Clear to Lift (3 page)

I turn to Boomer, not realizing until then that my mouth is open.

“Have we found something that impresses you, Lieutenant?”

“What is this?” I ask, ignoring the barb.

“Check your map, my dear.”

Gah! Incorrigible!

Looking down, I find it. June Lake.

I pivot in my seat, watching the lake, until it recedes from view, all silver and sparkles. A jewel, secretly nested in a ring of staggeringly high peaks.

A short five minutes later, we reach the eastern entrance to Yosemite National Park, and Boomer turns slightly right, beginning a transit that will leave this dazzling high alpine world behind. Instead, we'll move into the flats and browns of the desert, an arid landscape tucked in the rain shadow of the mighty Sierra Nevada.

“God bless, it's cold!” Hap says.

But flying into the desert doesn't necessarily mean it will get any warmer.

“Beanie, any word yet on when we'll get the part to fix this heater?” I ask, wiggling my toes to regain some feeling.

“Maintenance thinks it'll be another week, ma'am.”

I sigh. It's always something with this aircraft, the H-1 Huey. But with an airframe that's seen over forty-five years of service, I suppose it's inevitable. Oh, I miss the H-60.…

I bring my gloved hands to my face, blowing into them like I did this morning, in a feeble attempt to warm them. To my left, Boomer doesn't wear gloves, which makes me crazy. A blatant violation of the rules, and yet, he always flies like this. As a result, most of our flights include a discussion on the subject.

“Sir, your gloves? Again?”

“What about 'em?” he says, feigning ignorance.

“They provide warmth, too, you know. Not just fire protection.”

“Ha! So tell me this. Were your hands slipping today?”

Damn.

“Trust me. Way better control without 'em.”

“But if there's a cockpit fire—”

“Cockpit fire?
Cockpit fire?
How many documented spontaneous cockpit fires have you read about? Far more likely you'll smash the bird into an immovable slab of granite because your hands slip from the controls.”

“But, sir—”

“Don't ‘but, sir' me. You're flying search and rescue now. It's not a matter of
if
you'll break the rules, it's
when.
”

“Not me. Not when I'm an aircraft commander. That's not how it's done.”

Not in the H-60 community, anyway.

I lean my helmeted head against my seat, staring to the heavens.
God grant me the serenity …
Isn't that how that one goes?

“It's gotta be below zero,” Hap says. “Jee-
zus!
”

“It's minus ten,” I say, glancing at the Celsius reading on the outside-air temperature gauge.

“In October,” Hap says. “That's ridiculous.”

“Brother, you're in the mountains now!” Beanie says.

I peek around my chair, because observing these two brings a smile to my face every time … which I need now. An unlikely pair—Hap from notoriously rough South Central in Los Angeles, Beanie plucked straight from a Nebraska cornfield, all red hair and freckles—these two work together seamlessly, a model for crew coordination, and the best high-altitude, technical rescue team we have.

“This is just wrong,” Hap says. “Why the hell did I ever accept orders up here?”

“You know you love it!” Beanie says, laughing.

Why Hap had the luxury to
accept
orders here, that is, he had a
choice,
is beyond me. I was given no such choice. Grrr …

“Why don't you fly for a while, Malone. You seem a little keyed up over there.” Boomer sniggers, having entirely too much fun at my expense. “And let's start a climb right here to pop over these hills.”

With a glare in his direction first, I take the controls. Better than arguing about the rules. Strike that. Utter lack of rules.

“Sir, could you turn that up, please?” Beanie asks.

“My pleasure,” Boomer says, a foxy grin sliding across his face.

Playing music in the aircraft.
Another
procedures violation. I swear, it's a conspiracy. A let's-gang-up-on-Alison conspiracy. But I
can't
not say something.

“Really, sir? What if we miss a radio call?”

“Have we
ever
missed a radio call?”

Not when I've been in the aircraft, anyway. But it
could
happen.

“But an emergency, sir? What happens in the event of an emergency? What happens to crew coordination if you've got—”

The aircraft jerks left as the number-one engine winds down.
Shit!
I drop the collective, increase the rotor rpm switch, and nose over to maintain airspeed.

