Machinations (20 page)

Still…

As representatives of McKinley, Camus and I both head the welcoming committee. I leave Hanna behind with friends to follow his example as we thank the men and women for their service, paying particular honor to Captain Mathis, the pilot of the air team I spoke to, for his willingness to flip Commander Meir the bird and fly in the face of danger to see his brothers- and sisters-in-arms get a fighting chance.

“Are they back yet?” he asks, removing his helmet and slicking back strands of brown hair soaked in sweat. He's a lot younger than I expected, but has a serious look to him. “I don't see them. Did they get out okay?”

“We're still waiting for word,” Camus informs him. “But the extraction team did report they had survivors on board at last transmission.”

The pilot nods, but looks no more jubilant than before.

Another round of the waiting game begins, marked by an increase in nervous small talk. I don't know how long we linger in the hangar, but it's enough time for them to tow all the planes inside and close the dome back up. Even with it closed, the temperature doesn't improve terribly. This close to the surface, we can't heat the place too much for risk of thermal detection by the machines. So it's nippy, to say the least. The only warm spots in the room are near the choppers and planes which are still radiating heat, though not nearly enough for my taste.

I tug Camus's coat around me a little more tightly, alternating between shoving my hands into its deep pockets and tucking them beneath my arms, all the while trying not to notice how the coat smells like him. To distract myself, I go looking for Hanna.

She's not wanting for company, as it turns out, busily signing with Captain Mathis. They converse too rapidly for me to keep up, but he manages to get a smile or two out of her, and vice versa. I envy Hanna's ability to make fast friends with everyone. Given enough time, I grow on most people, but I don't have Hanna's easy nature or instant charm. I'm more of an acquired taste.

While I'm trying to decide whether to butt in to their conversation, the Fairbanks extraction team's clearance request comes in. The dome begins to yawn open again, as if having tired of this whole ordeal and ready to get it over with. That makes two of us.

Everyone on the flight deck scatters to make room for the chopper to land. Its blades herald the soldiers' return with a rhythmic beating that synchronizes with my own heartbeat after a few seconds. The doors of the choppers are closed, currently protecting those inside from the downwash. It also prevents me from determining how many men they have aboard, if any, and whether any of those men are my friend's husband.

A medical team remains on standby for the wounded, and I catch a glimpse of Matt. But no Samuel.
I'm not that kind of doctor,
I remember him saying.

Due to the noise, I don't hear Hanna rejoin me, but she's there a moment later, standing next to me and holding her breath, when the engine powers down and the chopper doors slide back.

I don't recognize the first two soldiers who stagger out, leaning on one another for support, but it's clear someone in the other Churchill team does as they rush forward to meet them, alongside the medical team. More men and a few women are slowly and carefully unloaded from the chopper into either the embraces of their friends or literal neck braces due to injuries sustained in combat. Cheers go up for the heroes, the applause deafening. I smile and clap with everyone else, relieved at the number we were able to save. But I still don't see Rankin yet, and that worries me.

Please,
I think, taking up Hanna's mantra.

The last man of the Fairbanks ground team exits the chopper's rear. He's still wearing his protective helmet, so I can't see his face, but something's not right about his height or build. When he removes his helmet, it only confirms my suspicions.

It's not Rankin. Not-Rankin is quickly smothered by hugs and kisses from a Churchill woman with much the same hair color as Hanna. And while I'm happy for them, a part of me can't help feeling wronged on my friend's behalf.

Hanna is still, maybe in shock. She doesn't tear her eyes from the chopper. I watch her watching the extraction team's pilot and copilot climb down. I'm still trying to come up with the right condolences when the copilot removes his flight mask and helmet, revealing an unmistakable bald head beneath, its bright sheen of sweat catching the hangar lights like a beacon.

Rankin closes the distance in a slight jog, catching his wife, who comes at him at the speed of a freight train, in his arms.

“Brought you something,” he tells her with the biggest grin I've ever seen.

It's one of the scarves he was telling me about: robin's-egg blue and perfectly complementary to her complexion. He wraps it tenderly around Hanna's neck, and she's half-laughing, half-crying. Then he's kissing her and she's kissing him and it's like the fear of the last day is completely forgotten. They hold each other close, and I think I hear her whisper to him, “I could have used some gloves, too,” at which he guffaws loudly, happily, and kisses her again.

The homecoming is more bittersweet for others as they search for the dead among the living. As with the operation near Anchorage, rescue didn't include body retrieval.

