The Golden Hour

By Randolph P. Mains

THE GOLDEN HOUR is a suspense-filled adventure with a serious theme. It puts the reader in the pilot's seat of an EMS helicopter flying life-saving missions and risking death at every turn. It brings to life the mission of the EMS pilot – to save lives in the face of danger. THE GOLDEN HOUR is a thriller – a pager turner of the highest rank.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Randolph P. Mains
• Release date: Aug 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781723387531

Randolph P. Mains

Randy Mains, at twenty-one, was a helicopter pilot during the Vietnam War Mains where he was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross, 27 Air Medals and the Bronze Star Medal. In 1982, he received the first annual Golden Hour Award, recognizing his contributions to furthering the helicopter air ambulance concept in America. In 2013 he was awarded the prestigious Jim Charlson Safety Award for his efforts to promote safety in the helicopter air medical field. Following his deep passion to become a writer, while working full time as chief pilot for Life Flight, Mains attended San Diego State University earning a degree in Journalism and a minor in English Creative Writing. In December 1984 Mains was offered a job in the Sultanate of Oman as a uniformed Major in the Royal Oman Police Air Wing to set up a country-wide HEMS system. Mains lived and worked in Oman for thirteen years flying as a line pilot and head of their flight training department. Desperate to get the word out that if something was not done to stop the terrible HEMS accident rate back in America to put an end to more flight crews losing their lives Mains set about writing his first book, a novel inspired by actual events entitled The Golden Hour, published in 1989. In 1989, while working in Oman, he began writing what would become his highly successful second book entitled, Dear Mom I’m Alive—Letters Home from Blackwidow 25 detailing his one-year tour in Vietnam as a combat helicopter pilot that has now been optioned to be made into a movie. Mains was brought out of retirement two years later when he was recruited by a friend to fly a twenty-place Bell 214ST as a HEMS pilot for the king of Saudi Arabia in Jeddah off the kings 500’ yacht which he did for three years. Mains left Saudi to take a job with Abu Dhabi Aviation where he was a company type rating instructor and flight examiner operating the 412 EP flight simulator in Dubai training and examining pilots for the company. A year ago his company was awarded a HEMS contract using Western pilots in Saudi Arabia and was asked to write the SOP to set up the program over there. He is an EASA trained CRM instructor. He currently teaches a 5-day CRM train-the-trainer course sponsored by Oregon Aero.

Book preview

January 1985

Most writers draw richly from their personal experiences to produce a work of fiction. I am no different. To mimic ‘real life’ I have used San Diego as a backdrop for this novel only because, as a helicopter emergency medical services (HEMS) pilot who flew there for five years, I know it intimately and I feel the setting gives realism to the work. The underlying dilemma pilots face when they accept the position to fly for a hospital-based helicopter program is in my mind all too real. San Diego General, however, is not. It is an institution that exists only in the mind as well as the cast of characters I have created. The attitudes possessed by the characters are, for the most part, endemic to programs across the country. But it must be noted that the characters themselves in no way reflect any real people, living or dead.

I dedicate this novel to the pilots and medical flight crewmembers who have lost their lives while in the unselfish performance of their duty to save the life of another human being, and to those pilots and medical professionals currently representing helicopter emergency medical services, HEMS, flight programs across America who are involved in the daily battle to flight against the patient’s Golden Hour, for they too have their own unique story to tell.

R.M.

Copyright © 1989-2012 by Randolph P. Mains

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of any of the characters to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

First Published by Aegina Press 1989

Second Edition, Rotor Tales Publishing 2010

Copyright © 1989, 2010, by Randolph P. Mains

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission in writing by the author.

Author’s Note

The idea for this novel stemmed from 6 years experience as a helicopter air ambulance pilot in which I nearly lost my life on five occasions. My experiences are not unique, however. They mirror the HEMS pilot’s plight today. To keep my job I was pressured to fly in weather I had no business flying in. I flew tired on more occasions that I care to remember, but I was lucky. I survived to tell my story. Many of my colleagues were not so lucky.

In 1986, twenty-eight of the 170 helicopters used in HEMS work in the United States were involved in accidents, ninety-percent of which were blamed on pilot error with eighty-percent of the accidents occurring at night or in bad weather. In one day, for example, two separate EMS helicopter crashes, one in Nashville, Tennessee, and one in Pendleton, Oregon, claimed the lives of seven dedicated professionals. Each year the death toll mounts bearing testimony that the problem is still grave. The first months of 1989 saw four HEMS-related accidents claiming five lives.

The picture for the future is bleak as long as the voice from the cockpit is squelched. It has been demonstrated that there is a strong resistance to change, as I have attempted to outline here in this work. Therefore, if the current apathy continues, the pilot’s outcry will be heard too late to save the lives of future pilots and medical flight crew members. The problems have been identified over and over again. The same tired rhetoric has been bantered back and forth sounding now like a record with a well-worn groove. Without definitive action one can only pray that more lives are not lost and more blood is not added to the growing pool from those who have already died in the name of the patient’s GOLDEN HOUR.