It all happens in about three seconds.

“Sir, I—”

“Bringing the throttle back up,” Boomer says.

“What!” I snap my head to look at him, incredulous, pissed, relieved, all of the above. “
You
did that?”

“Indeed.”

“But you can't—! You can't just go rolling the throttles off. We didn't even brief a simulated emergency—”

“I'd say you handled an emergency quite well, while listening to the radio. Wouldn't the gentlemen in back agree?”

“I'd say she nailed it, sir,” Beanie says. “Perfect execution.”

“Damn, she's fast,” Hap says. “I mean, respectfully speaking, ma'am.”

“I
cannot
believe you did that,” I say between gritted teeth … which only makes Boomer laugh louder, like a bellow from a walrus.

I stew, and I stew. I fly, and I stew. “It's not even real music,” I grumble.

“Tell me you did not just diss country music,” Boomer says, issuing a drawn-out look of disapproval. “I can see we're gonna have to make it a point to educate you on these flights.”

“Not necessary.”

I so don't belong here. This is just another reminder that I need to keep after my detailer to get me transferred to a 60 squadron, where pilots and aircrew actually follow the freakin' rules.

“You know, I didn't realize you'd be such a challenge, Lieutenant Malone,” Boomer says. “But we'll whip you into shape eventually.”

 

3

Tossing and turning, I finally give up, and throw off the covers in exasperation. Apple cider. That's it. I'll have some hot apple cider, and then, sweet dreams for me.

I swing my legs off the too-soft bed and shuffle to the kitchen. It's a short walk in this tiny one-bedroom apartment. All of eight hundred square feet, it's located on the second floor of the Bachelor Officer Quarters on base.

I set the water to boil, pull an apple cider packet from the faux-wood cabinet, plop the tea bag–like pouch in my mug, and drop to a seat at the kitchen table to wait.

It's just the post-rescue high, I tell myself. Recounting the mission in all of its detail, trying to process it all. The crewmen say they experience the same thing after a mission—they're
wired
for the twenty-four hours following. With me, it's just this “stuff” that builds up inside, needing a pressure release valve. Feelings that I need to push out. I just need to … talk.

I tried to call my just-promoted fiancé earlier today, when we were still at Mammoth Hospital, but was sent to voice mail.

Beep. “You've reached the direct line of Richard Gordon. Please leave a message.” Beep.

He trades in the stock market for one of the largest financial investment firms in the world, Litton Investments. I'd forgotten when I called that the exchange was still open.

Rather than leave a voice mail, I fired off a quick text.

Tried to call. Just finished a tricky rescue. Would love to tell you about it. Need to talk about so much, in general. Can't wait to see you. Only three more weeks. Miss you!

As I try to process the adrenaline-fueled hours between 0800 and 1200 today, I realize that my world and Rich's couldn't be farther apart right now. But it'll get better. After we get married, in May, he'll remain in San Diego while I finish my tour here—
if
I have to finish my tour here—and then we'll be together again. Even though it's almost three years living apart, I have to remember, it's a small period of time in the big picture.

That's what my detailer, Commander Bigelow, told me, anyway. I cringe when I remember the conversation following the receipt of orders that unexpectedly brought me here. Out of the way, out of sight, out of the mainstream, Naval Air Station Fallon cuts counter to every reason I joined the navy in the first place. The
stable
navy. One that paid for my schooling and guaranteed a job after graduation. One that provided rank and structure, rules and regulations, just do your job, and we'll take care of you.

My mom was thrilled. My stepfather, too. They raised me to be a responsible, practical adult, unlike the louse—my biological father—who abandoned my mom and me when I was only four years old.

It's so horribly cliché. Father abandons daughter. Daughter seeks stability and security for the rest of her days. Whatever. I saw what my “dad” did to my mom, and I don't want to be left hanging like that.

I struck gold—literally—when I met Rich. Intelligent, successful, well-off. Smart choice, my mom told me.

