Clear to Lift Read online

  “Might as well get in line, then,” I say, moving forward.

  “So did you get any sleep last night?” he asks.

  “No … no, not much.”

  “Me either. I can never sleep after rescues like those.”

  “Really? I was wondering about that when I was wide awake at two this morning.”

  He nods knowingly.

  “I was thinking how stupid it was to not be able to sleep,” I say. “But it seems to happen to me a lot.”

  “Well, yeah. Lots to process. It’s like coming down from a superhigh, all your engines firing, you’re totally focused, the adrenaline, all of it. Yeah, not uncommon at all.”

  I exhale, relieved. “I’m glad I’m not the only one.”

  “No, you have plenty of company. And speaking of yesterday, I know I already mentioned it, but you were amazing. Seriously. The guys can’t stop talking about it. They watched it all with binoculars and were pretty much blown away, which is a hard thing to do with this group.”

  “No, amazing is you climbing up an ice wall without a rope. Although, I shouldn’t say amazing. I should say crazy. That’s flat insane to climb without a rope.”

  “Who says?”

  “Well, what if you fall?”

  “You’re worried about me falling? You, who’s hovering just inches from a wall of rock?”

  He pauses, while I consider it.

  “I think I’ll take my chances with an ice axe.”

  “Okay, point taken.” I shift my basket to the other arm. “I don’t know if you realize it, but the guys idolize you. You’re all they could talk about once when we landed at the hospital.”

  “They’re a great group. We do a lot of training together, so I’ve gotten to know them pretty well. Beanie, especially.”

  “Beanie … who’s training to be a mountain guide. Wait, is that you? Are you training him?”

  “I am. That’s one of my day jobs. Guiding.”

  “Ma’am? Excuse me, ma’am? What would you like?” the women behind the counter says.

  I look up, and we’re at the front of the line. How did we get to the front?

  “May I make a suggestion?” Will says.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Since this is your first time, I’d stick with the basics, a classic.”

  “Which is?”

  “The glazed doughnut. It’s not fancy, but it’s damn good.”

  “Glazed doughnut, please,” I say to the woman.

  “Make that two,” Will says.

  Since Will has both hands full with his bags of bread, I slide the basket farther up my forearm and take both plates offered. We snake through groups of undecided shoppers toward the cash register, arriving at the coffee-ordering station located just in front of it. “Coffee?” I ask.

  “Definitely.”

  “Two coffees, please,” I say. I place our doughnut plates on the counter, then bend over, fumbling through my flight suit pocket for my wallet.

  “Please, let me,” Will says, handing the cashier his credit card.

  “Oh no, Will, you don’t have to do that.”

  “My pleasure. Think of it as a thank-you from the guys you rescued yesterday. They’re friends of mine, and they’d hit me over the head if I didn’t buy you some breakfast for your trouble.”

  “But, I have all this,” I say, indicating the basket of food treasures the cashier now bags for me.

  “It’s fine, really. And if it really bothers you, you can get the coffee next time.”

  “All right. Deal.”

  I turn to walk to our seats. “So they’re okay, then? Your friends?”

  “Yeah. The feeling’s returned to Grant’s legs. He was even walking around this morning. And Gale has a broken arm and a few scrapes. But they’re both pretty lucky.”

  “That’s the spirit, Alison!” Boomer says, admiring the large brown bag I hold in one arm, along with a doughnut plate in each hand. “Now you’re talking!”

  After depositing our bags of breads and goodies, Will returns with our coffees, taking the seat next to me. I turn my focus to a glazed doughnut sent straight from heaven and bring it to my mouth. My eyes widen, turning to Will, as I chew.

  Smile lines crease from the sides of his eyes. “What do you think?” he asks.

  “I think that’s the best doughnut I’ve ever tasted,” I say, wiping the crumbs from my lips.

  “You know why?”

  “Uh, because they make good doughnuts?”

  “Well, yeah. But it’s something else, too. It’s what happens after you do something like you did yesterday.”

  I take a sip of coffee—my first, which means I can’t blame the caffeine for the buzzing I feel. I look to Will. To the source. The energy is there.

