scalpels long enough for a hangnail repair, but that was it. Tossing them aside, he began shrugging out of his shirt.
'Make sure his rope's secure!' he shouted to the first rescuer. 'Then take my kit and get yourself topside!'
He turned to the other. 'Stand by to hoist this man up!' He ripped his shirt in half. Twisting one sleeve, he tied it around the trapped man's left leg, about five inches below the knee. The other sleeve went around the fat part of the man's right thigh. He knotted first one sleeve, then the other, jerking them as tight as possible.
'Give me the ax!' he cried to the remaining rescuer. 'Then get ready to pull!'
Wordlessly, the man handed him the ax. Hatch positioned himself astride the trapped man. Bracing his own legs, he raised it above his head.
The trapped man's eyes widened in sudden understanding. 'No!' he screamed. 'Please, don't—'
Hatch brought the ax down on the man's left shin with all his might. As the blade drove home, it felt to Hatch for a curious instant as though he was chopping the green trunk of a young sapling. There was a moment of resistance, then a sudden give. The man's voice ceased instantly, but his eyes remained open, straining, the cords of his neck standing out. A wide, ragged cut opened in the leg, and for a moment the bone and flesh lay exposed in the weak light of the pit. Then the rising water roiled up around the cut and it filled with blood. Quickly, Malin drove the ax home again and the leg came free, the water frothing red as it churned across the beam. The man threw his head back and opened his jaws wide in a soundless scream, the fillings in his molars shining dully in the glow of the flashlight.
Hatch stepped back a moment, and took several deep breaths. He clamped down hard on the trembling that was beginning in his wrists and forearms, then repositioned himself around the man's right thigh. This was going to be worse. Much worse. But the water was now bubbling above the man's knee and there was no time to waste.
The first blow hit home in something softer than wood, but rubbery and resistant. The man slumped to one side, unconscious. The second blow missed the first, cutting a sickening gash across the knee. Then the water was boiling around the thigh, heading for the man's waist. Estimating where the next blow had to fall, Hatch positioned the ax behind his head, hesitated, then swung it down with a tremendous effort. As it plunged into the water he could feel it strike home, slicing through with a crack and give of bone.
'Pull him up!' Hatch screamed. The rescuer gave two tugs on the rope. Immediately, it went taut. The man's shoulders straightened and he was pulled into a sitting position, but the massive timber still refused to release him. The leg had not been completely severed. The rope slackened once more and the man slumped backward, the black water creeping up around his ears, nose, and mouth.
'Give me your brush hook!' Hatch yelled to the rescuer. Grabbing the stubby, machetelike implement, he took a deep breath and dove below the surface of the surging water. Feeling his way in the blackness, he worked his way down the right leg, located the cut, and quickly sliced through the remaining hamstring muscle with the hook.
'Try again!' he coughed the moment his head broke the surface. The rope jerked and this time the unconscious man came bursting out from under the water, blood and muddy water running from the stumps of his legs. The rescuer went next, and then a moment later Hatch felt himself hoisted toward the surface. Within seconds he was out of the dark, damp hole and crouching next to the man in a swale of matted grass. Quickly, he felt for the vitals: the man was not breathing, but his heart was still beating, fast and faint.
Despite his improvised tourniquets, blood was oozing from the savaged stumps of the legs.
'Get my bag!' he yelled at the stunned group. 'I need a hypo!'
One of the men grabbed the bag and began rummaging through it.
'Dump it out on the ground, for Chrissakes!' The man obeyed and Hatch fished through the scatter, pulling out a syringe and a bottle. Sucking one cc of epinephrine into the hypo, he administered it sub cu in the victim's shoulder. Then he returned to mouth-to-mouth. At the five count, the man coughed, then drew a ragged breath.
Streeter came forward, a cellular phone in his hand. 'We've called in a medevac helicopter,' he said. 'It'll meet us at Storm-haven wharf.'
'The hell with that,' Hatch snapped.
Streeter frowned. 'But the medevac—'
'Flies from Portland. And no half-assed medevac pilot can lower a basket while hovering.'
'But shouldn't we get him to the mainland—?'
Hatch rounded on him. 'Can't you see this man won't survive a run to the mainland? Get the Coast Guard on the phone.'
Streeter pressed a number in the phone s memory, then handed it over wordlessly.
Hatch asked to speak to a paramedic, then quickly began describing the accident. 'We've got a double amputation, one above, one below the knee,' he said. 'Massive exsanguination, deep shock, pulse is thready at fifty-five, some water in the lungs, still unconscious. Get a chopper out here with your best pilot. There's no landing spot and we'll need to drop a basket. Hang a bag of saline, and bring some unmatched O negative if you have it. But get your ass out here, that's the most important thing. This'll be a scoop and run.' He covered the phone and turned to Streeter. 'Any chance of getting those legs up in the next hour?'
'I don't know,' Streeter said evenly. 'The water will have made the pit unstable. We might be able to send a diver down to reconnoiter.'
Hatch shook his head and turned back to the phone. 'You'll be flying the patient straight through to Eastern Maine Medical. Alert the trauma team, have an OR standing by. There's a possibility we may recover the limbs. We'll need a micro-vascular surgeon on tap, just in case.'
