come on, Jim... Come on, Jim... Come on, Jim... I clench my fists as I silently urge his hands to retain their grasp on the slippery rail, as if I could psychically lend them my own strength to help him hold on.
In a sudden move that Indiana Jones would be proud to own, Jim grabs the staff and pulls Brad head-over-heels to land in water. I exhale. Jim is okay. He can handle the rest.
But, now what? Looks like it's time for Cascade Sandburg to do the intrepid anthropologist thing. I can't believe I'm even thinking this. I really am crazy.
"Stay with the kid!" I yell to the pilot. I see Brad trying to swim away and all I can think of is we've got to stop him. Or, maybe he's just floundering in the water. Can he swim? I don't know and I don't want him to drown. Been there. Done that. Wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. And as slimy as Ventriss is, he's not my worst enemy.
I feel the 'copter tilt as we circle back over Brad's location. When we hover directly over the kid, I look down at the rough water being kicked up by the wind from the rotors and briefly close my eyes. Oh, man. I am absolutely certifiable. With a strangled moan, I remove the headset, my sunglasses and my seatbelt. "What am I doing?" Don't ask. "What am I doing?" Don't tell.
I inch over to the open doorway and, clutching the frame, set my feet down on the runners. Glancing over at the pilot, I shout, "Stay with him." I motion frantically at the water. "Down lower!" The pilot must have gotten a clue regarding how I feel about heights, because he replies, "You've got it." "Lower!" I yell hoarsely, still hugging the doorframe like it's my best buddy in the world. "I'm working on it," comes the slightly irritated reply.
Later, when I'm not such a quivering blob, I'll have to congratulate this guy on being a damn fine pilot. I cling to the frame of the helicopter, my gaze fastened on the rough water that still seems much, much too far away. "Can't you get any lower?"
I loathe the raw desperation I hear in my voice. I know the pilot can hear it, too, but at this point I'm beyond caring what he thinks. I just need to get closer or I'll drown in my panic. Fear of heights. Fear of drowning. This is so not a good scene. We're only about five feet above the water now. A little bit lower and I could almost just step out…
"Jump!"
The pilot's shouted command galvanizes me and I take the plunge. Cold, icy water shocks me, stealing my breath away as my head vanishes beneath the chop tossed up by the rotor blades. As I sink, I ponder the notion that taking a February dip in a glacier-fed lake really is not going to catch on as a tourist attraction. When I break back through the surface, I see Brad trying to swim away from me. Just where the hell does the little jerk think he's going? He'd never make it to shore before hypothermia set in.
Anger seizes me. Anger at Ventriss and his lies and his manipulations. Anger at Chancellor Edwards and her politics. Anger at my naiveté. Anger at my fears. Anger at being in the middle of a cold lake in winter. Anger fuels my muscles and I swim after Brad, easily catching up with him. I grab him from behind in a combination choke-hold-rescue-hold and shout, "Hey! If you noticed, I'm not in class today! I hope you don't file a grievance!"
He stops struggling, apparently giving in to the inevitable. Okay. So, I've caught him. Now what? The chopper has lifted away from us and hovers a couple hundred feet over head. I couldn't take Brad up there even if I wanted to. My ears pick up the sound of the speedboat and I turn my head to see the craft slowly heading toward us with Jim at the helm. Jim will take care of it. I've just got to hold on a few minutes longer.
My partner reaches over the side and hauls Ventriss aboard. "Give me a minute to cuff him, then I'll pull you out, Chief."
"Cold and wet is my world, man," I manage to say with a smile even as my teeth begin to chatter.
Less than a minute later, Jim pulls me up into the boat and I collapse in a sodden heap on the deck, my legs seemingly too numb to support me.
"I'll get you a blanket," he says, as he reaches underneath one of the bench cushions.
As I gaze up into the clear, blue sky, I start to laugh. Yeah, Simon. I would prefer a boat. Really. Then I start to shake in earnest, whether it's from the cold or the adrenaline after-burn I don't know.
Jim cocks his head in mild concern over my slightly hysterical laughter as he wraps me in a blanket. "You okay, Sandburg?" "Yeah, Jim. I'm good. I'm good." I give my Sentinel what I know must be a ridiculously goofy grin.
He tucks the blanket more closely around me and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he says, "You did good, Chief."
And that warms me even more than the blanket.
~end~