CRASH

PART 1 - THE LONGEST DAY

"Do you know Horatio's plans?"

"Not really." Eric looked up, surprised by Calleigh's demanding tone. "I think he was flying down to San Francisco for a couple of days, before coming back here."

"Today?"

"I don't know, Cal! He doesn't tell me his vacation plans. He'll call if he wants picking up. Why?"

"You'd better come and look at this…"

He followed her. He'd noticed her worried face, the odd tone of voice. In the break room, the TV was on, several people watching…

News is coming in of the crash of a Virgin America Airbus, in the mountains north of San Francisco…

"Just a co-incidence." Eric murmured. "I don't even know if he was travelling today."

Rescuers have yet to reach the crash site but a helicopter has located it…

The pictures were indistinct but graphic. The plane appeared to have hit the mountains hard, and burst into flames. Bits of flaming wreckage were scattered over a large area. The only recognisable part was the tail section, which seemed to have broken off. It lay some distance from the main wreckage.

"My God… No one could have survived that…" Calleigh said. "Call him, Eric, please…"

Eric nodded and speed-dialled his boss. "No answer. That doesn't mean anything."

"It does with Horatio. He never turns his cell off."

"He might be on a plane. A different plane. Or out of range. He's on holiday, for God's sake – he might turn it off for a while."

"We have to find out," Calleigh said. "Please…"

"They'll issue a phone number…"

"Not for hours! They said rescuers haven't even got there. We need to know. I need to know."

Eric thought for a moment. "All right. Let's see if they'll release the passenger list."

He found numbers for Virgin, for San Francisco International, for anyone he thought might be useful. Predictably, every line was engaged. After twenty minutes, he sighed. "Can't get through, Calleigh."

"What if it was a law enforcement matter? Who would we go to?"

"Only the airline… I wonder if PD has any other numbers?" He called Frank, and explained their concerns. "We're probably worrying about nothing… Thanks, Frank." He scribbled down a number.

"Who's that?" Calleigh asked.

"Still Virgin, but an ex-directory number. Someone Frank knows. Sort of emergencies only."

"Well, it is, isn't it?"

After a bit of argument, a lot of flexing of legal muscle, and some half-truths, he finally got through to someone at Virgin America who had access to the passenger list of the downed plane. And who was – reluctantly – able to give him an answer…

"Yes, it's a police matter. Horatio Caine. Was he on that plane?" He waited, fully expecting a negative answer. "I see. Thank you. I understand." He sat down, his legs suddenly weak. He looked up at Calleigh, cleared his throat before he could talk, then murmured, "He's on their list."

"Oh, dear God." Calleigh sat down too. After a long silence, she muttered, "He might have survived. The tail section…"

"He always travels Business."

"I know. Oh, I know! Oh please, let them be wrong… Let him have missed the flight…"

"Passenger lists aren't one hundred per cent. They should be, but they're not. You know that."

"You're clutching at straws. What can we do? We should go there…"

"Cal, there's no point," Eric said gently. "It'll be chaos. You won't get near the crash site. We'd do better to get news from here. Look, it might not be that bad – we've only seen grainy shots from a helicopter… There was lots of smoke… I know I'm clutching at straws! What am I supposed to do? Assume he's dead?"

Horatio Caine was alive. At least, he thought he was. He couldn't feel anything, or hear anything. Couldn't arrange his thoughts enough to work out what had happened. He felt as if his whole body and brain had been stunned. He wondered if he had experienced some medical catastrophe. A stroke or a heart attack… Very gradually, some sensation crept back. He was cold. He could feel something trickling down his leg, and thought he must have peed himself. Gingerly, almost dreading it, he opened his eyes. He couldn't work out what he was looking at – torn metal, with bright light shining through gaps. His hearing was returning – someone sobbing, a child crying… He closed his eyes, struggling for consciousness.

His memory returned quite suddenly. The plane… He was flying to San Francisco… He'd made a big fuss checking in because they'd screwed up his booking. So the plane had crashed… That, he couldn't remember at all. He thought he had been asleep.

He opened his eyes again and tried to move. He didn't seem to be trapped, but he was impeded by wreckage. He tried to lever himself up. A violent pain in his left shoulder made him cry out and brought a wave of nausea.

He lay back, becoming conscious of the pain in his bruised body – stomach, chest… But he could breathe, so it wasn't that bad… He used his good right hand to feel downwards. His pants felt dry. He was illogically relieved that he hadn't wet himself. Felt further down. Encountered torn fabric. And wetness. Blood… But he could move his toes. He seemed to have lost his shoes. He could feel the softness of carpet beneath his feet.