  “When you risk so much,” he says, leaning forward. “When it requires all of your being to stay in the moment, to remain singularly focused, blocking out everything else, everything is heightened after that. The simple and the mundane aren’t anymore. The next doughnut you eat, no matter where it is, is the best doughnut you’ve ever tasted.”

  I stare at Will, processing.

  “See what you’ve done, Will?” Walt calls loudly from across the table. “You’ve stunned the poor girl. Too much philosophizin’. He tends to do that, you know. Gets all cerebral on ya. Now you just go on and ignore him and get to the business of eatin’ your food.”

  I take another sip of coffee, glancing at Will over the Styrofoam cup’s rim. “I think I know what you mean,” I say, speaking in a low voice. “It’s something I haven’t been able to put into words since I’ve been here, but that’s it. I feel ‘heightened,’ like you say. Just … up … or something.”

  “Exactly,” Will says, blue eyes sparkling.

  Beyond Will, I notice when Boomer pulls his vibrating pager from his waist belt. Glancing at the number, he picks up his cell phone that lies on the table and dials.

  Watching this exchange, pager to cell phone, I remember when I first checked into the base operations office, and they handed me a pager. I thought it was a joke. People still use pagers? In Nevada, the answer is yes. Huge swaths of land remain in dead zones with no cell phone coverage, so to ensure our crews are always reachable no matter where we fly, we still carry pagers.

  “Yep, yep, okay,” Boomer says into the phone, checking his watch. “We’ll be back at thirteen hundred. Have the team standing by at the hangar. Yeah, yeah, copy that.”

  Boomer looks up, holstering his phone. “Unexploded off-range ordnance near Bravo Nineteen,” he says, referring to Bombing Range 19. “We need to pick up the EOD team and deliver ’em out there.”

  Will throws a curious look my way.

  “It’s part of our job,” I explain. “We work with the explosive ordnance disposal team, when unexploded bombs land outside the range fence line.”

  “Sounds like they keep you busy out there.”

  “Yeah, working with the EOD team is just another thing we do.”

  “I’m embarrassed to say, I really don’t know what you guys do. Seems strange to have a navy base in the middle of the desert,” he says as he tears off a chunk of doughnut and pops it in his mouth.

  “Yeah, I know. They have bombing ranges out there, and every carrier air wing—this is like sixty or seventy aircraft—has to come through Fallon to train before they go on deployment. We’re just the search and rescue asset for them.”

  “But why Fallon of all places?”

  “Wide-open desert. Wide-open skies. Nothing to run into, I think.”

  I stuff the last bit of doughnut into my mouth. Heaven. Just heaven.

  “But we work with you guys a lot,” Will says. “I mean, it seems like you’re here more often than there.”

  “Yeah, the civilian SAR work is a bonus—a goodwill gesture to the community, basically. It just so happens, though, that eighty percent of our work is for civilian rescue.”

  “Lucky for us,” he says, raising his coffee mug to clink aga
inst mine.

  Boomer lifts the final piece of strudel to his lips, savoring the morsel. “Damn, that’s good!”

  “Need a ride back to the airport?” Jack says.

  “As a matter of fact, we do,” Boomer says.

  “I’ve got my truck,” Will offers. “I could fit two in the front, but two would have to ride in back.”

  Boomer gives me a purposeful glance. “Yes, Malone, you can ride in front.”

  “I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about the crew.”

  “As am I, which is why you will ride in the front. Just lookin’ out for you, Vanilla.”

  Will raises his eyebrows. “Vanilla?”

  “It’s a long story,” I say.

  “Let me demonstrate,” Boomer says.

  Oh, no …

  “Jack? What’s your favorite ice cream?”

  “Cookies ’n’ cream.”

  “Walt?” Boomer asks, shifting his gaze one seat over.

  “Chocolate chip.”

  “Kevin?”

  “Coconut rum.”

  Kevin turns to his right as everyone now realizes Boomer is moving down the row.

  “Thomas?”

  “Butter pecan.”

  “And we already know Beanie’s and Hap’s,” Boomer says, looking at our aircrewmen, who sit next in line. “Rocky Road and mint chocolate chip.”

