The Nightmare Comes True

         “Mayday, mayday, mayday!” Hearing those words in his headset, Paul Carmichael was out of his seat like gunshot out of a barrel. “Dispatch, AngelHawk Three, mayday, mayday, mayday!” As he tried to flag down the supervisor, Paul tapped the shoulder of the man sitting next to him.

         “No offense, Barry, but you’re not ready for this. I’m taking over.” Barry Morton was in his fourth week of training as an air medical dispatcher. This was his first shift actually taking the lead on the dispatch console, handling radio traffic and phone calls related to flights. Previous to this he had been listening in, and taking phone and radio calls under Paul’s direction.

         “What, is this some unscheduled test of me, Paul? Or are the folks here hazing me again?” A 29-year-old ex-Air Force air traffic controller, Barry had come into the new job cocky and self-assured. Enough so that several older heads in the office (not including Paul) had decided to knock him down a peg or two. After some razzing during his previous shift, Barry had come on duty with a large chip on his shoulder. Paul was already planning to note it in his end-of-shift training report.

         “Hawk three,” Paul said into the radio, “Dispatch. Time nineteen-forty-seven. State your emergency.” Leaning down to Barry’s face, he growled, “IF this is a prank, it’s an ill-advised one, and on me as well as you.” Pausing for a breath, Paul added, “Think about this, tower jockey… what would the Air Force or the FAA do to a pilot who faked a MAYDAY call?” Seeing the color drain from the man’s face, Paul continued, “Find Tiffany… NOW!”

         “Dispatch, Hawk Three. We’ve got a fire warning light on number two engine, and we’re losing power. I’m over the town of Kleinberg. Have Kilby Field crash-rescue put out the white hanky. I’ll be there in about seven minutes… assuming everything holds together, Paul.” Double-checking the crew roster for Angelhawk Three, Paul started worrying more. The last sentence had been delivered in a tremulous voice, something rarely (if ever) heard from this particular flight program’s chief pilot.

         “Roger that, Cassie, we’ll get everyone rolling.” Letting go of his transmit button, Paul turned to the other seven people in the room. “Listen up, folks. Hawk three just called a mayday for an engine fire light.” He got this out just after Barry returned with shift supervisor Tiffany Coleman. “Keep on top of your flights. But if I call for help, I need you guys to jump on it right away. We all know what to do, so let’s do it.” As the supervisor walked up to him, Paul said, “Tiffany, please grab me a yellow sheet. Phoebe,” he added, looking at the young African-American woman sitting across from him, “Hawk three’s heading for Kilby Field. I need you to contact Dorchester County Dispatch and have them scramble the airport fire department. We’ll also need an ambulance to transport the crew and patient once they land safely. Got it?”

         “I… I got it, Paul.” Punching the number into her phone computer, she added, “Only one ambulance, Paul? Won’t they need more?”

         “One definitely, Phoebe, for the patient and medical crew to complete the trip to Cambria General. Extra ambulances… that’s at their discretion.” Seeing the concern on her face, Paul added, “Let’s keep thinking positive thoughts, Phoebe. The folks on Hawk Three know what to do.”

         “Here’s the yellow sheet, Paul.” He took the proffered emergency plan report form from Tiffany and started filling it out. “And Phoebe’s right,” she said sotto voce. “We should request more than one ambulance.” Looking at his supervisor, and seeing his fear reflected in her face, he gave a quick head nod. As Tiffany walked to Phoebe’s console, Paul made his own phone call, leaning against his desk for a little extra support.

         “Hello, is this Kilby Tower? Yes, this is Paul Carmichael with Angelhawk Air – no, don’t put me on hold, this is an emergency – yes, I know full well who I’ve called – good grief, they’ve got me on hold!”

         “Dispatch from Hawk Three. My crew advises they see a yellow glow out the right-side cabin windows.” For a number of seconds, there was only silence on the radio frequency. Just as Paul was about to call the aircraft, the pilot came back. “I’ve got to concentrate on flying this thing; I can’t waste time changing radio freqs. Paul, I need you to call Kilby Tower and tell them what I’m doing.”

         “Roger on all of that Cassie. I’m trying to call them now. Time nineteen-fifty.” And those bastards in that tower, Paul thought to himself, better not even think of putting me on hold again.

         “Cut ‘em a little slack, Paul. I’ve got my radar transponder set to 7700, but I haven’t talked to them. They’re probably in a bit of a tizzy now.”