Whether a staffing standard will ever be mandated by federal law remains to be seen, and might come too late for some pilots. Unfortunately, most of the changes in Federal Regulations are written in blood.

Brooks Wall

Director of Lifesaver

Carraway Medical Center

1985

Prologue

August 1969

I Corps

Republic of Vietnam

Billy Lee Ream, ‘the blue-eyed cowboy from Mineral Wells’ as his buddies in flight school used to call him, lived to fly, and nothing made him feel more alive than flying his chopper in combat. When he took the controls of his Huey helicopter, his wiry stature made no difference when compared to bigger, more powerful men. He was a natural. He was good, and he knew it.

The nineteen-year-old warrant officer flew the lead aircraft at 3000 feet, a safe altitude from small arms fire from the hostile jungle below. He scanned the instruments for the last time before beginning the final approach to the LZ, landing zone.

Four reconnaissance team members sat on the floor of his chopper. Their faces were covered in grotesque patterns of green and brown grease paint. They completed the final checks of their weapons and equipment and gave the crew chief the thumbs up sign. The remaining four members of the team were flying in the second Huey trailing a mile behind, commanded by Billy’s best friend and roommate through flight school, Warrant Officer Frank Petroski.

Two heavily armed Cobra gunships circled above them like lazy hawks. Two F-4 Phantom jets were on station overhead at 20,000 feet, loaded with napalm, just in case.

"We’ll cover you, Black Widow two-two, one of the gunship pilots radioed. You can begin your approach whenever you’re ready."

Roger, we’re goin’ in, Billy answered. He pushed the nose over in a dizzying spiral.

A sleek Cobra helicopter gunship dove past his falling helicopter. Puffs of smoke trailed from its small winglets. The 2.75mm rockets ignited and snaked their way to the perimeter of the landing zone. They found their mark and exploded with great orange flashes flinging earth and foliage high into the air.

Open fire when we’re on short final for the LZ, Billy hollered through the intercom.

Roger, sir, answered the crew chief and gunner.

Billy Ream’s copilot had been in Vietnam for all of two weeks. He was an FNG, or ‘fucking new guy’, as all copilots were called. This was his second mission. Billy glanced over at him. The man’s face was ashen. Watch the gauges and follow me closely on the controls in case I get hit, Dawson.

The copilot was unable to hide the fear in his voice. Roger."

Relax, old son. Billy offered a smile to try and put the man at ease. This’ll be a piece of cake.

Billy maneuvered the ship over the high trees and descended into the gash carved out of the jungle that was the LZ. The crew chief and gunner opened up, spraying the surrounding tree line with suppressive fire. The circle of jungle was over 100 feet high. It was like descending into a green pit. Finally, the helicopter’s skids planted deep in the mud. Almost immediately the crew chief hollered, They’re gone, sir!

With the weight of the four men, their ammunition, supplies and weapons off-loaded the Huey climbed quickly until it cleared the high trees. The second helicopter began its approach behind them. It wasn’t until they passed through one-thousand feet in the climb that Dawson began to breathe again.

Billy looked over at him, What’d I tell ya, partner. Piece of cake, huh?

Dawson managed a weak smile, a smile of relief.

Receiving fire! Receiving fire! Frank Petroski’s frantic cry over the radio filled the crew’s helmets like a bomb blast.

Billy threw his helicopter into a 180-degree turn to view the LZ they had just departed.

The crew chief was the first to spot the second helicopter. They’re hit, sir. Goddam, they’re going in!

Frank’s helicopter crashed hard in the rear of the LZ, narrowly missing the four men Billy had inserted and the surrounding trees on the zone’s perimeter. The wide blades flexed downward as the aircraft impacted the ground, slicing through the tail boom, flinging it into the jungle. The fuselage turned and skidded into the mud, coming to rest on its side. For a moment all radio traffic ceased.

As is often the case in combat, one acts on pure instinct. Billy Ream flung his chopper at the jungle and leveled the craft twenty-feet above the tree tops. The jungle passed only feet beneath the belly of the aircraft in a blur.

Billy spoke without looking at his copilot. We’re going in to get ’em, old son. As you can see, our piece of cake has turned into a big pile of dog shit. Stay close on the controls.

Billy didn’t wait for a reply. He yanked aft on the cyclic control stick to kill the forward airspeed before reaching the tree line on the zone’s northern perimeter. The craft crossed over the naked opening in the trees.

The four recon team members in the LZ below were lying on their stomachs firing into the perimeter. Frank’s twisted helicopter blocked the only clear landing area making landing for Billy impossible.

Open fire now! Billy commanded.

