Clear to Lift (32 page)

“I'm glad you like it.”

“Like it? I— Wait, uh, okay, wait. The radios are getting a little crazy now. I'll call you in a few hours, when I'm done, okay?”

“Sounds good.”

“And Alison, I love you, too.”

 

36

“Beanie, we haven't gotten any calls, have we?” I stand in front of the TV monitor, which is mounted in the ceiling corner of the SAR team's office, watching the breaking weather news.

After hanging up with Will, I phoned my mom, but was sent to voice mail. So I finished the drive home, ran up to my apartment, changed into my flight suit, and then checked in with Boomer at the hangar. Since I was originally supposed to be the aircraft commander on duty today, he returned the role to me, we preflighted the aircraft, and I signed for the bird—ready to go now, whenever we're called. If the weather lifts, that is.

I ran out briefly to try my mom again—Will, too, for that matter—without luck. So now I stand rooted in front of the TV, learning, processing. The unseasonably warm weather combined with what they're now calling a late-season tropical storm has brought rain, and snowmelt—from a heavier than normal snowpack, no less—and now flooding. The Truckee River near Reno. The Merced in Yosemite.

And the Walker.

“We did, actually,” Beanie says.

“We did?”

“From Mono County. They called Base Ops. Said they might be needing our help. Wanted to know our status.”

“Was it—?”

“They didn't mention the Walker View Lodge.”

My shoulders drop, but only a little. I told Boomer earlier about my mom and Celia, and he said he'd pass word to the guys to keep an eye out for any news about the Walker River.

“They didn't set off the pagers,” I say.

“Operations said it wasn't urgent. They just wanted to give us a heads-up that we might be needed when we get a weather window.”

“Oh, okay. Did you call—”

“I just called weather,” Boomer says. “Fifty-foot ceilings, practically nil on the vis.”

I'm about to ask
why
they need us and exactly
where,
which is when I notice the frosted cupcake on my desk. A single candle has been placed in the center. A smile inches across my face.

“I know this isn't how you wanted to spend your birthday,” Boomer says, “But, uh … happy birthday, anyway. From all of us.”

I look up, and the rest of the guys have stopped what they were doing. They issue a chorus of birthday greetings, and my eyes water just that little bit.

“Thanks, guys. You're awesome.”

And for a tiny moment, the world is a little brighter. Such a small gesture, but heartfelt, and so meaningful to me.

I lower myself to my desk chair, staring at my cupcake. My cat-poster mug sits next to it. I've dragged that silly mug to this office almost every day since I checked in to remind myself,
“Hang in there, baby!”
Stupid, but it actually helps.

“And while you eat that,” Boomer says, “you can make some headway into that in-box of yours.” He points to the stack of training folders, piled high on my desk, that need updating.

“Thanks a lot.”

I pull the first one off the stack, open it, and find the evaluation sheet that was scribbled for Hap's latest check ride. Since notes are completed in flight, I have to enter the data into the computer after they return. But as I wait for the computer to boot up, I stare at the notes, the letters blurring.

I envision the Walker River, the one from my childhood memories, flowing gently in front of Guest Cabins Nine, Ten, and Eleven—the cabins closest to the water, the ones most requested, and reserved the farthest in advance. On a day like today, the guests would hunker down inside, and Mom and Celia would remain in the main lodge—after the animals had been taken care of, that is. If Roberto's not there, it would be Celia's job to ensure the horses were tucked away in the barn and out of the elements.

“Beanie?” I say, looking up. “Did they say anything else? Did Mono County say
where
they might need help?”

“Not exactly, but they have their command and control center set up in Coleville. So I'm guessing the help would be needed in that area.”

Perspiration prickles across my skin. I swipe under my hairline, my hand coming away wet.

Okay, Ali, you need to calm down. That doesn't mean anything. They could be having problems
anywhere
along the Walker. The river runs through more than just that canyon. We're talking hundreds of miles of waterway.