         Damn mind-reader pilots, Paul thought to himself with a chuckle as he re-dialed the control tower. She’s one of the pilots who actually thinks I know anything about aviation… thank goodness. “Yes, Paul Carmichael, AngelHawk Dispatch. My helicopter is the mayday signal you’re getting on your radar screen.” After a few seconds of silence, he continued, “AngelHawk Three is inbound to you with about a four minute ETE, fire in the starboard engine. My partner has already called Dorchester County to get fire and ambulance moving over there.” Pausing to listen to questions, Paul looked at his computer and typed in some notes. “Negative, my pilot advises she’s unable to switch frequencies and needs me to relay. She's concentrating on keeping them airborne.”

         Tiffany Coleman came back to Paul’s side. “I’ve got AngelHawk’s administrators notified, Paul. And guess what? They want to know why they were called so late.” Seeing his widening eyes, she continued, “I agree, they’ve got their heads up their collective ass. You know as well as I do how much trouble we’ve had with them in terms of developing an emergency policy.”

         Covering his microphone, he replied, “all the better to trip us up, Tiff. You know some of the brass there never wanted us to take over their dispatch. They’re probably asking that just to see if we react, or if we’ll fall on our collective ass when push comes to shove.”

         “In that case, let’s make sure we stay upright.” As she said this, Tiffany noticed how heavily he was leaning his right hip against the raised counter of his dispatch console. Paul, meanwhile, looked over to see a smug grin on his supervisors face. One that told him, you know what you’re doing, pal. Make them eat their bad attitudes. He turned away before seeing her concern about his physical state.

          “Kilby Tower,” he said into his phone, “be advised this is a helicopter with landing skids, not retractable gear. They may need to do a run-on landing on their skids.” After typing in and/or writing down a few more notes, he straightened up and hit the radio transmission pedal under his right foot. “Cassie, this is Paul. Kilby Tower has cleared you for a straight-in approach to runway Five Right. They want you to do a run-on landing, touching down as close to the approach end of the runway as possible. They are also asking if you want foam on the runway.”

         “Negative foam,” she replied. “I’ve changed my mind about the white hanky. I’ve pulled the fire bottle on the starboard engine, and the warning light’s out. Tell them to have foam ready in case the fire comes back on landing. Also, my hydraulics are turning sluggish. Paul…” After a few seconds of silence, the pilot’s voice trembled as she said, “Thanks for everything.”

         “You’re welcome, Cassie… but it’s not over yet.” Don’t give up on me now, he thought to himself. Turning to Tiffany, he lowered his voice and said, “Stay close. I may need some help when this is over and done with.”

         “Excuse me, Paul?”

         “You remember that nightmare I’ve told you about?”

         “Nightmare… what are you… wait, you mean…” She stopped, realizing what Paul was talking about. He had confided to her some weeks ago about a recurring nightmare, where he had heard a mayday call from one of his aircraft and taken over the radio. This sequence of events was the nightmare come to life.

         “Paul… you’ve never told me… how does the nightmare end?”

         “It’s never concluded before, Tiff. I always woke up before the flight either landed safely or crashed. I think,” he said with a heavy sigh, “this is where I find out.”

         “AngelHawk Three,” an unexpected voice said, “state your fuel –” Barry Morton stood aghast as Tiffany unplugged his headset from the console. “Damn it, I had an important question to ask that pilot! In the Air Force, a tower controller –”

         “You’re not in the Air Force anymore, Barry,” she replied with a hiss. “In case you haven’t figure it out, you now work for MedSTAT dispatch. You’re supposed to be learning how to be an air medical communications specialist, not trying to show everyone just how supposedly great you were at your military job. Now step back and watch people who know what they’re doing do their jobs. And believe me, mister,” she growled, “That little stunt is going on your training record.”

         “Paul, did you have something for me?”

         “That’s a negative, Cassie.” Looking directly at Barry, he continued, “That was an inadvertent transmission.” Listening to the phone for a few seconds, he continued, “Kilby Tower has a visual on you; they see no fire, but there are definite burn marks on the right rear of the fuselage. All your requests for fire have been relayed; they are complying.”

          “Roger that. I have the runway in sight, starting final approach. And again, Paul, thanks for everything.”

