Clear to Lift (37 page)

“The transceiver's pointing right there!” Jack says. “It's gotta be him!”

“Well, let's get him! How are you guys gonna—” I stop, when I see their faces.

“I don't think there
is
a way,” says Kevin. “Unless … Jack?” He turns to him. “Any ideas? There's nothing to anchor to here.”

We're joined by Kelly, Tawny, Walt, Hap, and Celia, who begin brainstorming how to get to Will. Assuming it is Will.

It has to be Will. It
has
to be.

Mom is here, too, and I watch in awe as her search and rescue training kicks in. She jumps right in with the group, throwing in her two cents, trying to find a solution.

The conversation recedes into the din, and my mind whirs, click, click, click, as I tick through takeoff performance charts in my head. And the idea returns, the one I had dismissed originally. Not because it's strictly forbidden, but because I didn't think it would be possible.

I jerk my head up, locking eyes with Boomer, and I see it in his face when what I'm thinking registers with him, too.

“Boomer—”

“Alison,” he says, raising his hands. “I already know what you're thinking. What you're gonna—”

“Number one still has fuel.

“No way. You have no idea how much time you'd have.”

“It's cold enough.”

“No.”

“We're low enough.”

“Still no.”

“If it's just two people, we're light enough.”

“Goddamn it,” he says, walking away with his hands on his hips before turning and pacing back toward me.

“It could work,” I say.

“What could work?” Jack says, the conversation around us suddenly absent.

The sometimes rain, sometimes sleet continues to fall, but oddly, no one shivers, even though, to a person, we're soaked.

“We could fly single-engine to get Will,” I say. “Me and one other person.”

“I'll do it,” Jack says.

“You can't,” I say.

“I can,” Jack says.

I stare at Jack. He stares back.

“Boomer, we need to strip the bird,” I say, my eyes shifting to his.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters again. We stare at each other long and hard before he throws up his hands. “I think I trained you
too
well.”

He turns and jogs toward the bridge, yelling over his shoulder. “Come on folks, we've got work to do! The doors! All of it! We need it gone!”

“Kevin,” I say. “Stay here. Keep the light on that pile.”

“Will do!”

“Jack, you can't,” I say as we turn to follow the group that chases after Boomer.

We jog side by side, my mom next to him, and Mojo in front of all three of us.

“I have no idea how much fuel is left. This has crash landing written all over it.”

“Do you really want to ask Beanie or Hap to go?” Jack says. “Do you want to put them at risk?”

“But I don't want to put you at risk, either.”

We rush over the bridge.

“And what if we need to hoist or—”

“This is one-skid all the way and you know it,” Jack says. “Someone just needs to step off the aircraft, grab him, and put him in. I can do it just as well as they can.”

“But you just found—” I point to my mom.

He puts a hand on my arm, bringing me to a stop. “I just found you, too.” He looks at my mom briefly before returning his gaze to me, swallowing. “I won't abandon you again, Alison.”

Behind Jack, lights flicker through the sleet, rescue personnel swarming the aircraft, working to strip it.

I start to shake my head again, but he stops me with a light touch to the cheek.

“Please, let me be there for you. For once.”

I blink, my eyes watering, and I find myself nodding, understanding what he's willing to sacrifice—the love he had thought lost, but now found—for Will's sake … for my sake.

“Please,” he says.

“Okay, Alison!” Boomer yells.

I turn to my mother. “Mom?”

“Go on,” she says. “Both of you.”

Boomer smacks the nose of the aircraft. “She's all ready!” he bellows.

“But Mom—”

She takes my upper arms in her hands and looks at me squarely. “He's the best person to help you. Now go get it done.”

I sense no reservation, no hesitation whatsoever in my mom. Same with Jack. They're not worried about the what-ifs. That there isn't a security net. That there aren't any guarantees. And in this, my mom, Jack, and Will are cut from the same cloth. They're not afraid to put it out there. To risk. To fail. Their energy directed solely—fiercely—on doing the best they can in a given situation. And then, the chips fall where they fall. But there are no regrets. Because at least they've tried and given all of themselves in the effort.

