his daughter descending when the storm hit? He was grabbing at straws, Brigham said, and the senator well knew it. Still, it was only two A.M . in Alaska. She could be on Denali before noon if she left right away.
Sherry Moore would do anything for Garland Brigham, even if only to make a demonstration of compassion. By 6:30 A.M . she was in a military police car speeding for Philadelphia International. At 6:50 she climbed the carpeted stairs of a luxury Gulf-stream jet and was handed a mug of coffee. She was the only passenger flying at .85 mach across the country.
She knew from what Brigham had told her that the rescuers had daylight in their favor. The Alaskan sun wouldn’t set until midnight, providing nineteen hours of light. She also knew that the senator’s son, U.S. Navy SEAL captain Brian Metcalf, would be meeting her in Anchorage, where she would transfer to a privately contracted helicopter from Washington State that would take them to Denali National Park and basin camp.
Sherry had dozed on and off during the flight, listened to cable news on satellite television, and spoken with Brigham by phone several times. He told her that Captain Metcalf had contacted him and wanted to know if she might attempt, with him, to reach a body hanging from a headwall. Metcalf was convinced it was a member of his sister’s team. The man had apparently been trying to leave a message with signal dye on the side of the mountain when he died.
It wasn’t a request and it didn’t require an answer. Brigham was only warning Sherry what to expect when she arrived in Anchorage. But there must have been a conversation between the two men about her physical capabilities. Metcalf would not have raised the possibility of descending a mountainside with a blind woman unless Brigham had assured him that she was in good physical condition. Brigham wouldn’t have told Sherry what he thought she should do—he never tried to lead her one way or the other—but he might have considered it a real option.
One thing she knew with certainty: He wouldn’t let her do anything that might compromise her safety. She knew as surely as she knew her own name that if Brigham raised the possibility of such a thing, he had complete confidence in Metcalf’s abilities. As for the biological side of it, all Sherry needed was a body intact, with the remnants of a neurological system and an inactive brain, to see a corpse’s final seconds of memory.
Sherry felt the helicopter getting buffeted in the wind. She knew something about the Pave Hawk: it was a modified version of the army’s Black Hawk, seventeen million dollars’ worth of technology refitted for rescue work in hostile terrain. It was used not only in the mountainous extremes of Afghanistan but also in civilian rescues like those for Typhoon Chanchu and the Indian Ocean tsunami and Katrina in New Orleans.
There were three other men in the chopper, all navy SEALs, she’d been told, and they were strapped in harnesses on the benches to her right. Sherry’s toe struck the duffel bag between them. It would be orange or red or yellow, filled with morphine and oxygen, heat packs and adrenaline syringes, and there would be CO 2 -charged splints and neck braces and of course disposable body bags. Metcalf might have come to perform a rescue mission, but all rescuers knew that such undertakings often turned into a recovery. She knew Metcalf was thinking about that. Thinking about his sister.
She couldn’t quite say how it had happened. One moment she was heading for the relative safety of basin camp to visit the bodies of three dead climbers. The next she was listening to Metcalf’s argument for reaching the dead man, and donning heavy snow gear to descend the side of a mountain.
Metcalf was not a man of many words—he wasted none explaining their objective—but he was nonetheless convincing. She felt confident in his presence, and it was a contagious feeling that continued throughout the mission.
Sherry Moore would do anything for Garland Brigham, even if only to make a demonstration of compassion. By 6:30 A.M . she was in a military police car speeding for Philadelphia International. At 6:50 she climbed the carpeted stairs of a luxury Gulf-stream jet and was handed a mug of coffee. She was the only passenger flying at .85 mach across the country.
She knew from what Brigham had told her that the rescuers had daylight in their favor. The Alaskan sun wouldn’t set until midnight, providing nineteen hours of light. She also knew that the senator’s son, U.S. Navy SEAL captain Brian Metcalf, would be meeting her in Anchorage, where she would transfer to a privately contracted helicopter from Washington State that would take them to Denali National Park and basin camp.
Sherry had dozed on and off during the flight, listened to cable news on satellite television, and spoken with Brigham by phone several times. He told her that Captain Metcalf had contacted him and wanted to know if she might attempt, with him, to reach a body hanging from a headwall. Metcalf was convinced it was a member of his sister’s team. The man had apparently been trying to leave a message with signal dye on the side of the mountain when he died.
It wasn’t a request and it didn’t require an answer. Brigham was only warning Sherry what to expect when she arrived in Anchorage. But there must have been a conversation between the two men about her physical capabilities. Metcalf would not have raised the possibility of descending a mountainside with a blind woman unless Brigham had assured him that she was in good physical condition. Brigham wouldn’t have told Sherry what he thought she should do—he never tried to lead her one way or the other—but he might have considered it a real option.
One thing she knew with certainty: He wouldn’t let her do anything that might compromise her safety. She knew as surely as she knew her own name that if Brigham raised the possibility of such a thing, he had complete confidence in Metcalf’s abilities. As for the biological side of it, all Sherry needed was a body intact, with the remnants of a neurological system and an inactive brain, to see a corpse’s final seconds of memory.
Sherry felt the helicopter getting buffeted in the wind. She knew something about the Pave Hawk: it was a modified version of the army’s Black Hawk, seventeen million dollars’ worth of technology refitted for rescue work in hostile terrain. It was used not only in the mountainous extremes of Afghanistan but also in civilian rescues like those for Typhoon Chanchu and the Indian Ocean tsunami and Katrina in New Orleans.
There were three other men in the chopper, all navy SEALs, she’d been told, and they were strapped in harnesses on the benches to her right. Sherry’s toe struck the duffel bag between them. It would be orange or red or yellow, filled with morphine and oxygen, heat packs and adrenaline syringes, and there would be CO 2 -charged splints and neck braces and of course disposable body bags. Metcalf might have come to perform a rescue mission, but all rescuers knew that such undertakings often turned into a recovery. She knew Metcalf was thinking about that. Thinking about his sister.
She couldn’t quite say how it had happened. One moment she was heading for the relative safety of basin camp to visit the bodies of three dead climbers. The next she was listening to Metcalf’s argument for reaching the dead man, and donning heavy snow gear to descend the side of a mountain.
Metcalf was not a man of many words—he wasted none explaining their objective—but he was nonetheless convincing. She felt confident in his presence, and it was a contagious feeling that continued throughout the mission.
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