         “You’re welcome, Cassie, and good luck. Call us if you need anything; otherwise, we’ll stay silent. Time nineteen-fifty-four.” Letting go of the transmit button, he said almost under his breath, “now all we can do is wait.” The silence of the room was broken several times by other communications specialists handling phone and radio traffic for their own various flights. Otherwise, it was pins-and-needles time for everyone in the room – except for Barry Morton. Angry at his “expertise” being cut out of the situation, he was silently compiling his facts for a complaint against anyone in the office he could point a finger at. Because of his Air Force experience, he felt he should have handled everything related to this emergency.

         “Yes, Kilby Tower?” Paul pushed his headset tighter to his ear. “They’ve touched down… sparks flying… they’ve stopped… wait, you said you saw fire from the engine again? Can you tell –”

          “Dispatch, this is Hawk Three. We are safely on deck at Kilby and evacuating the aircraft. Fire warning light is on again. Will call details by landline later. Hawk Three is clear.”

         “Dispatch copies all, Hawk Three. Time twenty-zero-one. We’ll talk with you soon,” Paul replied, the last words a grateful sigh of relief. As the tension drained away, Paul felt his knees go weak, grabbing onto the desk as he started to sag against it. Within a minute, and without his completely realizing it, Tiffany Coleman and Phoebe Mitchell were helping him to a nearby chair. After sitting down, he leaned forward and started shaking and shivering.

         “Just rest for now, Paul.” Giving his hand a squeeze, Tiffany leaned in towards his ear and continued, “Depending on how you’re feeling later, we may send you home. But know this… you did a damn good job tonight. Especially considering the incident occurred over 400 miles from here, and you knew exactly who to call when. And besides… now you know how the nightmare ends.”

         “This time, Tiff,” he replied with a ragged voice. “What about the next?”

         “Like you’ve told me before, Paul, take it and deal with it as it happens.”

         “In that case, I could probably deal with a cold coke in the staff lounge.”

         “Whenever you’re ready to, Paul. Take as much time as you need to rest here first.” She lightly tapped Paul’s left thigh, sending a message of her own.

         About five minutes later, Paul got out of his chair with weary, stiff movements and made his way to the lounge. After buying a Coca-Cola from the vending machine, he amble-limped out onto the patio. Settling into one chair at the wrought-iron table and propping up his left leg on another, Paul gazed out on the flight line at two crews getting their MedSTAT helicopters ready for another night of potential patient transports. This is my second dream job, he thought to himself, and it’s probably the best thing I’ll ever be able to do. But… I guess every dream can include a nightmare now and then. Hell, he said in the privacy of his mind, my first dream job sure did! After a few minutes of watching the crews and drinking half of his coke, Paul figured he had been away from the desk long enough and started to stand up.

         “Sit your butt back down, mister. That’s an order.” Tiffany came out the sliding patio door, sipping from a can of Sprite as she sat down. “Take as much time out here as you want, Paul. I moved Derek Kennedy over to cover your console, in case you decided to decompress at home. Besides,” she said as she took another sip of her soda, “the Pacific Northwest is socked in with rain and snow; all Derek’s doing is surfing the Internet.”

         “At least,” Paul softly chuckled, “that'll help keep him from spending his paycheck on ‘Emergency!’ memorabilia and helicopter models.” As Tiffany guffawed, Paul continued, “Really, Derek’s pretty good, though some cross-training probably wouldn’t hurt. Shoot, we all need that from time to time.”

         “Even you? Come on, Paul, is there anything you don’t know?”

         “You know better than that, Tiff. The moment I say I know everything, something will come along to bite me in the ass.” Draining his coke can in one long drink, he looked down to find a fresh one waiting for him. “What the…”

         “I figured you could use another. That, and I noticed your leg was giving you trouble.” As Paul vigorously shook his head, Tiffany continued, “Look, pal, I saw you in there. Not only leaning against your console, but when you were walking out of the communications room. You’re limp is worse than usual. Is your leg acting up again?”

         “My right leg is fine –”

         “Don’t dodge the question, Paul. It’s not the right leg you’re having trouble with.” A slight bitterness crept into her voice as she added, “Don’t duck this one, either. Did you really come out here to de-stress and have a coke? Or are you out here,” she said, pointing to the helicopters in the distance, “paying homage to a lost dream?” Starting to walk around, she continued, “Why do you torture yourself like this, Paul? Yes, you were a damn good flight paramedic before the accident. But you continually fail to realize just how freaking fantastic you are now as a flight dispatcher! So you… no, you probably don’t know this, and I’m not sure I should say it now.”

