Angel Flight

by R. D. Kardon

  Just moments before, she and Bruce had flown over a mountain range the sight of which nearly made her heart stop. Now they were headed toward an all-expense-paid night off at a five-star resort.

  Mr. Rampie was about to scrub their fetid lav.

  Tris waved, smiled, and told him to have a great day.

  Fifteen

  A burly taxidermied bear stood at the entrance to the Snake River Lodge. Reared up on its hind legs, teeth bared, it looked poised to devour anyone who walked past. Tris was not a fan of the wall-mounted moose heads in the lobby, or animal trophies generally, but she loved this bear. Something about his ferocious expression, paws raised and ready to shred an attacker, made her feel somehow shielded from the harsh winter environment. While she waited for Bruce, she reached up and petted its head.

  It was cold. Tris eventually shoved both hands in their thin leather gloves deep into the pockets of her parka. Impatient to get going, she rocked back and forth on the heels of the red and black cowboy boots she had dusted off for this trip.

  Tris was taking Bruce on the nickel tour of downtown Jackson before dinner. First, they’d hit the square and walk under the famous Antler Arch. They’d have a beer at the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar. Yes, she told him, they really had saddles instead of bar stools.

  Her mobile phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID, but it might be their passengers with a flight update. While she was technically off-duty, she was on the road, and Woody paid for the phone, so she had to answer it.

  “Hello. Tris Miles.”

  “Tris? Hey, Tris. This is Mike. You know, from Heather and Bruce’s party? And, well, Lemaster, but I hate to lead with that.”

  His voice had a sexy scratchy tone, like he’d just woken up. For a second, he sounded like Bron.

  She held the phone closer to her ear. “Oh, hey. How are you? Where are you?”

  “Actually, I’m on an overnight in Medford, Oregon. In a Royal.” First the location, then the equipment. Typical greeting among pilots.

  She laughed. “Ah. Nice. But I think I can do you one better.”

  “Oh yeah? How’s that? You in Miami or something?”

  “Miami? I’ll never figure out people’s love affair with that place. No. Much, much better. Jackson Hole.”

  A slight whistle accompanied his long exhale. “Wow. Where are you staying?”

  “Snake River Lodge.”

  “The one with the big bear?”

  “Yep. I’m standing right next to him.” Tris leaned against her stiff furry friend and grabbed one of his extended paws.

  “Tell him hello for me, would you?” The proverbial ice broken, Mike paused. At first Tris thought it was the connection.

  “Mike?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. So, uh, Tris? Uh, are you around this weekend? Like, to possibly go out? With me? To do something?”

  Tris squeezed the stuffed paw. “Love to. When?”

  Moments later, after they’d set a date, Tris twirled around the arms of her static furry partner in an improvised Texas Two-Step. Bruce tapped her on the shoulder from behind.

  “What’s up here?” he asked, interrupting the impromptu dance. That warm feeling she’d developed a few moments ago still lit her from inside.

  Bruce clinked the keys to the rental car. Curtly, he asked, “Wanna get going?”

  “Let’s go,” she said, and caught the keys Bruce tossed over to her.

  The town of Jackson sat on the east side of the Snake River. As they drove away from the lights of Teton Village, the stars were in bright relief against the ink-blue winter sky. Those thousands of individual flickering lamps were bright enough to light the road and looked close enough to touch. Her favorite constellation, her own personal North Star, was right where it should be: shoulders cocked, belt at an angle, and sword pointed toward her, so near it seemed she could prick her finger on it. Orion.

  Usually Bruce commented on everything he saw, a mostly endearing quality.

  Tonight, he was quiet, uncharacteristically withdrawn. Tris was in too good a mood to probe, buoyed by her upcoming date with Mike. She was off-duty and didn’t want to concern herself with Bruce’s problems. He might still be on edge because of the flight into Jackson Hole. The focus, the effort involved, and the intense concentration—it stayed with pilots long after they left the airport.