But the command center is in Coleville. You know where Coleville is.…

I push my seat away from my desk, rise, and cross the room to the drinking fountain. Leaning over, I take a long drink, my brain turning, spinning. The river would have to widen by over forty yards in order to reach the first cabins.
Forty
yards. No, no way. And even if there was a chance of flooding near the lodge, sheriff's personnel would have notified everyone. So either way, it's fine.

I straighten, wiping my mouth on my flight suit sleeve.
Yes, it's fine.

I step forward to return to my desk, and run straight into Clark, who has just entered through the door adjacent the fountain.

I haven't spoken with him since the accident. After we returned from the crash site and shut down, I wasn't exactly in the mood to hold a conversation, but neither was he, leaving hurriedly without saying anything. But it's clear he bears his grief alone. Bags under his eyes. Hair a mess. Flight suit looking like he pulled it out of the hamper.

We share a long look, until he finally opens the door and motions me out to the hallway. I follow him to the far end, out of earshot of our squadron mates.

“I, uh, I owe you an apology,” he says. “I didn't mean … that night, I—”

“It's okay,” I say.

“I also want to thank you. For what you did … for going off-mic … for your discretion.”

Our eyes hold, the understanding passing between us, just as it did the night of the crash.

“Alison…,” he says, hands fidgeting, rolling over each other. “No one knows. No one can know. Not ever.”

“I understand.”

Those are the words that leave my mouth, but I
don't
understand. I don't understand why two people in love can't be treated like two people in love. Clark and Snoopy threatened no one. Both brilliant officers, skilled pilots, courageous, reliable, competent. I don't understand why, in this day and age, Clark still feels he has to hide. That his personal life would matter one iota to anyone else and that this would have any bearing whatsoever on his job performance.

I don't understand this.

But I
do
understand treating a fellow human being with respect and compassion. Like Clark, who stands in front of me, his lips pressed together, grief ripping him apart beneath the surface. A fellow human being, who has lost the love of his life.

“I'm so very sorry,” I say. “Shane was my friend. I'm going to miss him dearly.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, bringing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.

“Ma'am? Sir?” Hap says, poking his head around the door. He holds his hand over his eyes, looking for us at the end of the hallway.

I peek around Clark, who keeps his back turned to Hap.

“Base Ops is on the phone,” he says. “Mono County called again.”

“Okay, we'll be right there,” I say.

I turn back to Clark, placing my hand on his elbow. “Are you gonna be okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. Thanks.” He wipes his face, takes a deep breath. “We'd better go.”

He starts to walk away, but I stop him.

“Maybe some time, if you want, you could come over … you know, if you'd like to talk or…”

He nods, his lips curving upward, just a little. “Thanks. Yeah, I'd like that.”

*   *   *

When we reenter the SAR office, Beanie is on the phone, nodding, responding in broken “uh-huhs” and “yeahs.” His brows remain furrowed, and his expression doesn't change once he hangs up.

“That was operations,” Beanie says. “Mono County called again. Said they've got a party of five trapped in Walker Canyon at the Walker View Lodge. The swiftwater rescue team is there, but—”

The ring tone signaling a call from my mom puts an abrupt end to Beanie's explanation. I scramble for the phone, fumbling as I take it out of my pocket.

“Mom?”

A clamoring racket fills my ears. A steady roar. And shouting. There's shouting.… What the—?

“Mom, is that you?”

“Alison? Ali … need and … rising … for … no time.”

“Wait, what? Mom? Are you there?”

I put my hand to my other ear and smash the phone to my head.

“Mom? Mom, what's happening? Are you okay?”

“… and … can't get … come…”

The connection dies.

I look to Boomer, the dread congealing, thickening, my body heavy with it. I move across the room to the window. Not good. This is not good.

“What is it?” he asks.

“That was my mom. I couldn't make everything out, but she's in trouble.” I wipe the back of my neck again, thinking, thinking, staring at the tower.…

The tower! I can see the tower!