         “Say what?”

         “That practically every program, every base we dispatch, wants you working with them. Word about how you handled this crisis tonight will only increase that.” Pulling a chair over and sitting next to him, she added, “These crews TRUST you, Paul. They know if, heaven forbid something goes wrong, you’ll do everything you can to fix it. And I think I know why you work so hard at this.”

         “Oh, do you?” The tone of Paul’s voice said he had no desire to be psychoanalyzed by anyone, for any purpose. Tiffany kept on going anyway; she’d heard the tone before from her subordinate. She also knew she was on solid ground in this case.

         “You’re not just telling them where to go, Paul. When they’re flying… so are you. You’re in the helicopter with them. It’s something we have in common.” The former flight nurse flexed her Boston Elbow artificial right arm to emphasize the point to the permanently-grounded flight paramedic. “Paul… I know this because I have the same feelings. I’ve never emotionally left the flight service. Every time they hit the skies, so do I. And whether you admit it or not, you’re in that aircraft with them.”

         Leaning back and closing his eyes, Paul realized the woman was right. Even though a drunk driver had taken his left leg below the knee in a car crash, Paul Carmichael had never lost his zest for EMS work. All through his rehab, he’d had one goal – to get back to the ambulance, to climb back on the chopper. But despite all his efforts, he was told one sunny Friday morning that he didn’t have the leg strength to safely do the job, and probably never would. Then his boss had suggested he look at moving over to the dispatch center. After a long weekend of crying, screaming and soul searching, Paul had shown up at headquarters Tuesday afternoon to set up his training schedule around his outpatient rehab.

         It hadn’t been an easy transition, either physically or emotionally. Permanently moving to a dispatch position after nine active years as a field paramedic (five with Peregrine County and four on board MedSTAT One and Two) had been a wound to his ego. Though he had used and expressed more respect than some of his counterparts, Paul had still harbored the largely-common view of field personnel that dispatchers were “lesser mortals” in the EMS pecking order. Two months of dispatch training, however, had strongly altered his viewpoint. At times, the sheer volume of information and activity had threatened to overwhelm him. Realizing the road that lay ahead of him if he wanted to stay connected to EMS, Paul decided to take his situation as a career challenge, instead of a step backward. And though he’d never really thought about it, that one choice, sitting in front of his locker at headquarters, had been the turning point in his training.

         Work hadn’t been the only difficult transition; various parts of his personal life were also changed by the accident. Even with the marvels of medical technology and advanced prosthetic design, Paul still had to re-learn how to walk. Eventually able to jog after a fashion, the artificial leg had nevertheless prevented the former high school athlete from playing basketball and tennis. Paul had taken up bowling as a semi-substitute (as well as a form of stress relief), but his average score of 146 wasn’t quite enough to replace the thrill he got from running a fast break or hitting a return shot down the line.

         At the time of the accident, his girlfriend had been encouraging and supportive. As the weeks of therapy turned to months, however, Cherise Magill’s attitudes began to change. She had somehow expected Paul to be the exact same person once he recovered, not understanding that their lives had been forever changed by a drunk driver whose name she’d never bothered to learn. One day, while helping in the therapy gym, Cherise stopped saying, “Keep trying, Paul” and started accusing him of not wanting to work at his exercises.

         “Damn it, Paul, you’ve had that leg for two weeks now. Don’t you think you should be walking normally? Or do you just not want to?” Paul’s reply had been to keep at his current exercise, not saying a word – a response that Cherise hated. Being pulled into an office for a lecture from his physical therapist had only heightened her anger, which she vented at the physical therapist. And despite the warnings, Cherise had repeated her negative badgering three days later; THAT episode ended with her permanently barred from the physical therapy area unless she herself was the patient.

         Cherise’s final straw with Paul had been an afternoon of car shopping. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing today, Paul. This isn’t you… or, at least it’s not the Paul Carmichael I know.”

         “Excuse me?” He replied rather indignantly from the passenger seat.

         “The Paul Carmichael I know,” she huffed, “enjoys the thrill of driving. He likes performance cars and living life with passion and élan. YOU, on the other hand, are looking at cars with automatic transmissions and fuel economy and such. I thought it was your leg you lost, not your balls.”