He tried to work out what was stopping him getting up, apart from his own weakness. He thought it was an aircraft seat, pushed back in the crash, partly resting on him. He braced himself again, and using his right arm only, pushed hard. The obstruction moved slightly, but released a cloud of dust and debris, sending him into a violent spasm of coughing. His head hurt unbearably. He felt his senses receding again. And fainted.

"I can't just sit here," Calleigh said.

"I know." Eric put an arm round her. He had tried ringing his boss's cell numerous times, but had now given up. "There'll be news soon."

"If we went to the airport…"

"It's a six hour flight to San Francisco… That's six hours without news."

"Look – different pictures…"

Rescuers are being landed at the site by helicopter. The site is impossible to reach by road.

The television showed two big Search and Rescue helicopters, hovering low over the site, while winching out what looked like military personnel, carrying red medical bags.

"Makes sense," Eric murmured. "They're used to this stuff. And the helicopters are huge."

"It looks really bad though."

The pictures were still indistinct – clearly from a news helicopter that was probably being kept at a distance.

The Airbus is reported to have been carrying one hundred and sixteen passengers and crew. Communication was lost at eleven-oh-four, local time. It is believed there was a mayday call, but we have no further information at the present time. Pictures show that most of the airframe disintegrated on impact, although the tail section appears intact.

"We know all that…" Eric muttered. "What about survivors?"

"If there are any…" Calleigh turned as Frank Tripp came up behind them.

"Did you get an answer?" the detective asked.

"Yes. But not the right one…"

"Good God – he was on that?"

"So the passenger list says."

"It might not be accurate – that guy I gave you – he's not front line."

"That's what I said," Eric added. "Calleigh thinks that's clutching at straws. I can't get him on his cell. And he always travels Business Class. Which means at the front. Frank… You know… he's probably dead…"

"Let's prove it first, Delko." Frank's tone was harsh.

Calleigh got up suddenly and rushed out of the room. Frank took her seat, as they stared at the TV pictures.

Horatio came to as someone shook his shoulder, his injured shoulder. The pain brought him round quickly.

He gasped. "Don't touch that shoulder!"

"I'm sorry."

He recognised one of the young stewards who had served him a drink earlier. "It's okay. Just… I think it's dislocated."

"Where else are you hurt?"

"I'm not. Just can't get out… Can you give me a hand?"

"Er… yes… Just a minute."

"What?"

"There's a passenger on the seat in front."

"Take your time. I'm all right here." No wonder he couldn't move the seat.

"He's dead." The young man sounded shaken and uncertain. "I've been… leaving dead people where they are…"

"I understand. What's your name?"

"Rob."

"Listen, Rob. Just lift him onto the floor. He won't mind." He spoke gently. Not many people were as used to death as he was.

He felt the weight on his lap lessen, and was able to push the obstruction away. He accepted Rob's hand to help him to his feet. He staggered, feeling sick and dizzy.

"You're bleeding. Your leg…"

He glanced down. His right lower leg was soaked in blood. He moved the torn pant leg to reveal the gash, which ran from knee to ankle. "It's nothing much. It's not an artery or anything."

"Can you walk?"

He nodded and they made their way outside. Horatio stopped, amazed. Rob had set up a temporary casualty station. Half a dozen dazed and bloodied people sat or lay on the ground, swathed in rough bandages and airline blankets. A woman – a passenger, with a bloody bandage round her head – was tending them.

"You did this?"

"Yes. I've been getting them out, but it's slow."

"I'll help you."

"When I've bandaged that leg."

"It'll do for now. How did you get out in one piece?"

"I was in the rear galley. It seemed to survive more or less intact."

"Just you?"

The young man nodded, and silently pointed up the slope. Then Horatio saw the burning wreckage, some five hundred yards away. Between it and where he was, the ground was strewn with debris – luggage, personal belongings… and what Horatio recognised as body parts. It took him a few moments to catch his breath. "My God…"

"I haven't been up there… I should, I suppose…" The man sounded close to tears. "Someone might have got out."

I don't think so. "Rob, you can only do so much. There are people alive in there?" He indicated the tail section.

"A few more, I think."

"Come on then. My leg can wait." Fighting off his weakness, and trying to ignore the fact that his shoulder was agony, and his bare feet were getting cut, he escorted Rob back into the wrecked plane.

"I hope I haven't missed anyone…"

"Tell you what, I'll go ahead of you and pick out the live ones." He tucked his left hand into his shirt, to give his shoulder some support.

"You sound as if you know what you're doing." The young man sounded grateful. "Are you a doctor?"

"Unfortunately, no. Policeman."

Between them, they extracted eight more passengers, most of whom seemed to have nothing worse than broken bones and cuts, although Horatio knew that some might be more seriously hurt than they appeared. They left two, who seemed to have back injuries, in situ.

