Clear to Lift

by Anne A. Wilson

  “… and twelve and thirteen and fourteen and fifteen…,” Beanie huffs as he counts out chest compressions. “… twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four…”

  “Jack, we’re gone,” Boomer reports. “The guy went into cardiac arrest. Be back for the second guy shortly.”

  “Mono County copies.”

  “Mammoth Hospital, Rescue Seven,” I say.

  “Rescue Seven, Mammoth, go ahead.”

  “Mammoth, we’ve got a thirty-five-year-old man who was ice climbing and hit by rockfall,” I say. “He was caught by his rope when he fell. Awake and alert when we got to him, complained of no feeling in his legs. While hoisting him up, he went into cardiac arrest. We’ve initiated CPR. Inbound. ETA four minutes.”

  “… fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven…”

  And then to Will, “Whiskey One, Rescue Seven, over.”

  “Go ahead, Rescue Seven.”

  “Be advised, victim stopped breathing, and we’ve initiated CPR. En route to Mammoth Hospital.”

  “Rescue Seven, Whiskey One copies. Climbing down to second victim now.”

  I stretch my fingers, while still holding the controls, in an effort to relieve the tension. My toes remain numb, even though the rest of my body is soaked in sweat.

  But who am I to complain? I peer around my cockpit seat to view Beanie in the cabin. He’s hunched over the victim, arms locked and straight, the model of concentration, banging out chest compressions. Sweat drips from his face, even though the main cabin door remains wide open, the grunts and huffs ringing loud and clear.

  “… ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six…”

  2

  “All right, Alison, what’s my heading?” Boomer asks as our bright orange helicopter lifts from Mammoth Hospital to fly to Naval Air Station Fallon, Nevada, home to our squadron—the navy’s premier search and rescue squadron, the Longhorns.

  We’re flying home after safely delivering the second climber to the hospital. When we arrived with him, Beanie received a hero’s welcome. It turns out that, owing to the CPR he performed in flight, he saved the first climber’s life. Technically, it’s all in a day’s work for us, but still. Major kudos for Beanie.

  We shut down just long enough to get our litter back, and now we’re airborne, and Boomer is asking directions, even though he already knows the answer. A legend in the U.S. Navy’s search and rescue community, Boomer knows the extended area around Fallon like the back of his hand. It’s a mystery to all as to how he’s been able to finagle three tours of duty here. But it’s even more of a mystery—to me, anyway—why you would want to.

  I’ve cursed my detailer daily for sending me to this godforsaken outpost of a navy base, located in the Middle of Nowhere Dust and Salt Flats, Nevada, to serve as a station search and rescue pilot—career suicide in the navy helicopter community. But while I lament, the local sheriffs rejoice. They rely on our team and its technical expertise to execute the most difficult mountain rescues.

  I exhale loudly, keying the mic to ensure Boomer hears my exasperation, as I pull the map from its case. “Sir, we could just plug the coordinates into the GPS. It would make it a lot easier.”

  “Wha—?” Boomer turns his head to look at me directly, the decal on the front of his helmet now clearly visible—a cowboy on a bucking horse, worn with Wyoming alumni pride. “Hear you nothing that I say, young one? How long have you been here now? Three months? Four?”

  I roll my eyes, a gesture becoming far too commonplace when I’m around Boomer.

  “For the hundredth time, all you need is a map and your eyeballs. Good god, what are they teaching you new pilots anyway?”

  “I’m not young; I’m twenty-eight. And I’m not a new pilot. I’ve been an aircraft commander, a maintenance check pilot. I’ve got more than fifteen hundred hours—”

  “Twenty-anything is a baby in my book. And as far as piloting, you’re a new breed.”

  “It’s worse cuz she’s from sixties, sir,” Beanie says.

  Beanie refers to the H-60 Seahawk helicopter—the navy’s finest. It does everything—antisubmarine warfare, cargo lift, special ops—all modern, all new. Beanie would know, since he’s flown in them, too.

  “No doubt,” Boomer says. “Hell, the pilots don’t even have to fly anymore. Fuckin’ glass cockpits, autopilot, auto-everything.” He lets out a practiced huff. “How you came out of an H-Sixty squadron with your stick and rudder skills is still a mystery to me.”

  I guess the mysteries run all the way around.

  Reluctantly, I run my finger across the map, now spread on my lap. Fallon lies to the north and east of Mammoth Lakes, a drive that would take close to three hours. But in a helicopter moving at over twice the speed of a car, and tracking as the crow flies, it will take us about sixty minutes.

  “Sir, your heading is zero one zero. And sir, they still teach us how to fly,” I add, in defense of my fellow H-60 pilots.

  “Bullshit. It’s an aviation catastrophe. They’re training their future drone pilots is what they’re doing.”

  I shake my head, knowing I will never win this argument, one that only adds salt to the wound of this assignment. I should be back in the H-60 community, as an instructor pilot now, at the very least, well on my way to ticking off all the checks in the boxes required for future command of a squadron.

  This was not the plan. Due to rotten luck and unfortunate timing, when I completed my tour at my last squadron, this billet opened in Fallon. And if you’ve been siphoned off here, forget it. Dreams of command? Gone. But I still cling to hope. My detailer in Washington, D.C., is actively looking for a way to transfer me early. If I can, I won’t fall too far behind my H-60 counterparts, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll still have a chance at command someday.

  “But, damn, what you did today…,” Boomer says.

  “Was so far outside the rules of safe and responsible flying—”

  “Whatever. You were saving lives.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing.”

  I throw up my hands, turning my focus to the map instead—best to just block Boomer out—as we move up the eastern flank of the Sierra, following Highway 395 north. The clouds have lifted considerably since this morning, allowing a clear view as I raise my head to check our position against local landmarks. My gaze settles on the glacially pristine waters of a high mountain lake, one I’ve never seen before. Eyes widening, I absorb one of the most spectacular sights I think I’ve ever seen.

  Jagged mountain peaks, draped in white, rise from the lake on all sides, forming a rugged amphitheater. The lower slopes are thick with pine, and the lake, clear as a window, projects the reflection of the surrounding mountains—an upside-down view of a winter wonderland, just like you read about in the storybooks.

  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.