Not Quite Enough(8)

Is it his helicopter?
“Is this your chopper?” she asked.
He glanced her way and his lips turned into a smile.
He didn’t answer.
Monica glanced behind her to see Walt and Tina staring at something below them. Without thinking, Monica glanced down as well. The trees of the Jamaican forest abruptly thinned out and large lakes appeared in the center of the landscape. Only on closer inspection they weren’t lakes… they were collections of ocean water brought in by the tsunami. In its wake were fallen trees and debris miles wide. Homes… or what Monica thought were homes, were nothing more than stacks of wood, branches, and garbage brought in by the surf.
She was miles above it.
“Oh, God.” Her stomach pitched.
“Pull back a little,” Barefoot instructed.
She did. At the same time, she forced her eyes on the sky. The ocean streamed out beyond the devastated shoreline.
Barefoot pitched the chopper to the right and Monica leaned into the craft as if her slight weight was going to make a difference in a proper landing.
“Down… slowly.”
Unlike the tarmac where they’d landed the first time, the spot in which Barefoot was planning on placing the chopper was a postage stamp of a yard. It reminded Monica of the yards behind the tract houses springing up all over Southern California.
Below them, someone waved an orange light.
Barefoot placed his hand over hers and pushed the lever back as the chopper slowly made its way to the ground.
As the skids came to rest on the ground, Monica released a shuddering breath. I made it. Without puking. The last part was the most impressive. Smelling up this small cabin wouldn’t bode well for future passengers.
Barefoot tapped her fingers before he pried them off the lever she’d gripped with all her life. “This is your stop,” he said with laughter in his voice.
“Right. Right.” She shook her head and unclenched her fist.
Under the sunglasses and headgear, Barefoot sent her a hundred-watt smile. Or maybe he was laughing at her. She forced her lips into a smile. “Ah, thanks for not killing me.”
Barefoot chuckled. “Be safe, Blondie. It’s a mess out there.”
Someone opened her door. The noise of the propellers along with the wind they created removed the smile from her face. Walt was standing there gesturing for her to exit the chopper. She placed a foot outside the craft and then remembered the headgear.
Barefoot’s attention was on her as she pulled the earphones off and gave a slight wave. She’d barely made it away from the aircraft and Barefoot was flying away.
Without a copilot.



Chapter Three



Trent accepted the bottle of water Reynard shoved in his hands and downed it in one continuous swallow. The beverage quenched his thirst but what he really needed was a bolt of caffeine. Maybe even a mainline IV full of the stuff. And food. Damn… when was the last time he’d eaten? Outside of a few protein bars and similar open-the-package-and-consume-the-food products, it had been almost two days.
He’d been asleep when the earthquake hit. Knocked his ass out of bed and had him ducking into the doorframe of his house. He knew the moment the shaking stopped that he was going to be one of the lucky ones. He’d overseen the construction of his home personally. Unlike most homes in the region, his was made with standards spelled out to pass US inspections even though he could have paid off the locals to have his needs met. Trent didn’t work that way. Not with a home he’d planned on living in for a time. He had planned on staying for a year, maybe longer, then using the home for holidays.
As it turned out he stayed longer than a year, and spent his holidays in the upper forty-eight.
“Have you eaten, mon?”
“I’m good,” Trent lied to Reynard. Reynard’s own home had partially crumbled during the quake. His children, all four of them, were at their school, which sat on higher ground. It too suffered major damage but the tsunami hadn’t washed it away. That was a blessing. Reynard’s wife, Kiki, had been home while Reynard himself had already gone to work.
Mrs. Kiffen hadn’t yet been found.
The weight of her absence sat behind Reynard’s eyes.
“Any word on Kiki?” Trent asked.
A swift shake of Reynard’s head gave Trent his answer.
“I’ll check the list of patients on my next run. Make sure the Americans are keeping an eye open for her.”
Reynard blinked several times. “My Kiki is a strong woman. We’ll find her.”
Trent squeezed the man’s hand as he shook it. He’d make sure the doctors and nurses he’d flown into the zone had Kiki’s description and name. She’d turn up… the question was, in what condition?
The sun lay directly overhead. Its rays blistered the tarmac under Trent’s feet.
He needed his shoes, some decent food, and a couple hours’ sleep. He removed his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes.
“The next group will be here in four hours. Go home… rest”, Reynard told him.
“There’s too much to do.” And there was. Between transporting the relief help from the airport to the zone, Trent flew medical supplies from one clinic to another. Military helicopters and medevacs were busy transporting the most critical off the island altogether. More help was on the way, but they weren’t coming fast enough.
“At least put on some shoes, mon. Cutting your feet now isn’t wise. The hospital is lacking antibiotics. The dead are going to fester in this heat… disease—”
“Got it.” He knew he couldn’t add to the burden. “Make sure she’s fueled. I’ll be back in an hour for another run.”