  But when they parked along the square and Bruce passed on getting his picture taken under the arch, she could no longer ignore his behavior. He often rallied out of a bad mood when they were ready to investigate a town he’d never been to before. Tonight, he just wanted to get to the bar.

  “It’s over there.” Tris motioned to the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar. Bruce walked toward it without another word.

  The two of them hopped up on their mounts and leaned forward. Once he had taken a few pulls on his MGD, Bruce put the bottle down and checked his pager. He huffed, and then tossed the rectangular leash on the bar.

  “Heather paged me twice. After I talked to her for twenty minutes at the hotel. I don’t know—”

  “How’s she feeling?” Tris asked.

  He drained his beer. “Depends on the day, which I guess is pretty typical when it gets this close. Nah, it’s not the baby.”

  Bruce signaled to the bartender for another beer, then put two fingers toward his mouth in a V-shape and shot Tris a familiar look. If Bruce was smoking, he was agitated. But she nodded. She wanted one, too.

  He pulled an open pack out of his back pocket. It was depressed in some places, crushed in others, so he must have had it for a while. Bruce fished around inside it and pulled out two Marlboro Lights. He passed her one and lit them both.

  “Heather and I had a fight last night,” he said softly, between puffs. That was unusual. Of all the couples she’d known over the years, Bruce and Heather were one of the strongest. A few minutes in their company left no doubt that they were a perfect match and truly devoted to one another. It was especially clear when they were around Danny and Em, whose connection wasn’t as solid.

  “Really? Why?”

  “So, yeah, got that Legacy interview coming up,” he continued, “And, sure, I’m psyched about it and all. You know I can use the money—the money I’d eventually make. Danny said he’s barely clearing what he made as a captain at Clear Sky so far. Heather’s focused on me making it to Legacy this time. So, it really matters that I make captain.”

  “You’re on track. What’s the issue?”

  “So, we were thinking . . . well, Heather was thinking what if Woody buys another airplane before that angel flight? Like, soon? He’s gonna need things to happen fast, right? You know, get my internal upgrade done and take the new plane through proving runs and get the FAA to sign off on it for charter ops. He’d need a pilot who could do that. Immediately, right?”

  Tris stiffened at the implication that she might not be that pilot. She checked her breathing and took a sip of her beer and a long drag on her cigarette. The practiced non-reaction reaction of the professional pilot.

  “I’ll be the Chief Pilot, Bruce. I’ll do it. Who else would do it? And why would you and Heather fight about it? You guys never fight.”

  “Rarely. But, yeah. That’s what I-I-I told Heather. That you’d do it. She s-s-said . . .” Bruce only stuttered under extreme stress. He hadn’t stuttered at Lemaster. Something important was up.

  “Bruce, what did Heather say? I won’t be upset,” Tris coaxed him.

  He spoke while looking straight ahead, not at her. “She wanted to make sure you were up to it, I guess. That you were the best person to do it. She really likes you, but, Tris, this is so important to us.”

  She turned to face him. “Bruce, look. I’ve got your back. You know that.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded and drank deep.

  They smoked in silence for a little while.

  Tris looked out the window at the sparkling night lights. Then she remembered something from her last overnight in Jackson.

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nbsp; “Hey, you wanna get out of here?” She motioned toward the door.

  He brightened. “Yeah. Whaddaya got in mind?”

  Tris sported a devilish smile. “You by any chance got swim trunks or some extra clothes in your bag?”

  “I’ve got a pair of sweatpants. Why?” Bruce faced her now, intrigued. Finally, the Bruce who loved adventure had arrived.

  “As I recall,” she said, “not far from here, toward Yellowstone, there’s a natural hot spring right off the road. No sign, but a big clearing, and a pool of bubbling hot water. Want to see if we can find it?”

  “Aw, hell yeah.” Bruce drained his beer, picked up his lighter, and reached for his credit card to pay the bill. “Let’s go.”

  He hopped off his saddle, his mood considerably brighter. The real overnight was about to begin.