"That's all we can do," Horatio said, staring round the ruined cabin.

"The rest are dead?"

"Afraid so. Come on, let's go and do some bandaging…"

He left Rob, and the woman passenger, attending to the fourteen survivors they had retrieved, and walked towards the wreckage of the front of the plane. He tried not to look too closely at what was on the ground, but he did find an open suitcase and took a pair of shoes that fit reasonably well, murmuring 'Thank you' to the unknown owner. He felt guilty, but knew he had to do it, before he crippled himself completely.

He heard a helicopter and looked up. A small one – news team, probably – but at least they'd been found. He waved, but doubted they could see him through the drifting smoke.

He walked as near to the plane as he dared, the heat scorching him, even at some distance. Then he shouted. Nothing. He broke down, coughing on the smoke. Then shouted again. Still nothing. At least, nothing human. The burning airframe creaked and crackled. He was beginning to shake, despite the heat. He recognised the onset of shock. He needed to get back. Do something useful, to ward it off.

He stood still for a minute, gently feeling his tortured shoulder. Definitely dislocated, but maybe broken. It hurt like hell. A wave of dizziness made him stagger. He could feel his heart racing. He began to walk slowly back towards the tail section, but knew he wasn't going to get there. He sat down on a rock, and stared at the ground. He realised he'd pushed his luck – pain, loss of blood, and shock… and now he couldn't move. Unsure whether he was going to vomit or faint, he tried to get to his feet… and passed out.

They had at last posted a phone number, 'for information'. Eric leapt on it. At first he couldn't get through, then, when he did, found there was no information.

"There are rescuers on site, Sir," he was told. "As soon as we get names, we'll release them."

Calleigh came back in. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Frank went to stand up, but she shook her head. "I can't sit still…"

We have been asked to clear the area, to allow rescue helicopters free access. We will leave the information number on screen, and will bring you an update in our one o'clock bulletin.

"No!" Eric shouted, as the screen changed to trailers for the evening's viewing.

"There's nothing to see," Frank said reasonably. "Just keep trying the number. Look, I'm going back to work. I need to be doing something. Let me know the minute you hear anything. Or if I can do anything."

Calleigh went to put the coffee machine on. "What can we do?"

"Nothing." Eric went and put his arms round her. "This is the hardest thing… Just waiting… If we just knew… Either way…"

"Eric, he can't be dead. Not Horatio… It would be so unfair. He's such a good man. And he's in danger every day here. The one time he takes a vacation…"

"I know, Cal, I know…" He released her and went to pour some coffee. He glanced at his watch.

"What?"

"I'm going to call that number every ten minutes."

He did so. For forty minutes there was no news at all. Then there was news of a few survivors. No Horatio Caine.

The one o'clock news bulletin came on, and they turned back to the television. The same pictures…

An Airbus carrying one hundred and sixteen people has crashed and burst into flames north of the city. The site, inaccessible by road, has been reached by rescue personnel, and survivors are being evacuated by helicopter…

"'Survivors'," Calleigh murmured.

Early reports are that eighteen people – seventeen passengers and one crew member – have been recovered from the tail section. Injuries range from 'serious' to 'walking wounded'. They are being flown to the California Pacific Medical Center. The rescue crews are now turning their attention to the front section of the plane. The information number now has the names of the survivors recovered so far…

"They hadn't five minutes ago," Eric muttered.

"Eighteen people… out of a hundred-plus…"

"So far."

Horatio came to on the ground. He was wrapped in a scratchy blanket, and Rob was leaning over him.

"You okay?"

He forced a weak smile. "Think so. How long was I out?" He tried to sit up, wincing.

"About five minutes. You lie still. Reckon you lost too much blood."

He felt his leg, and encountered a bandage. He realised his left arm was strapped across his chest. "Your doing?"

"Least I could do. We're being rescued…"

Horatio became aware of the roar of big helicopters.

"They're triaging. I said possibly the two still in the plane. Then you."

"That's hardly necessary. Help me up." With Rob's help, he walked back to the other passengers, and sank down, his head lowered to his knees.

Within minutes he was approached by an army paramedic. "I hear you've been quite a hero."

"Hardly. I was just helping Rob. If anyone's a hero, it's him." Horatio raised his head, and tried to focus his vision. He was shivering. "Just helping out…"

"Can I take your name?"

"Horatio Caine. Lieutenant."

"Military?"

"Police. Miami. I'm on vacation."

"Bad luck. We need to get you into the helo. Ever been winched before?"

"No."

"We'll strap you to a stretcher…"

"Is that necessary?" Horatio protested automatically.

"Unless you think you can keep a strop round you with that shoulder."