         “THAT TEARS IT, CHERISE!” Paul’s anger startled her; she’d barely heard him raise his voice, even right after the accident. “Find us an empty parking lot somewhere. It shouldn’t be hard, since it’s a Saturday. Hell, take us to the MedSTAT base; I know the parking lots near there are pretty empty right now.” Located at what had once been the city’s main airport, Paul knew there were several empty parking lots to choose from by the old passenger terminal. Paul spent the drive there giving his girlfriend the silent treatment she’d come to hate.

         “Okay, smarty pants, we’re here. Now what?”

         Paul opened his door. “Switch places with me. Let’s see what’s possible.”

         “Now wait, my car is –”

         “You’re bitching at me and riding my ass today because of the kind of cars I’m shopping for. I’m sick of it. So put your money in your mouth and your ass in the passenger seat. You want me to drive a stick? Well, it’s going to happen, RIGHT THE HELL –”

         “Hey, Paul, what’s going on?”

         “Huh?” Coming back from his memories, Paul realized he was outside the patio door at MedSTAT dispatch, not in the parking lot at the airport’s Terminal Two. “Oh, sorry, Tiff. Somehow, I was thinking back a few years ago. One of the arguments I had with Cherise, actually. The whole… stupid thing about cars we went through.”

         “And that test drive you had over yonder,” Tiffany added, pointing off towards the parking lot. “The one where she claimed you were either trying to wreck her car to prove a point, or you were holding back on your driving skills. That wasn’t what broke you up, was it?”

         “Not by itself, Tiff. But it was one more straw on a growing pile. The last one came about four months after that… after…”

         “After MedSTAT 2 crashed the second time?” Paul simply nodded, not wanting to risk opening old emotional wounds. “It’s okay, Paul,” she said, reaching over with her left hand to touch his shoulder. “Even though I lost my arm, I survived the first crash. All of us on board did. That’s why the call sign wasn’t retired then. And I was very proud of Roger Welke and Adrienne Marchand because they could return to duty and chose to do so. And that’s one reason why the second crash hit me so hard…” As Tiffany paused for a deep breath, Paul put two and two together, realizing that the fellow survivors of her crash had also been on board that fateful afternoon four years later. “I’m just grateful I wasn’t dispatching that flight; I might have completely lost it. As it was, seeing Roger in that wheelchair was gut wrenching. And it took me a long time to deal with Adrienne’s death; she was a good friend as well as a good pilot.” Giving his shoulder another squeeze, she added, “I also know it took you a while to work through all of that as well.”

         “And Cherise ended up making it worse, Tiff.”

         “How?”

         “About a week after the memorial service, she threw the last straw on my back. She said, and I quote, ‘you need to stop grieving over someone you barely knew and worry about my problems.’ ” Seeing Tiffany cringe at that, he added, “Yeah, that was my first reaction. Then I took a few minutes out on the balcony before I said anything.”

         “On the balcony? Uhm, Paul… you don’t step out on a balcony in February in Utah. You must have been freezing your ass off.”

         “More than that, Tiff. She said this two days after the blizzard hit that year. Let me stand alone on the balcony for 10 to 15 minutes, then opened the door long enough to order me to come inside.” Taking a sip from his second Coke, he added, “I stayed out there another 10 to 15 minutes, and came in to be told, ‘I don’t know you anymore, Paul. You won’t listen to me or think about me.’ I told her that given her comments about the way I was handling Adrienne’s death, she probably never knew me in the first place.” Finishing his drink, Paul crumpled the can. “It was probably the best thing that could have happened, and it would have happened sooner or later. After all, she never liked my job, and REALLY rode me whenever I talked about getting my pilot’s license.” Paul then sighed, thinking about yet another dream that had been at least placed on the back burner six years ago, if not permanently sidelined.

         “Paul, you’ve often told folks here to concentrate not on what they can’t do, but what they can. You might want to take your own advice. And who knows… that pilot’s license could still be in your future. Listen, I better get back inside. YOU stay out here as long as you want. If you want to talk, you know where I am. And remember… this break room has a phone in it. Don’t let what happened with Cherise keep you from talking to Monica if you need.”

         “Oh, I know better than that, Tiff. Believe me, I know better.” Taking a moment to close his eyes and picture her, Paul let out a contented sigh. “I’m surprised that Monica still puts up with me after a year of my moods and idiosyncrasies. I’m just grateful that she’s a part of my life… that I actually have someone I can go home to when I walk out of this puzzle palace.” Eyes still closed, Paul mentally pictured the loving and lovely young woman who just last month had moved in with him, after over a year of dating and romance. A woman who, seeing the grittier side of his life and his disability, had not only not run away but moved closer to him. A woman who at one point Paul had begun to doubt existed. Now he basked in the knowledge of that error in judgment.

