Stolen (Wild Mountain Scots, #3)

Frigid air tore into me, the breeze, from both the winter storm and the heli’s downdraught, making every attempt to shred my clothes. This morning, we’d flown out to a remote corner of Iceland with a low series of hills around a dormant volcano where Jordie had decided we’d practice. Already, I’d piloted a successful rotation, sending Tommy out on the winch. Now it was my turn.

With Jordie as our winch operator, Tommy manned the helicopter’s controls, Gabe his copilot. Strapped into the harness, I paused at the helicopter’s open door, my heart hammering. No matter my few years of experience with the mountain rescue, and longer as a pilot, this scared the fuck out of me.

As it should. What we were doing was beyond dangerous.

At a yell, Jordie ordered me to ready myself.

I ran through everything I needed in case shite went wrong. Following Gordain’s warning, we’d tested the radios, but even the best on the market would struggle with this extreme wind. So hand signals had been the lesson of the day, alongside learning this side of the job to better deliver as pilots.

There was nothing more for it than to make the leap.

Giving Jordie a sign, I got into position, suppressed my body’s natural urge to get away from the treacherous drop below, then trusted in the process.

Jordie activated the mechanism, and I was out in the weather, descending to a snowy landing below.

Even high above the hillside, the helicopter still disturbed ice, the storm of crystals in the air reducing my visibility the closer I got to ground. That was good to know. I could see better above than below. I watched for Jordie’s hand signal and readied myself to touch down. The plan wasn’t to disconnect, but to return to the heli.

But with the ground just metres below me, the heli abruptly pitched, swinging me out.

I jerked in the harness and clung on, swallowing my fear, ready for Tommy to regain control.

A whoosh of fierce wind ripped down the steep slope, sending me into a spin. Simultaneously, the helicopter jolted again.

Shite. This was like being inside a washing machine. Or a puppet on a string, being tumbled around. Ice obscured my vision, collecting on my goggles, the combination of effects disorientating. Dark sky and white hill flickered behind the snowbound lenses.

Lightning flashed across the sky. A beat after, a boom of thunder rocked the landscape. The helicopter reeled again, and the harness pulled tight around me.

Something was wrong.

Tommy had better control than this. He was no novice. I traded glances between the rocky, snow-covered ground with ones at the helicopter, trying to work out what was happening. Then I swung out once more, veering close to vertical, treacherous rocks.

Our touchdown site didn’t look like this. We’d drifted. If I got too close to the mountainside, I could break bones. If the heli did, it would crash.

We were all in danger.

Then the cable gave out another couple of metres, and I was right above the snow.

Suddenly, tension dropped altogether.

I landed hard on the densely packed surface and swiped across my goggles. By my side, the cable landed in coils, still attached to my harness, but not to the helicopter.

They’d cut the line.

Holy fucking shite.

This wasn’t part of the plan, though we’d heard about it happening in one of Jordie’s lectures. He’d told us of nightmare-inducing life-or-death situations, where instrument failures or pilot error caused crashes. Gordain’s story of being smacked into a mountainside, told to me when I was a lad, paled in comparison with Jordie’s grim recounting. Of people left to die when the winch failed. Of boat extractions where the crew were saved but the rescuer perished. All spot-on warnings that what we were about to do was extremely dangerous.

I had no clue what the problem was now.

The heli chopped overhead, and thunder rolled again. Then my friends and instructor wheeled away.

Leaving me stranded.

I gulped and stared after them, the roar of the wind filling my ears.

I’d been in this position before, left exposed, but those times, I’d always been near home. Or near enough that I knew a search party of family and mountain rescue folk would be out looking for me. Here, I knew no one, apart from at the pilot school.

Whatever reason Jordie had to make that call, I needed to trust that he’d sort the problem and be back for me.

In the meantime, I had the small task of surviving until they returned.

Hunkering down, I turned away from the force of the wind and went over my supplies and provisions. In my backpack, I had my survival essentials—spare clothes, space blanket, torch, a knife, compass, and map. Not that I’d use the map. My friends knew exactly where they’d left me. Roaming from here would be a mistake.

In haste, I whipped a snug hat into place under my helmet. Then I shrugged an extra jacket over the top of my already thick clothes, replacing my gloves before my fingers froze.

Next, I ran through a risk assessment, identifying exposure and hypothermia as my greatest threats. No dangerous animals stalked Iceland’s mountains. The Arctic fox would more likely be a cute sight than a worry. I had water and energy bars to last several days, if rationed correctly. I was strong and fit.

None of it eased my panic.

I welcomed the fear. That self-awareness would keep me alive.

Overhead, the storm intensified, lightning flashing over the darkening sky.

Night was drawing in. My winch operation was the last on our schedule. By now, I should be heading back to the bunkhouse and readying to leave with Gabe.

Realisation dawned. If I wasn’t rescued anytime soon, I’d miss the window of my flight to LA.

My final thought as I went into survival mode, braving out the subzero temperatures, was that now, I wouldn’t get to see Rory.

And she’d have no clue what had happened to me.

The crazy, stormy evening turned into a black night. Repeated attempts at using my radio failed. I’d activated my beacon to show my location, the light on it brilliant, but it had a time limit. Back home, we were testing new ones with longer battery life. Jordie’s were an older model.

If I could get to lower ground, and shelter, I might be able to get the radio functioning. But that meant leaving my position. The beacon would compensate for my movement, but I had to rely on it working for enough time for someone to track me.

My clincher was the position I’d been left in. At this altitude, it would be tricky for the helicopter to extract me in the same location it had placed me down. Nor could I be seen easily at the base of the rocks. The storm wasn’t letting up.

With my heart pounding, I trod knee deep into the snow, burning up precious energy reserves in descending the hill. My beacon remained lit, and I trusted it was putting out the right signal. Even if not, I’d only move as far as needed to remain visible from a helicopter search, while getting out of the wind.

But every footstep came at a price.

My body ached. Cold ate at me, despite the clothes I’d donned.

I wasn’t going to die out here, so far from home. Not happening. That was my final resolve as the night closed in around me.

And my rescue beacon’s light failed.