The helicopter’s machine guns rattled in unison as they descended into the zone. Hot shell casings flew from the breeches, bouncing off the floor, the back of Billy’s helmet, the armored seats, while the crew chief and gunner sprayed the landing zone with bullets to keep the enemy’s head down. Three Viet Cong soldiers already lay in the zone, their black pajamas drenched in blood that oozed from fresh wounds.

Dirt, kicked up by enemy bullets fired from the tree line, flew in the air around the four men lying on their bellies. Dawson hovered over the flight controls in case Billy got hit.

Suddenly, the scene turned into a holocaust. The first napalm bomb dropped by an F-4 Phantom jet exploded sixty yards away along the western perimeter, shaking the craft with a bone-jarring jolt. The heat wave from the explosion swept across their hovering helicopter like the searing blast from a jet’s exhaust. The noise from the gunfire was deafening. The acrid smell of napalm mixed with the expended gunpowder, smoke and thick Vietnam heat was nearly suffocating. Billy maneuvered his helicopter next to the men. They continued firing and hopped aboard. Billy could see three others running towards them from Frank’s downed chopper.

A screaming Vietnamese soldier ran from the tree line. His clothes, skin and hair were ablaze. The door gunner cut him down quickly. The man’s body collapsed to the ground in a fiery heap, twitching and writhing in spasms until there was only an amorphous mass of lifeless, burning flesh offering yet another repugnant aroma to the putrid stench already impregnating the LZ.

The four recon team members from Frank’s chopper ran backwards toward them, re-loading their weapons and firing into the faceless enemy. Occasionally bullets could be heard hitting Billy’s ship. Each hit sounded like a crowbar slamming against an empty oil drum.

The four men scampered aboard. Sweat bounced off Billy’s forehead and down his sunglasses, leaving swiggly streaks of dried body salt on the glass. Where’s Frank and the rest of the crew? he yelled to the crew chief.

Fifty yards away, sir!

The third man, Frank’s crew chief, stumbled on an exposed tree root and nearly fell.

For God’s sake, hurry up, Billy’s mind shouted. Rockets fired from the Cobra gunships hammered the perimeter. The tremors shook their craft with each blast. Whump-whump! The rockets exploded in pairs, followed by falling debris of soil, foliage, flesh and bone.

The copilot yelled, One of the men’s hit!

Billy saw Frank’s gunner go down, grabbing his side. His face was contorted in inconceivable pain. He let out an inaudible scream that was muffled by the heavy gunfire and rocket explosions and he collapsed into Frank’s arms. Frank grabbed the wounded man by his collar, dragging him toward the hovering chopper while firing his .38 into the enemy’s position. He quickly ran out of ammunition and threw the weapon to the ground.

To Billy’s horror he saw a ribbon of white smoke appear from the tree line, aimed at the fleeing men. It found its mark and impacted with a blinding orange flash under them. The concussion hurled their bodies into the smoke-filled air. They landed twenty yards from Billy’s chopper.

Frank! Billy yelled.

I’ll get ’em, sir, yelled the crew chief.

Unbuckling his seat harness, he sprung from the chopper. He was at the men’s side in seconds. One of the three men had been cut in two by the force of the explosion. Billy’s crew chief grabbed Frank and the second man by the scruff of the neck, one in each hand, and dragged them to the helicopter. The recon team members threw the two unconscious men onto the metal floor. The crew chief scrambled aboard, taking his place behind his M-60 and opened fire again.

Get the fuck out of here! a soldier screamed from the back.

Billy pulled up on the collective pitch lever. The helicopter rose slowly through the smoke, stench and heat. The two F-4 Phantom’s streaked by low level on either side of the landing zone, appearing like two silver bullets. They dropped their remaining sortie of napalm. The two simultaneous explosions that followed caused a deafening explosion of fire, heat and light that shook the helicopter violently on its ascent to clear the high trees. Then the realization hit Billy. Their ascent was slowing. The aircraft wasn’t designed to carry so many people. The turbine engine strained to develop enough shaft horsepower to pull the weight of the heavily laden aircraft vertically over the wall of trees. The power instruments were well into their red lines. The aircraft stopped climbing twenty-five feet below the treetops, unable to ascend one more foot.

Shit, is this how I am going to die? Billy thought in horror. Suspended like a tin duck in a shooting gallery?

Dawson began to panic. Goddamn it, let’s get the fuck out of here!

Not enough power, Billy screamed.

Billy tried pulling more collective and the rotor RPM began to decay, spilling lift. The ship began to sink back into the LZ.

Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! The dreaded low rotor RPM audio warning rang loudly through the pilot’s helmets. Billy fought for control, fought to maintain altitude. One of the machine guns stopped firing.

My gun’s jammed, sir! the crew chief said frantically. I can’t clear it.