         “Hey, Paul, I’m not that surprised that you and Monica have hit it off so well. Like I said, there’s a phone right inside here if you want to call her. And if you think you need to go home, just let me know.”

         “Thanks, Tiff. I’m gonna rest out here a little bit… but if things get crazy, come get me.” Leaning back in his chair, Paul looked out to see the sunset glinting off of MedSTAT 1 and 4. Yeah, the med crew dream is over, he thought to himself. But who knows… maybe the pilot’s license is still possible. After all, a few folks said your current job wouldn’t be possible, or that you would fall flat on your face doing it… and you’ve proved them wrong in spades.

         Though most of the flight crews were glad to see Paul stay with the organization in some capacity, there had been several detractors who decided to give him the “lesser mortal” treatment. One of the chief tormenters even said Paul had been “demoted by fate” to his current job. Looking across the tarmac, Paul spied him walking around MedSTAT 4 in the setting sun.

         Sean Martel was an effective but not very popular flight nurse in the MedSTAT organization. He had come to the program not only with in-hospital experience in both ER and Intensive Care units, but also with three years of flight nurse experience with an East Coast flight program. Because of his experience, Martel had immediately adopted an attitude of complete superiority with many of his coworkers, especially paramedics and pilots. More than a few times, he had been caught criticizing the work of fellow employees; one pilot had made him back down by putting Martel at the controls of the aircraft at base and saying, “Okay, Sean, start flying this thing.”

         “What? Are you crazy? I don’t have a pilot’s license!”

         “And I’m not a nurse, Sean. Nor are any of the other pilots here. But we’re not telling the nurses how to treat patients. So SHUT YOUR MOUTH and stop telling people who have been working with those flight controls for at least 15 years how to fly a helicopter. And if you DO file a complaint about my flying safety, you BETTER have both the stones and the proof to back it up.” Looking over, Martel saw the expression on the pilot’s face that clearly said, yes, Sean, I know what you pulled at your last job and why you’re not there anymore. Seeing that, Martel decided to shelve his immediate thoughts of administrative revenge and mudslinging. And though his pilot bashing had dwindled, Martel hadn’t stopped his criticisms of fellow medical crew members. Behind his back, he’d earned the nickname “Sean 10,000” because folks thought his nose was that many feet in the air.

         For a while, Martel’s snobbery had found a convenient target in Paul. Several months after the accident, Martel had accosted Paul in a hallway at the base. It was a conversation that Paul always remembered with bitterness.

         “Well, well, if it isn’t our resident dispatch gimp. Still enjoying your demotion to dispatcher?”

         “And good morning to you, Sean. I take it you’re not enjoying our nice, icy weather today.” A freak ice storm had hit the area, forcing MedSTAT 1 and 4 to be placed in the hangar at the end of the building. Still required to be there in case weather improved, Martel was in a sour mood and decided to take it out on a favorite target.

         “Look, pal, at least I’m still flight staff, not a dispatch gimp.” It was a routine comment from Martel, which Paul just as routinely blew off. “Then again, you were never a good paramedic anyway. Do you know just how many patients I personally saved from your ineptitude and lack of concern?” Despite a growing anger, Paul refused to respond to the bait, staying calm on the outside, which only made Sean Martel angrier. “Well, since you’re not going to admit it, I’ll tell you…”

         “Okay, go ahead,” Paul said in a calm voice. “How many patients did you save from me and my lack of skill? What’s the specific number?”

         “Well… well… it was a ton… so many," he huffed, "that I lost track!" Paul's unexpected audacity at challenging him for proof further fueled Martel's anger. "And then you had your ‘accident,’ pal. It was damn convenient for you, wasn’t it? Once you had that ‘accident,’ you didn’t have to look for an excuse to step down. Admit it, pal, you were LOOKING for a reason to get off the aircraft without being fired. After all, you SUCKED as a medic!” Martel had all but yelled the last sentence as Paul started limping away from him. “Aww,” Martel added, following Paul down the hallway. “The little dispatch gimp is gonna go off to a corner and cry now, isn’t he? He’s gonna cry because his lack of skill has been found out.”