  Sixteen

  Bruce closed his eyes and willed himself to remember the geothermal phenomenon they’d found last night, right where Tris expected it to be; steam rose off the bubbling hot water into a night ignited by so many stars he could not stop looking up at them, trying to gauge how far away the faintest flickers were. He and Tris had sipped beers pulled from the six-pack they’d bought at a convenience store along the way and blasted classic rock from their rental car’s radio.

  With a blink, the soothing vision disappeared. Bruce sat in the left seat of the Royal, waiting for Tris to seat the passengers and close the door. Outside the cockpit grandiose mountain peaks rose to almost thirteen-thousand feet. They’d amazed him yesterday. Now, they terrified him.

  “You want to be a captain? Be one,” she’d said earlier, as she gestured to the left seat. The captain’s seat.

  He’d practically memorized the airport’s safe departure instructions and repeated them again in his head: right turn out, climb to fifteen thousand.

  I can do this.

  A tug zoomed by the airplane, dragging its tow bar along the ramp, the thick metal cylinder screeching and throwing up sparks. Its noisy travels ended when it banged into the side of the hangar. The building’s metal door rattled on its hinges.

  So did Bruce.

  Please God, do not make me fly today.

  Only a miracle could delay takeoff now. His stomach was almost empty after a breakfast of black coffee and a hard-boiled egg. Yet he was nauseated, as though he’d scarfed down a Grand Slam breakfast at Denny’s.

  “Hey. Bruce. You want the Before Start checklist?” Tris asked for the second time. Hadn’t he answered her?

  “Yup. Please.”

  Keep it short. Got it, got it, got it. I’m fine. It’s fine. Time to start up the engines and get outta Dodge.

  “Fuel quantity? Bruce?”

  “Uh. Yes. Checked.” He pointed at the gauges. Plenty of fuel if they had to come back in an emergency. But how would he turn around? With those mountains right in front of him, to the side, behind him?

  And then it hit him. He couldn’t. He had to clear the rock in front of him. Period.

  No. No. No.

  No problem.

  “Okay. Ready to start number one? Propellers clear?”

  Bruce switched on his internal autopilot and plowed through the checklist until both engines were turning. His neck muscles tightened, and he longed for last night’s hot tub to release the tension.

  Instead, he had to taxi to the runway.

  “Ground control for taxi, please?” he suggested.

  Idiot. Don’t ask. Command!

  His body rigid, Bruce forced his head to turn from side to side to make sure the airplane didn’t hit anything as they crawled forward. All eyes were on him. Sure, Jackson Hole was a tough airport. But in broad daylight, with clear skies and no wind, he couldn’t fuck up. No excuses.

  Just short of the runway they were cleared for takeoff. Bruce carefully lined the Royal up on the white runway centerline. On his right, the direction he needed to turn, there was an active ski run. That visual reference would make departure a snap. He’d follow the run straight out of danger. And climb, climb climb.

  Behind him, their passengers were seated, reading. He pushed the power levers forward, slowly gaining speed. He took a deep breath. Too slow.

  “Westin Charter One, cleared for immediate takeoff.” The voice was cold.

  “Roger, Westin Charter One is rolling,” Tris replied to ATC. “Bruce, go!”

  The airplane broke ground seconds before a Falcon 900 touched down behind them. He could sense Tris’s eyes on him.

  “Bruce, where are you headed? You need a right turn.” Tris pointed at the copy of the departure procedure that was on the clipboard in front of him.

  “Correcting.” His brain told his hands to move the yoke, his feet to tap the rudders. How easy it would be to follow that run off his right side. It was crowded, a line of skiers in colorful clothing marking the pathway.

  Just relax. It’s fine. You’re fine. Nothing can hurt you.

  “You’re not correcting fast enough. You gotta clear that mountain ahead. Turn now! Bruce!”

  As she spoke, ATC called them. “Westin Charter One, I need an immediate right turn on course. Confirm.”

  As if from nowhere, a wide peak rose in front of them.

  “TERRAIN. TERRAIN, PULL UP!” screamed the airplane’s anti-collision system.