I drag my iPad from the corner of the table and switch it on. A picture of Rich and me emerges on the wallpaper, him in his suit, me in a new dress, at his firm's anniversary party, just a month before I came to Fallon. My engagement ring takes center stage in the photo, having been placed there just moments before on the balcony of Tom Ham's Lighthouse restaurant. The lights of downtown San Diego twinkle in the background.

My gaze drifts to my left hand, the ring finger now bare. I don't wear the ring—a two-carat sparkler—when I fly, because it doesn't fit under my flight glove. I hesitate to think what it cost him. I realize, only now, that I failed to put it on when I got home, exhausted as I was.

My message folder indicates two unread messages. Opening the first, I see that Rich has finally gotten back to me.

Congrats on the rescue! Reserved the Lighthouse for the wedding reception. It's gonna be sweet as hell. Enjoy the pics!

I click on the photo attachments, smiling as I remember these same spectacular views of San Diego Bay, Coronado Island, and the downtown skyline on that mild May evening. I quickly tap out a response.

Perfect. I agree, this is the best choice. I'll try to call tomorrow. Would really love to talk.

*   *   *

The teakettle whistles. I fill my mug, return to the table, lean my head on my hand, and begin to lift and dunk the apple cider in its “tea bag.”

Lift and dunk. Lift and dunk.

The steam drifts, and I breathe in the comforting scents of cloves and cinnamon, just as I did as a kid during the snowy Thanksgivings spent at my aunt Celia's vacation lodge on the banks of the Walker River. We'd stay in one of her eleven rental cabins and gather on the raised back porch of the main lodge to drink hot cider and listen to Grandpa Alther's navy sea stories—riveting tales of cyclones in the Bay of Bengal and port visits to faraway places like Singapore, Thailand, and Bali.

The lodge, located in the foothills of the Sierra, is only a two-hour drive from Fallon. I thought I would have made the drive there at least once since I arrived this summer, but without Celia—she turned over the day-to-day operations to a caretaker—I couldn't find a reason to go.

I don't know … maybe I should go back anyway. Happy memories there …

Tapping on the iPad screen, I see that the second unread message is from none other than Celia.

Call me when you get a chance. Dr. Grant didn't tell me anything outright—she can't, of course—but I get the feeling something's happening in your mom's therapy sessions. I'm not sure if I should be worried or excited.

Oh, boy …

I lift the apple cider pouch and set it to the side, bring the mug to my lips, and blow to cool the liquid.

Something odd happened to my mom after her second husband died. There's grieving, and then … well, there's whatever this is. I don't know what to call it. Even the resident expert, Celia—a psychiatrist—can't figure it out. Mom has put on a good face for her real-estate business, but Celia and I know otherwise.

We finally staged an “intervention.” We said, therapy or else. Of course, she didn't go for it at first. Angry, hurt, it's none of your business, all of that. But now she's been seeing Dr. Grant—a referral from Celia—regularly for about seven months, and I
think
it's been going okay. She hasn't really opened up to me about her sessions, but I suppose it's easy to see what you want to see. A spark. Some hope. Just … some life.

I take several sips, the cider sliding warm down my throat, before touching the iPad screen to tap out a response. But I stop when the wallpaper emerges again.

Rich and me. An engaged couple.

Seven months …

Seven months of therapy for my mom. Seven months until I become Mrs. Richard Gordon. Alison Gordon. Lieutenant Gordon. It all rolls off the tongue nicely enough.

And then, forgoing the response to Celia—I'll just call her tomorrow—I do something I swore I never would. On the back of a grocery list, I write it out. Alison Gordon. Magdalena Alison Gordon, using my full given name. Alison Gordon in cursive. Alison Gordon in print. All caps. No caps. Big letters, small. Initials. AG. MAG. The whole wacky bride-to-be exercise for the soon-to-be Alison Gordon.

Alison Gordon … who will live in downtown San Diego in a high-rise loft condominium, a retirement portfolio in place, insured against every conceivable circumstance, including random acts of nature, who will enjoy a successful naval career, perhaps start a family, and live happily ever after.