"Maybe not. Okay. Go for it." He didn't think he was among the urgent cases, but he felt so ill he stopped arguing. "Sorry… I've got to lie down…"

The man helped him, and pulled the blanket round him. "We won't be long. You leave it to us now. We'll take care of you."

Horatio would later confess that he remembered almost nothing after that. He was only vaguely conscious of being winched into the noisy helicopter, of distant voices murmuring something about 'shock' and 'blood pressure', of extra blankets being put over him, and of ear muffs being put on, which reduced his world to near-silence. A faint residual part of him wanted to fight, to deny the fact that he no longer seemed capable of functioning… but his body simply failed to respond.

Eric called the information line. Predictably, the news bulletin had prompted a flurry of calls, and the lines remained engaged for a good five minutes.

"I can't bear this," Calleigh muttered, almost to herself.

"We'll know soon," Eric replied, privately wondering if he really wanted the answer. In a few minutes, he thought, I'll know that my friend, my brother, is gone.

He hoped it had been quick. If he had to die, then let him have gone in one blinding flash, knowing nothing about it. He fought back thoughts of him being trapped, burning…

"What are you thinking?" Calleigh asked softly.

"You don't want to know." He repeatedly pressed 'redial' as he spoke.

It seemed Calleigh read his thoughts. "It would have been quick…"

"We don't know that."

"We have to believe it. Anyway, we don't know anything yet. As Frank said, let's prove it first."

At that moment, the information line answered.

"Yes… Horatio Caine. My brother…" A little lie. "Really? You're sure? Absolutely certain?" He felt Calleigh catch his arm. "How badly hurt? Okay, I understand. Thank you! Oh, thank you!"

"They've got him?"

Eric couldn't stop the grin spreading over his face. "He's among the injured. Being flown to hospital at this moment. That's all they know. Oh Calleigh…"

They put their arms round each other and wept with relief.

"They are sure?" Calleigh snuffled.

"It's an unusual name. I doubt there're two of them."

"What now?"

"I suppose we're waiting on the hospital… Cal, go and tell Frank… I'll tell the rest of the team."

For a while, the elation of actually locating him overcame any thoughts of his possible condition. At last, when everybody had calmed down, Calleigh's thoughts returned to the crash.

"How badly hurt do you think he is?"

"I couldn't possibly guess, Cal," Eric said. "I don't believe anyone could get out of a crash like that unscathed. Try the hospital…"

Although she got through, there was no news. But they gave her a separate number – for relatives - to call later.

"They said it'll be a couple of hours," she said. "They sound pretty organized. Mind you, they're probably expecting more than eighteen casualties."

"There may be more. Calleigh…" He hesitated. "I'm going to fly to San Francisco."

He saw a variety of expressions cross his co-worker's face. Mainly, he thought, that she wanted to go herself.

"He might not be hurt. You might miss him."

"Unlikely. He'll at least be in overnight. We can't both go…"

"I know." She sighed. "Sorry, silly reaction. I want to see him too, but he's your brother-in-law. I know how you care about him. And someone has to run the lab."

"I have to go. Anyway, do you think he's going to be able to get straight back on a plane to come home? We may have to drive. Look, put me down for vacation or unpaid leave, whatever you want, but I'm going to stay with him until I can bring him home."

"Eric, Eric, I'm not arguing." She touched his arm. "You go and pack some things. I'll book you a flight." She looked at him quizzically. "Don't you mind getting on a plane?"

"Safest time. There won't be two crashes in one day. Do you mind booking me a hotel too? I need to do a few things…"

Horatio, drifting somewhere between semi-consciousness and sleep, became aware of a gentle accented voice.

"Lieutenant?"

It was almost too difficult to open his eyes, but he managed. The light seemed too bright, and he closed them again, though he registered a kind Asian face.

"Call me… Horatio…"

"Horatio – an unusual name. How are you feeling?"

"I don't know… My head aches."

"Can you open your eyes again – I've dimmed the light…"

He did so, and found the subdued lighting bearable. He even forced a faint smile.

"I'm Doctor Nayir. I want to tell you what's going to happen. Your shoulder's badly dislocated, and very swollen, so we're going to put you under general anesthetic to sort it out. Your leg and feet need some attention. We're going to give you an X-ray and a scan to see if there's any more damage. You also have a lot of bruising and a serious concussion – as would anyone whose body has gone from a hundred miles an hour to zero like that. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do."

"Do you want to ask me anything? Or to call anyone?"

"I don't think so." He thought he ought to let the lab know, but he couldn't concentrate enough to work out the number, or even what time it was in Miami. Or here.

"We'll look after you, Horatio. Do you want some pain relief? No? Then I just need you to rest. Sleep, if you can… We'll fetch you in about an hour."

TBC

My apologies to Virgin America and Airbus Industries, both of which have impeccable safety records.