  Bruce yanked the yoke up and to the right, causing the red stall warning light to flash. Thankfully the horn, which sounded like a truck backing up, didn’t activate. Tris’s hands crept as close to the power levers as they could without making contact, warm behind his own sweaty ones; guarding the power, ready to take control.

  The abrupt turn out of Jackson’s airspace removed them from harm’s way. Once they were level at cruise altitude, checklists complete, Bruce tried to catch his breath.

  Relax. Relax. You cleared the obstacle. Nobody died.

  Why didn’t you turn sooner? Why?

  Bruce focused on the flight instruments, trying desperately to avoid conversation with Tris, who sat less than two feet away.

  Was she angry? She looked it. And surprised. And confused.

  “Bruce, you were two hundred feet low crossing the mountaintop. You understand that, right?” she finally said.

  “I’d never have hit it, I swear.” Sweat made the back of his neck itch. He reached to scratch it, and his hairline and collar were soaking wet. All because of a little climb out of an airport in visual conditions. The easiest of maneuvers.

  Got it, got it, got it.

  He had to gain control of himself, to move, to dissipate some of his nervous energy.

  “Hey, I’m going to hit the head,” he said. Tris nodded and pulled out her oxygen mask. It was procedure to have it ready when only one pilot was up front. “I’ll check on the folks while I’m back there.”

  “I have the airplane,” she said.

  “You have the airplane.”

  The catering tray and drink cooler were right behind the pilot seats. He could bend over and make it seem like he was inspecting them while he caught his breath. Everything was fine. This wasn’t a check ride, nothing was at stake. It was just another flight with Tris, like he’d flown a hundred times before.

  But it wasn’t. She was assessing him, judging him. Grading him. Which meant she could fail him.

  “So, how’s it going?” He hurled the question in the general direction of the passengers.

  Everyone nodded and mumbled, “Fine, fine.”

  “How’s the weather in Exeter?” the Chairman asked.

  “Oh, great, great. Should be a smooth flight.”

  He made his way to the lav and splashed cold water on his face. Back in the cockpit and belted in, he took control of the Royal from Tris. Nothing but blue sky ahead, no delays into Exeter. All was well.

  “So, how are they doing back there?” Tris asked.

  “Why? Did they say something?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  Tris folded up the chart she was consulting and put it aside.
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br />   “Look, Bruce. That departure. You’ve done that same sort of thing a dozen times. If there’s something going on I don’t know about, if you’re uncomfortable with command responsibility, now’s the time to tell me. I can fly us home, no problem.”

  “No, no, everything’s fine.” He laughed it off. “I guess I was so overwhelmed by the sights on the takeoff. So beautiful.” Ugh. She’ll smell that bullshit a mile away.

  Tris pressed harder. “You aren’t always going to be doing that departure in visual conditions. What if it were snowing? Or nighttime? So you couldn’t see? You’ve gotta hit that crossing restriction at the right altitude every time.”

  “Of course. I will.” He couldn’t imagine being in command, having ultimate responsibility for a flight into or out of that airport. What if an engine failed? What if Tris wasn’t there to help him? What if no one was?

  Wait, wait. No.

  He could do it. Today was a one-off. Heather, the baby, the upgrade, the interview. So much was riding on him.

  Did I really do that? How could I have blown that departure? I knew it by heart.

  Something familiar, from long ago, bubbled up inside. Not fear—he wasn’t afraid. This was worse, much worse, but he couldn’t quite remember. He heard the echo of his mother screaming, something about a dirty plate, or an unclean room, or bad grades, or one of the long list of ways he never measured up to his brothers.

  Shame.

  Tris cleared her throat. “So, when’s Heather’s shower? If I can’t make it, I want to send a gift.” She smiled over at him.

  Such a nice person. I don’t deserve her.

  “I think next week? All I know is that she told me I needed to be out of the house. And, really, I’m not super interested in it anyway. All those women, and the girlie stuff and all.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet. Like breast pumps and diapers and baby monitors. But especially breast pumps.”