  I sit back, wiping my hands across my face. Follow the rules. Boring. Vanilla.

  “And you, Mr. Cavanaugh, what is your favorite flavor of ice cream?” Boomer asks with relish.

  Will looks to me first before shifting his eyes back to Boomer. “Vanilla.”

  I sit up a little straighter.

  “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me,” Boomer says.

  “Why, what’s wrong with vanilla?” Will asks.

  “Oh, criminy,” Boomer says, pushing himself up from the table. “Let’s get outta here.”

  The group begins to rise, chairs scraping against the floor as they’re pushed back. I lean in to Will. “Thank you,” I say.

  “Anytime.”

  5

  “Longhorn Seven, Fallon Tower, you’re cleared to the south, over.”

  “Fallon Tower, Longhorn Seven, roger,” I say.

  I follow Highway 95 south to Bravo 19—we call our bombing ranges Bravo for short—using our call sign “Longhorn” instead of “Rescue.” It’s a subtle difference, but to air traffic controllers, a big one. When you use the title Rescue, while engaged in activities relating to a rescue, the rules change. Suddenly, you’re cleared direct to practically anywhere you need to go. Complicated entrance and exit patterns to airfields are waived. Airspace restrictions, altitude and noise limits, fall by the wayside. All of this performed with an unspoken urgency, so the rescue aircraft can get to its destination in the quickest possible manner.

  This afternoon’s mission is not urgent, or “rescue urgent,” I should say. In fact, transporting the EOD team to the site of an unexploded thousand-pound bomb falls on the routine side of our SAR unit’s day-to-day life here in Fallon.

  In stark contrast to yesterday, we fly over mostly flat pastureland, and into a bombing range located sixteen miles southeast of Fallon, comprising low-lying alkali flats, scrub, and sage. The Blow Sand Mountains run diagonally across the upper right corner of this rectangular range, rising about seven hundred feet from the valley floor.

  Flying across the center of the range, we pass fifteen light armored vehicles in the helicopter strafing area, four tank targets, two forward air control platforms, and, just as you might imagine on a practice-bombing range, a large, round bull’s-eye target—known as the bull—dead in the center, formed by three concentric circles, the length of two football fields. The target is lighted for night missions, one of the most dangerous evolutions the jet pilots fly, due to the mountainous terrain here.

  “Do you have the fence line in sight?” the EOD officer asks.

  “I have it,” I say.

  “The bomb is two hundred yards east.”

  I slow down, moving over the sloping, rocky terrain that defines the foothills of the Blow Sands, and the EOD officer points out the site. Yep, the unexploded bomb is most definitely out of bounds, and in a precarious spot.

  “We’re not gonna be able to land,” I say. “Are you good if we one-skid it?”

  “Yeah,” the EOD officer says, “if you could just help us unload the gear.”

  “No problem, sir,” Beanie says.

  “How about that large, flat rock right there?” I ask Boomer.

  “Perfect,” he says.

  And then he sits back, looking overpleased, as I make my approach.

  “Yep,” he says. “One-skids are a great maneuver when you have no place to land. We have these slick ski-like things called skids under the aircraft. If we can get close enough, our passengers can embark and debark the aircraft, just like climbing a set of stairs. It’s fast and efficient.” He looks at me pointedly. “You can’t do that in an H-Sixty.”

  I look away so he can’t see my face—don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I agree with him—as I pull into a hover.

  “Men are exiting the skids, ma’am,” Beanie calls. “Steady right there. I’m goin’ up hot mic, while I unload.”

  The huffing and puffing is loud in my ears as Beanie hauls equipment and duffel bags out the cabin door.

  “All right, ma’am,” he says, breathing heavily. “That’s the last of it. Men are clear. We’re clear to go.”

  “Copy,” I say, pulling collective, lifting, and accelerating away.

  “Longhorn Seven, EOD Eleven, recommend at least one mile clearance while we defuse, over.”

  “One mile, copy,” I say, before switching to our internal radio. “Sir, did you want to return to the helipad?”