“Okay,” I say. “Let's do it.”

 

42

Jack leans into the cockpit from the main cabin. I flick on the battery switch, and we test that he can hear me.

“Radio check, over,” I say.

“Loud and clear,” Jack says, pressing the switch on his radio. He has it attached to his chest harness, which he has donned again, strapping it over his green jacket.

As soon as the rotors start turning, Jack pulls the avalanche transceiver from his harness, and holds it over the main console, where I can view it, the arrow pointing to the left. I pull up on the collective to lift, flicking on the searchlight.

I make a beeline for the debris pile, homing in on the searchlight that Kevin keeps trained there. We cross over junk-ridden water that roils beneath us, and all the while Jack's beacon beeps louder and faster as we close on Will's position.

Jack retreats into the cabin to look out the side door.

“He should be right below us!” Jack shouts, his voice muffled by the wind and sleet that shoot sideways through the aircraft.

My eyes are riveted on the “beaver dam” that sits in the middle of the flow. Made up of sticks, aluminum siding, trees, and other detritus, this mound of blockage sends the water swirling into a violent, crashing wave on the downward side, chewing up any object unfortunate enough to spin through there, before sucking it beneath in one satisfied gulp.

My stomach churns, much like the water that devours all in its path below. Shit. This is so unstable.

“I've got the glove!” Jack shouts.

“In sight!” I say, descending.

As we move closer, the rotor wash kicks up sticks from the surface of the debris pile … and there he is, bright yellow jacket, orange glove at the end of the sleeve. He lies unmoving, his lower leg bent at an odd angle.

“There he is!”

“Got him!” Jack says.

I move to hover just feet from Will. He's so clear in my vision as I look to the right, no door to block my view.

“Getting set in the back,” Jack says.

I don't have to worry about working the searchlight, since Kevin keeps his spotlight on the pile. But …
What's this…?
The cyclic presses into my left thigh, it—

“Jack! The pile's moving! Shit! It's moving!”

Because it's night, because I'm referencing only the debris pile, I didn't notice our drift. I've been moving the control stick to the left to stay with the pile, without even realizing it.

But now it's obvious, as the pile begins to break up. And it occurs to me that the rotor wash that helped uncover Will has also disrupted the delicate balance of materials holding the debris pile together.

“Shit!” Jack shouts.

“Throw him something! Anything!”

“Stand by!” Jack says.

Surely, this pile is only moments from exploding into nothingness.

The engine hiccups. Oh no.

“Jack, the engine—”

I don't even know if he heard me, because he's already flying in midair when I say it, an anchoring rope trailing behind him. He lands on top of Will, clips him to his harness, gives me a thumbs-up, and I go.

I pull collective and slide left, the mound of debris dissolving into the torrent.

“We're riding about five feet below the skids!” Jack says.

My heart stops as I watch the caution panel light up like a Christmas tree, systems going off-line, and the engine begins to whine.
Keep moving, Ali. Turn the nose forward so you can slide head-on!

Dry ground is ten yards away, nine, eight … The low-rotor-rpm horn blares. Beepbeepbeepbeep! The rotors are slowing. Seven yards to dry ground, six, five … beepbeepbeepbeep! The beeps come faster as the rotor speed drops below eighty-eight percent, eighty-six percent …

“Jack, cut the rope! Cut it!”

I can't control the landing—if there's a landing at all—and if they dangle beneath us, the helicopter will crush them.

Four yards, three yards, beepbeepbeepbeepbeep!

Two yards, one yard. I drop the collective, and the bird thuds to the ground, sliding forward on the wet grass. I manipulate the cyclic as the helicopter tips and yaws, the right skid lifting precariously high before slamming down again. The rotors slow, and so does our momentum, just as the aircraft slides into a rise in the sodden earth and slams to a stop.

I yank off my helmet and pull my harness release, falling, stumbling over the side of the aircraft in my haste to get out. Twenty yards behind me, a tangled heap lies in the dark. I run to them, and from the opposite direction a rescuing army charges to meet us, Mojo leading the way. I drop to my knees, and Jack opens his arms, Will spilling out next to him.