“Beanie! Call Weather. See what they're calling for ceiling and visibility.”

“On it!”

“Hey, Alison,” Boomer says quietly. He tugs gently on my arm, all calm, no hurry, directing me out of earshot of the others. “You're the aircraft commander today. If we launch, I have every confidence that you can remain objective and do this, but I also understand if you'd rather not take this flight. You can switch with Tito, if you want.”

I note that Boomer's not quoting the squadron mandate, which dictates that personnel assigned to a flight who have a vested interest in a SAR scenario
shall
be replaced. But rather, he's giving me a choice.

“No. I want to do it.” My eyes meet his without wavering. “I
can
do it.”

“I know you can.”

But his vote of confidence comes with an unspoken caution—
You need to keep your head.

“Just wanted to make sure you were good with it,” he says.

“I'm good, Boomer. Really.”

Another rule broken … and I wouldn't have it any other way.

“Current ceiling one hundred feet,” Beanie reports. “Visibility four hundred yards. Low clouds and rain expected to continue into the evening.”

The phone rings again, but Boomer, Beanie, Hap, and I are already jogging toward the door that leads to the stairs and the hangar below.

“I'll get it!” Tito says, darting to the phone.

We're almost out the door when Tito calls out. “Hold up!”

He nods, phone pressed to his ear, then looks up.

“It's Base Ops. Mono County called again. They want to know our status.”

“Why?” I ask.

“The situation's a bit more dire than initially reported. They've got their swiftwater rescue team out there, but four of
them
are now trapped, as well.”

“Tell 'em we're launching ASAP!”

We turn and sprint for the stairs.

 

37

“Damn it,” I mutter. I don't key the mic, but Boomer probably heard me anyway. We're only twenty minutes southwest of Fallon, and it's clear we won't be able to continue, not under visual flight rules, anyway.

The windshield wipers flick back and forth in a gallant effort to keep the cockpit glass clear. A wall of rain blocks our path, and we've been descending steadily to stay under the cloud ceiling, now flying only fifty feet above the ground. As we approach the town of Yerrington, Boomer and I both know that this small farming community lies in front of a long chain of hills that you wouldn't quite call mountains, but even at only a few hundred feet high, they're hills we can't see.

“Let's call back to Approach,” Boomer suggests. “Maybe we could go another way.”

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, trying to quell the frustration, as Boomer switches the radio frequency.

“Fallon Approach, Rescue Seven, forty miles to the southwest, over,” I say.

“Rescue Seven, Fallon Approach, go ahead.”

“Approach, what's the weather looking like to the north? We need another way to Walker.”

“Rescue Seven, Fallon Approach, ceilings are lifting to the north. Be advised, Rescue Six was just given takeoff clearance to Reno.”

I look to Boomer, and I know he's thinking the same thing.

“Approach, Rescue Seven, can Rescue Six be diverted south?”

“Rescue Seven, Fallon Approach, negative. They're delivering blood for the hospitals. We can bring you northwest to Carson City. They're calling five-hundred-foot ceilings there. You could drop south then, and proceed visually to Walker.”

“Rescue Seven copies.”

I remain at the controls, turning the aircraft to the north, while Boomer busies himself with the aircraft performance charts.

Now under the control of Fallon Approach, we fly in and out of the clouds—most often in the clouds—to Carson City. Throughout, I replay the conversation with my mom, her alarmed tone particularly worrying. My mom is not one to panic, so for her to have sounded like that, something must be very wrong.

And what about Will? I don't think he's a member of the swiftwater rescue team … Although, wait. I have no idea. He very well could be.

My mind plods, thick with worry, and so does the time. Precious time.
We could drive faster than this.…

“Rescue Seven, Mono County Sheriff, over.” It's Walt.

And already, the worry moves up a rung. Normally, it would be Jack calling.

“Mono County Sheriff, Rescue Seven, go ahead.”