  “Helipad? Come on, Malone, we’ve been through this before. Why not right there?” Boomer says, pointing to a stretch of desert flats below us.

  “It’s not navy property, sir.”

  He turns in his cockpit seat. “Malone, seriously. Think. Outside. The. Box. We’re in the conduct of official military business, a mission that’s critical to the safety of civilians, and we need to be in a position to see our guys in case they need our help. Capisce?”

  I let out a huff. “Yes, sir.”

  Beanie calls me in to an easy flat landing, a good mile away from the EOD team, who we’re still able to see once we’ve touched down.

  “Might as well shut down and save some fuel,” Boomer says.

  “Shut down? Out here? But—” I say.

  “But what?”

  “But you don’t have a fireguard. I mean, for the restart. You don’t—”

  “And…”

  “Sir, this goes against everything I’ve been taught. It goes against this very manual,” I say, lifting my H-1 pocket checklist and waving it in the air. “No matter the aircraft, no matter where you’re stationed, a person acting as a fireguard and in the possession of fire-extinguishing equipment is required to be posted prior to an engine start. Just so you know.”

  He laughs, a deep belly laugh, one that seems to go with his six-foot-two, 250-pound frame. Or maybe he’s up to 260. Regardless, it’s up there. “Well, you’re in a new schoolroom now. New teacher, new rules. Get used to it.”

  What do I do? Roll my eyes, of course.

  “Cutting throttles,” I say.

  As I do, Boomer reaches up with his ungloved hand and kills the battery switch. The aircraft rocks from side to side, as the rotors slow, until it comes to a silent stop. I pull my helmet off with a loud exhale.

  “You gonna live, Vanilla?”

  “No,” I sigh.

  I look out over sand and sagebrush that stretches for as far as the eye can see, as Boomer, Beanie, and Hap bounce out of the aircraft. They meet in front of the bird, laughing and yukking it up, not a care in the world.

  No. No, I’m not sure I’ll make it.

  6

  “Remember
the pocket doors I ordered for the entrance to the laundry room and the pantry?” Rich says. “The contractor is scheduled to come in tomorrow to install them.”

  “That’s great,” I say, sitting at the kitchen table, absently stirring my rapidly cooling oatmeal.

  I glance at the clock. 0620. Ten minutes until I need to leave to brief for my flight, which is avalanche training today. I was thrilled when Rich called at 0530, knowing we’d have almost a full hour to talk. To catch up. To vent …

  In these fifty minutes, I’ve learned not only about the pocket doors, but about the drywall guys he contracted to enlarge a nook area in the living room so he can fit in a larger flat screen, the deposit he put down for the wedding reception, a new fixed annuity that guarantees interest rates as high as 3.65 percent, and the honeymoon package he’s working on with the travel agent, which includes hiring a sailboat captain to tour us around the Bahamas. He’s even arranged for a guided snorkeling trip.

  “I’ve also chartered a private fishing boat for deep-sea fishing,” he says. “You don’t even have to do anything. They rig the lines, put the bait on the hooks, and clean the fish after you catch them.”

  “That’s … wow, yeah, that’s great.”

  I put down my spoon, and reach for my mug of coffee, the mug my mom bought me when I was twelve. I had fallen off the balance beam midroutine at the gymnastics regional championships that year and missed qualifying for finals. So she bought me a pep-me-up gift—a motivational cat poster, but on a mug. This poor cat is hanging by its front paws, clinging—barely—to a thin metal bar. Underneath, the caption says, Hang in there, baby.

  “I know that might sound like a lot,” Rich says, “but I was thinking of it as a honeymoon with an adventure theme. I thought you’d like it. You know, something different.”

  “Oh, yeah, guided tours … of so many different things. For sure, Rich. Thanks. It sounds spectacular.”

  I need to call Celia back. Oh, and damn it, I need to call my mom, too.…

  “Is it all right? Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, really. You’re putting so much thought into this. It’s great.”

  “So how about you?” he asks at 0625.

  “Oh, just…”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “God, I’ve been shooting my mouth off this whole time. I just wanted to make sure I kept you in the loop on everything.”