         Keeping up his tirade, Sean Martel had lost track of where he was, not realizing he was in a hallway lined with MedSTAT administration offices. Even those with closed doors clearly heard Martel’s accusations of faked accidents, false reports and self-inflicted injuries. “Tell me,” he yelled as Paul kept walking silently from the blowhard, “Tell me where you hid the axe you cut your leg with! And how much you paid the other driver to smash into your car so you could collect the insurance! TELL ME!”

         The incident was one of a string of barbs and accusations from the flight nurse. Over the following days, Paul received compliments from several administrators for keeping his cool that day. At the same time, Martel was called on the carpet by administration. His actions that day were rewarded with a disciplinary write up for “conduct unbecoming a staff member,” harassment of a fellow employee and trying to create a hostile work environment.

         Having been strongly slapped in the face, Sean Martel had decided to try to exact a measure of revenge. His method was to file anonymous complaints about Paul’s dispatch abilities. Forced to investigate, management found a few minor things that Paul was doing wrong, but nothing to the extent of the complaints. In their research, management also received a mountain of praise for Paul’s work, from both MedSTAT crews and his fellow communications specialists. As a pattern emerged in the complaints, MedSTAT’s administration decided to cover their bases (a.k.a. their backsides) by giving Paul some refresher training. They also moved him to a console that didn’t handle any of MedSTAT’s seven aircraft.

         Reflecting back on those events as he watched the last orange-red hues of sunset disappear from the snow-capped Wasatch Mountains to his east, Paul realized (not for the first time) that “Sean 10,000” had actually helped his career. In the six years since his accident, Paul had gone on to be trained on every dispatch console and flight program handled by MedSTAT’s communications center. Over time, he had made friends with and earned the respect of crews at 38 bases spread throughout the country. Enough so that when visitors came from the outlying programs / bases, they often wanted to talk to Paul, either formally or informally. Sometimes they sounded him out for his expertise, and on other occasions they sought his feedback about their programs and what could be improved. Several times, he had been the recipient of half-joking pleas to return to their particular flight program’s dispatch console. And while each request was a big boost to his ego, Paul did his best to not allow any of it to go to his head. Like any other business, he knew that air medical dispatch was a haven of “what have you done for me lately?” and that one error could erase a career of atta-boy’s. His way to avoid that was to keep doing the best job he could and keep improving. And to not let the Sean Martels of the world distract him.

         Standing up slowly, Paul decided he would return to the dispatch console, at least for a while. If things felt like they were too much to handle, he would take Tiffany up on her offer to leave early. Walking into the communications center, he noticed that his trainee was nowhere to be seen.

         “I kicked him out of here,” Tiffany said to Paul’s questioning look. “He took a call from a flight crew member and started shooting his mouth off. The crew member called him on it and cornered him. When Barry started screaming about how stupid this person was, I cut him off and told him to clock out and go home. I’m going to recommend that he not be allowed to come back.” Paul was a bit saddened by that news, but not surprised. He knew that Barry had received several “black marks” on his training record because of his attitudes, and Paul himself had been planning on making a less-than-positive report of Barry’s actions during the emergency.

         “By the way, there was a phone call while you were outside. You need to call this number.” Tiffany handed over a message slip. There was no name on it, only a number. Sitting at his console, Paul punched the number into his phone computer. “Hello, this is Paul Carmichael. I was given…” Hearing the voice on the other end, he immediately relaxed. “Hiya, Cassie… yes, it’s great to hear your voice, too… thanks, but I was simply doing my job… I’m just glad everything worked out… Hey, you talk about me not quitting? What about you, Cassie? You certainly didn’t give up…”

         At her own console, Tiffany Coleman heard Paul’s comment as she opened a new file on her computer. No, Paul, she didn’t give up, and neither did you… just like always, you persevered and rose to the occasion. Pausing in her e-mail to management about Paul’s latest accomplishments, Tiffany picked up her phone. “Hello? Hey, sis, it’s Tiff… yeah, everything is going okay… it all worked out well. Don’t worry, Monica… as usual, he’s stronger than he gives himself credit for. I hope you don’t mind, but I think he’s going to finish out the shift… yeah, I’ll send him home to you then. Talk to you later.” Hanging up the phone, Tiffany realized once again that at some point, she would be losing one of her best staffers from her shift. After all, company rules prohibited people from having positions of authority over family members, and didn’t allow anything that might appear to be a conflict of interest. Tiffany had already checked, and yes, the “family member” designation included in-laws.