Paul Drake to the Rescue

The first sensation Perry felt was wet. Something, possibly water, possibly something else, was all over him. The second sensation was pain. Real, bright, searing pain! He was lying face down on a hard surface in semi-darkness, the wetness was coming from above, through the open ceiling, and the pain was in his right leg.

Gradually, as the pain ebbed and then crashed down on him again with greater force, his brain kicked into gear. The plane! We crashed. Della!

He immediately tried to move, only to realize he couldn't. There was an obstacle of some kind preventing him from shifting. Raising his head as best he could, he twisted until he could see that one of the seats had fallen onto his leg. An attempt to move the seat brought a wave of excruciating pain. It was then he saw the metal rod from the seat piercing the calf of his leg below the knee.

Of all the damned nuisances! How in the hell am I going to get out from under this? Pain robbed him of any further thoughts for a long minute, during which time the overhead rain grew heavier. He looked skyward, and when the lightning danced over him, he averted his eyes from the glare. The rain isn't going to help anything. I need to find Della! I have to make sure she isn't . . . His mind refused to finish the horrible thought.

Since he was stuck in his present position, he began searching for Della. Another brilliant flash of lightning illuminated what was left of the cabin, and he saw her prone figure. She was lying on the opposite side of the wrecked cabin and wasn't moving. She was on her back, her left arm twisted at an unnatural angle and blood seeping from a gash on her head. Her hair was plastered from the water, and her pallor worried him.

"Della?" His voice sounded hoarse, so he tried clearing his throat. "Della!"

When he got no response, he knew things were very bad. His first order of business was to free himself. But the awkward position he was in made it almost impossible to move in any direction. His eyes burned bright with determination, but after trying several different ways to move, he was exhausted.

Okay, Mason, think. You're going to use your body as a lever to get this confounded seat off of you. It's going to hurt, and you're going to scream unless you have a bullet to bite on. You might even black out. But you need to move. You have to move. There's no telling how firm this flimsy plane is. You've got to get to Della, and you need to do it now.

After a little thought and some careful maneuvering, he propped himself up with his hands flush on the floor and did the biggest pushup he had done since basic training at the start of the war. And then he screamed. The sound bounced around him, drowning out the raging storm overhead for twenty seconds. He took a moment, then pulled his belt off and put it between his teeth, biting down on the leather. Then with all the strength he had left, he used his foot to push the seat up as he did another pushup. The feeling of the rod pulling from his leg caused him to scream around the belt. When the seat fell away, he let his head fall to his hands, doing his best to keep conscious.

He gulped in air like it wasn't being made anymore, then coughed. It was the first time he realized how much his chest and sides hurt. Taking his time, he was able to roll onto his back and rise to a sitting position. It was only then he saw the blood soaking his pant leg. Finding a small tear, he ripped the pants open. Now he could see the hole and the large amount of blood running down his leg.

"I never liked this suit anyway," he mumbled. "I'll have to stop the bleeding."

Recalling his Navy training, he took his belt, wrapping it around his thigh to form a tourniquet, then ripped the pants to wrap around his leg and hopefully stem the flow of blood. It would have to do until he could find better materials.

"Della!" he called again, forcing his voice to a near-yell. She didn't move at all. "I'm coming, girl!"

Crawling across the cabin to where Della was lying very still, Perry placed his fingers on her throat, thankfully feeling a strong pulse. He knew from the position of her arm it would have to be set, and that her shoulder was dislocated. Grateful she was unconscious, he again called on his training. Gently, but firmly grasping her arm, he popped the shoulder back in place.

That was enough to wake her. Della's piercing scream was almost music to his ears.

"Easy, Della."

"No! We're crashing! Oh, my God! Perry!"

As carefully as he could, Perry gathered her in his arms. "Della, look at me. I'm right here. I'm here. We're here together, okay?"

She looked at him with wide, wondering eyes, unsure if he was a reality or a figment of her imagination. Then the tears started in earnest as she realized she just didn't care. She needed him, and he was there.

Her sobs broke his heart, but he wasn't sure if they were from pain, fear or sheer hysteria. He kept gently stroking her face, murmuring soothing words. When her sobs quieted, he wiped the tears away with his fingers.

"Della, you need to listen to me." When she nodded, he continued, "Okay. Yes, we crashed. You were right, and as God is my witness, I'll never doubt your premonitions again."

She sniffed. "Better not."

He almost smiled. "My leg is injured and I probably have bruised or broken ribs. You have a broken arm. You also had a dislocated shoulder but, uh . . . I took care of it. Judging from the bad gash on your head, I suspect you have a concussion."

She looked up at him, the matter of fact way he explained things to her, and somehow knew she was still safe.

"Is that all? Well, just another day at the office, right Chief?" She managed a smile for him, and he found he was smiling in relief.

"Miss Street, I think you might be in shock."

"No, just mildly scared. And my arm hurts dreadfully."

Perry helped her slowly into sitting position, so she could lean against the bulkhead. He managed to find the leather folder Della had used to hold the documents they had brought along. Tearing more strips from his pant leg, he carefully wrapped the folder around her broken arm, securing it with the cloth. Then searching the floor, he found a towel from the galley to use as a sling. The gash in her head wasn't as bad as Perry first thought and it had already stopped bleeding.

"Perry, what about Jimmy? He isn't—"

Perry was suddenly ashamed of himself. He had been so concerned about Della that he had completely forgotten about his friend.

"Are you okay here?"

Della gave him a weak smile. "Of course. Where am I going to go?"

"Della," he said softly, but didn't finish the sentence. He wanted very much to kiss her, but realized this was not the time. Instead, he caressed her cheek before crawling toward the cockpit.

Jimmy was still slumped over, not moving. His seat straps had held him in place, no doubt saving him from flying straight through the windshield. As it was, Perry could see a large bruise on the man's forehead. Coming closer, he reached out to shake Jimmy's arm, causing his friend to utter a low moan.

"Jim? Jimmy?"

The young man struggled to sit up. There were several cuts on his face from when the windshield had shattered. And the bruise on his forehead had obviously come from impacting the controls.

He looked around, his eyes slightly glazed. "Perry? Why are we on the ground?"

Perry chuckled. "Easy Jim. Short version: Lightning, thunder—boom, boom!—Mayday!, crash, thud. We are all alive."

He laughed softly, "Could you not be so damned funny right now? Help me get the hell out of this seat."

"Do you think you can move on your own?"

Jim fought to unbuckle the safety harness, then carefully stood. A wave of dizziness brought him to his knees next to Perry. Perry reached out to steady him.

"Whoa, Jim. By the looks of that bruise, you might be in Della's camp; I suspect you have a concussion. Better rest for a minute."

The pilot sat, looking over at Perry, inventorying his friend for injuries as well. He looked at his leg and drew in a breath.

"That looks like a serious wound. How badly are you hurt?"

Perry shrugged, then admitted, "Had a metal rod go through, some blood loss, tourniquet on."

"Uh-huh. And Della?"

"Della has a dislocated shoulder, broken arm and likely that concussion."

Jim chuckled again at Perry's succinct version of the present conditions.

"You never were much for words in a crisis. Okay, I guess I should try to get outside and see what our situation is."

Perry nodded. "Just be careful."

"You can count on that."

The young pilot stood awkwardly, swayed, then row by row, worked his way to the door in the cabin. He used his body weight to push it open.

Jim grinned at Perry. "We might as well take a gander. Our present position can't possibly get any worse."

Della's head came up and her eyes sought Perry's, but at the moment, the plane shuddered and started to slide.