I lay my ear to Will's chest, feeling for a rise, listening for a heartbeat. My head moves up, then down, lifted by Will's inhalation and exhalation, his slow heartbeat reverberating through every cell in my body.

“He's alive,” I say.

Mojo approaches cautiously, and when I don't protest, he continues forward, smothering Will's face in warm licks. Apparently, that's all Will needed.

His head rolls to the side and he meets my eyes.

“You're okay,” I say. “You're okay.”

But in the back of my mind, I know it's not okay. The roads are closed. Will needs a hospital.…

Hap is the first to reach us, and he goes to work immediately on Will's medical assessment.

Will's lips move, but I can't hear, due to the resounding
whop
of helicopter blades. A helicopter?

A searchlight illuminates our position as Longhorn 06 makes an approach to land. Clark! He came! Despite the dangers of flying through mountainous terrain, at night, in a storm …

The aircraft settles quickly. Sky jumps out of the main cabin and runs toward us, followed by Clark. Tito remains in the bird on the controls.

“We need the litter!” Hap yells to Sky, who spins around and sprints back to Longhorn 06.

Clark drops to my side. “Sorry we couldn't get here sooner,” he says, breathless.

“You came.…”

Rain and sleet rush over his helmet, splashing in the mud.

He switches his gaze to Will, then back to me.

His eyes glisten, bittersweet.

Sky arrives with the litter, and he and Hap begin the preparations to move Will.

Clark clears his throat and the compartmentalization kicks in again. “Um, so, we need to get outta here. We're running on fumes.”

He motions to Will. “Don't worry. We'll get him to the hospital. He'll be fine.” He gives me a squeeze on the arm before rising and jogging back to the aircraft.

I return my attention to Will, watching as Sky, Hap, and Beanie lift him onto the litter. Hap has already fashioned a quick splint, so his leg is secure, and they work now to cover him in several layers of blankets and to strap him in.

“They're gonna take you to the hospital,” I say. “You'll be—”

He pulls his arm from under the blankets, and reaches up to me, his hand stiff, cold, shaking. I take it, pressing it to my cheek.

“You need to cool it on the hero antics,” he says in rasp, and god knows how, but he's cracking a smile.

“You first,” I say, stupid tears leaking. I hope he can't see them, mixed as they are with the rain on my face.

He wipes under my eyes—noticing them, of course, which just makes it worse.

“What am I gonna do with you?” he chuckles.

“
How
are you laughing right now? You're insane!”

“Not really. I'd say life is pretty good right now, wouldn't you?”

I squeeze Will's hand, the tears shamelessly falling now. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is.”

“Okay, ma'am, he's all set,” Hap says.

I give a quick kiss to Will's hand before lowering it and tucking it under the blankets.

“Thank you,” Will says.

I smile. “Anytime.”

 

43

We approach the front door to Jack's house under a clear night sky flush with stars. The air is scented with vanilla and shades of apple, a product of the giant wreath adorning the front door—the one made from fresh boughs of Jeffrey pine. Music slips through the walls, light and muffled, but music I've come to know well.

I crane my head around to Will, who stands behind me, leaning on his crutches. “Randy Travis? Again?”

“Sounds like it,” he says. “Can never have too much of Mr. Travis.”

“It's growing on me, you know,” I say, setting my shopping bag on the deck. I turn to face him, sliding my arms around his neck.

“Country music?” He grins, the movement tugging at the healing scratches and rashes on his face.

“Well, yeah, that … and you.”

Our eyes hold, his gaze shifting from warm to smoldering. The chill of the night air evaporates, our bodies inching closer, my head angles to receive him, and his mouth covers mine. His lips are warm and perfect, an invitation to come in and stay awhile. So I do. For so long, in fact, I start to remind myself we're standing on someone's front porch. But when his hands reach to my hips, drawing them flush with his, the concern dissolves, just like the space between us. It's the first time we've—