The plastic window over Dawson’s head exploded, showering Plexiglas splinters everywhere. Dawson threw his hands over his flight helmet to avoid the falling debris caused by the Viet Cong bullet fired at them from the jungle below.

Two of the enemy ran from the trees, armed with machine guns. Before they could stop to take aim one of the recon team members threw a hand grenade between them. The blast flung them in the air and back into the jungle’s smoldering perimeter.

Their helo sat hovering 75 feet above the zone at full power, the engine straining, delivering every one of its 1250 shaft horsepower, unable to climb.

Billy remembered a trick taught to him when he was a FNG copilot. When power was marginal, kicking in right pedal took power from the tail rotor and could deliver the extra power to the main rotor to get out of a tight situation. He kicked in right pedal. The aircraft spun violently 180 degrees to the right, like a carnival ride gone berserk. He dipped the nose, accelerating the helicopter through the enemy fire. The skids dragged through the tangled branches of the lower trees to the rear of the zone. Thunk, thunk, thunk. They took several more V.C. rounds in the ship’s tail. They cleared the trees with no room to spare and flew down the mountain slope to safety.

The machine-gun fire ceased. All that could be heard was a loud guttural roar of air rushing through the gaping hole over Dawson’s head.

One of the gunship pilots radioed, You guys all right? Shit, that was one hell of a show down there.

Billy radioed back. We’ve got two wounded on board. We’re going to beat feet to the 22nd Surgical Hospital in Quang Tri.

When the skids touched down on the hospital helipad twelve minutes later, Frank and his crew chief were rushed off the helicopter by the waiting medical personnel before Billy could shut off the engine. When the aircraft was secure, he ran into the hospital to be with Frank.

The crew chief died. The blast from the rocket propelled grenade fired from the tree line had sent metal fragments deep into his brain, heart and other vital organs.

Frank suffered a concussion from the explosion and a few superficial wounds along his arms, face and right side of his body, except for one. A lump of shrapnel had severed the brachial artery in his right arm.

The surgeon told Billy, Your friend would have died if he had not been expeditiously airlifted from the battlefield to a facility where the bleeding could be stopped. You and your chopper saved his life today, son.

Billy left the hospital that day carrying with him the knowledge that all helicopter pilots flying in Vietnam came to learn sooner or later: That the helicopter was a vital tool for saving lives.

Like all combat helicopter pilots, Billy would carry more wounded in the remaining months he had left to serve in Vietnam. Some would live, and some would die. Death was the legal tender traded in war and it was accepted as the price one had to pay for freedom.

When he left Vietnam, four months later he, like many other Vietnam War veterans, thought he had left the war behind him. It was not to be the case. The war would only take a three-year hiatus before it would be transported to the skies over home soil in 1972. This particular war would build and grow to unleash a fury and vengeance as hostile and deadly as any he’d see in Southeast Asia and it would be fought in the name of something called the Golden Hour.

Chapter One

September 1984

San Diego, California

…And now for the national news. A Life Flight medical helicopter, en route to its base hospital after returning from a traffic accident on Interstate 90, crashed around one thirty this morning in the rugged mountains twenty-five miles northwest of Missoula, Montana, killing the pilot, flight nurse, paramedic and patient they were carrying. The search for the bodies was made difficult by low clouds and rain in the area. Officials believe the weather may have been a factor in the accident. The crash brings the total number of fatal helicopter air ambulance crashes to six so far this year, killing a total of fourteen people. A spokesman for the hospital has been quoted as saying….

Billy Ream reached over and switched off the truck’s radio and continued to drive his ’66 Ford pickup on Doss Street. He stopped at a crosswalk opposite the 450-bed hospital. A herd of people passed in front of his truck like cattle. A young boy, pulled across the street by a middle-aged woman, stared at Billy and pointed. Look, Mom, a cowboy, he said in reference to the brown Stetson Billy wore.

It was a common observation. He’d often been told by friends and acquaintances that by his appearance and the way he dressed he struck a mild resemblance to the Marlboro Man in the popular TV ads. Unlike the cowboy portrayed in the ads, Billy had never smoked.

The boy slapped the faded red fender of Billy’s truck with his free hand. He examined his palm and brushed the red oxidized paint on his pants. Billy chuckled to himself at the boy’s action then tipped the brim of his hat back and craned his neck to look skyward to check to see if the helicopter was on the fifth-story helipad. It was. The words MED FLIGHT painted in blood red letters along its white tail boom seemed to leap out at him. The second pilot, Frank Petroski, would be in the pilot’s quarters waiting to be relieved following his 48-hour shift.

Billy left his truck in the parking garage and, as was his habit, he picked up a copy of the San Diego Union newspaper from the newspaper dispenser outside the outpatient center. He noticed that this edition had a particularly impressive picture on the front page that would interest Frank. It was a dramatic photo taken yesterday of Frank taking off in