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Page 74.

Some of the scouts were young women, others young men; at least one was Asian, another African, and other distinctively Mediterranean—maybe Arab. Hard to say, in this diverse country.

"English," Rick said pleaded. He stared helplessly into the empty sky. The chopper and Hannah were gone.

"Are you okay?" she asked, introducing herself as Jacqueline de Brunhof. "I am a Chefin for this walk. What happened?"

"I have no idea," Rick said. "My friend needs help."

"Yes," Jacqueline said. "We have called LAR. That is the Luxembourg Air Rescue service. They will be here in a few minutes. And of course the police and fire rescue units."

A scout working on Romain yelled, "He has a pulse."

"Burn wounds," another yelled. "Need plasma and stabilizing."

"We will do our best," Jacqueline said. "LAR has helicopters on standby—ready to leave within two minutes day or night. I don't know if they will dispatch a unit from Trier or from Dikierch or Luxembourg City, but a chopper will be here in the next ten minutes with a doctor on board."

Rick could only stand there and cry. Tears ran down his cheeks. He had been here before. Again he had failed. He had lost the battle with whatever or whoever was ruining his world and killing his buddies. This was too fucked for words, and he was helpless—that was the worst part.

Another leader or chef—a young man introducing himself as Martin Peralta—dark-haired, honey-skinned, mustache, beard shadow; totally competent take-charge attitude—came jogging. Like the rest, he wore an olive-drab campaign hat, clay-gray uniform shirt and trousers, and good hiking boots. Martin and Jacqueline tried to assist Rick to a sitting position on a fallen tree nearby, but Rick insisted on staying close to his friend.

"His wife lives in Luxembourg City," he told Jacqueline.

She made sympathetic eyes. "That will wait until we know what to tell her."

"Whether he lives or not," Martin said.

"Yes, of course," Rick said.

Distant Martin's Horn sirens could be heard, ta-tooo, tah-tooo…

"From Larochette and Echternach," Martin said. "And there is a Müllertal fire rescue unit."

Jacqueline said, "When we go on a camping trip or a hike, we always prepare to know where the emergency services are, in case we have to assist someone."

"You've done well," Rick said.

"There is the helicopter already," said one scout, pointing east.

That's awful fast, Rick thought. Amazing how coordinated these people are.

"Must be a German unit from Trier," Martin said. "They coordinate whatever they have available at the moment. The LAR service takes off within two minutes upon notification, and is positioned to be ten minutes or less from any point of emergency in the Grand Duchy."

Jacqueline said, "Mister—"

"Rick Buchan."

"Mr. Buchan, this is also a crime scene, which we are securing for the police. I don't imagine you are going anywhere."

"Oh god no, I'd fall on my face. I've been hiking through the Alps back there for several hours."

The helicopter was powerful, but flew with deceptive quietness—until it got close. As Rick would later learn, it was a U.S.-made McDonnell Douglas with two roaring Pratt & Whitney turbine engines, capable of thrusting the craft up to 260 kilometers per hour (near 160 mph).

One of the scouts, expertly raising and lowering a pair of flashlights, signaled with twin pillars of light to the pilot to bring the aircraft to a safe landing in the middle of the farm yard.

Again, the air filled with swirling dust. The noise was deafening.

A red, silver, and blue helicopter set down on skis. Piloting in the cockpit up front were two flight-suited figures in red helmets. Behind them was a compact but evidently sufficient stabilizing environment—an air ambulance. The doors opened, and two figures in flight suits jumped out and came running.

Both were women, one African looking, the other Asian. The African introduced herself as the emergency physician. She had a tight ball of kinky hair, bluish-black skin, and a stethoscope dangling around her neck. The other, also dangling a stethoscope, was a flight nurse from the former Portuguese colony of Macao, now the world gambling capital owned by China with the guidance of U.S. entrepreneurs from Las Vegas, and likely the earth's money laundering capital. Since China sanctimoniously did not permit gambling on the Communist (Capitalist) Chinese mainland, Macao would logically be a multi-purpose outlet and tax revenue source. The young R.N., taking a contrary tack, worked honestly for a living.

After a brief assessment, a half dozen scouts carried Romain on the stretcher to the helicopter. The pilots helped pull the stretcher on board and fasten it in place for the short flight. "We will go the trauma center in Trier," the doctor informed Rick and the scout leaders. "He is very critical and may not live through the flight. I am ready to administer adrenalin directly to the heart if it stops." She and the nurse ran without further comment and jumped up into the chopper, with carried Romain aloft even as technicians pulled the doors shut.

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