“Almost forgot,” Rankin says, tossing me a balled-up scarf. Red like my hair, just like he said. I laugh as he adds, “Thought you might reconsider,” and then envelops me in a bear hug. “Thanks,” he says quietly into my ear. “For everything, Hoss. I mean it.” And then more loudly, keeping an arm casually slung around my shoulders, he adds, “Who knew it'd pay to have friends in such high places?”

“High places, huh?” I reply, smiling, and wrap the scarf around my neck. It hugs my throat perfectly. “I think you're mistaking me for Captain Mathis. He's the one with the wings.”

“All three of you earned your angel's wings today, you ask me.” He nods to Camus as well, who's locked in conversation with a few soldiers from the Churchill air team. As if sensing Rankin's commendation, he glances over at us. I smile at him, almost shyly, and for the first time, he smiles back.

“I've been called a lot of things in my career,” Captain Mathis says, joining our group. The severe nature of his personality, combined with the hard angles of his young face, seem to prevent a smile from forming. Still, there's quiet merriment in his brown eyes. “But guardian angel? That's a new one.”

The pilot's entrance allows me to slip away as Rankin and Mathis discuss some of the finer points of the operation, each praising the other's actions during the mission. Hanna remains with them, content by her husband's side, with one hand firmly tucked in Rankin's. The other gives me a small wave goodbye as I make my excuses and leave.

It's surprising how many people come up to me, even while I'm heading for the exit, each wanting to show their appreciation, despite the losses we suffered. For all the congratulations thrown my way, you'd think I was the one who had been out there fighting. If it weren't for my arm and other lingering injuries, maybe I would've been. But I wasn't. I was here instead, coming up with bright ideas. Maybe that's unfair. I don't know.

I retreat to a small corridor off the main passage, where the floor is carpet instead of concrete, and cushions my footfalls. Even with the silence, I find it hard to relax. My hands are shaking, quiet aftershocks from the day's stress. The building pressure reverberates through my entire body until it's too much effort to continue standing. With no one around to fuss about my behavior, I lean back against the wall, a position whose symbolic meaning is not lost on me. A moment later, I sink to the ground and just sit there for a little while, thinking.

My thoughts don't exactly lead me to any nice places, but I don't expect them to.

“I half-expected to find you amongst all your adoring fans,” Camus remarks, suddenly materializing in front of me and making me start. I blame the carpet for preventing me from hearing his approach. I also blame him for not signaling his presence in a nicer way.

“Can't you clear your throat like a normal person?” I reply. “Geez.”

“What are you doing hiding in here?”

“Who says I'm hiding?” He doesn't even need to change his expression for me to know he's not buying it. “I just needed to be alone.”

I reflect on what an odd reversal this is from before. When I was feeling alone before, I surrounded myself with people. Samuel. Hanna. Rankin. Ortega. But now that I've managed to integrate back into the community, I'm possessed by the urge to isolate myself. It's like those celebrities who work their entire lives to be famous, then go out of their way to avoid the public. Even to me, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense.

Camus looks sympathetic. “Would you like me to leave?”

“That was past tense,” I point out, getting to my feet, slapping my hands free of dirt. “I could ask you the same thing, though. Why aren't you in the hangar, relishing the sweet accolades of victory?”

His lips work at a small, wry smile. “Because I noticed my partner's absence.”

“So we're partners now?”

Camus looks over his shoulder, a curiously nervous gesture, as if he expects someone to stumble in and intrude on our private moment. Even when he does speak, it's like he's holding back, trying—and failing—to maintain emotional distance. “Back there, in the war room,” he explains stiffly, “you reminded me of something I'd forgotten. Let's just leave it at that.”

“Fine with me. Partner,” I add playfully, and he smiles.

We're both quiet for a moment, then he asks me if I'm truly all right.

At first, I'm tempted to fire off some clever response, but nothing comes to mind. Instead, bits of the truth gush out of me. “I should be. I don't know why I'm not. I mean, we won.” I rub my arms. I can't seem to get warm in this place.

“It could have been worse,” he offers.

I snort. “ ‘It could be worse' isn't exactly the slogan I want to run on.”

“You're not running a campaign.”

“No? Well, that's a relief.”

My sarcasm isn't lost on him. He takes a step closer—almost unbearably close, given our history. His fingers trace the edges of my open coat, gathering both sides more tightly in front of me, enveloping me in a less intimate way than using his own arms. I imagine what the warmth of his hands would feel like on my skin, rather than on the fabric barrier of my coat.
His
coat.

“What's really bothering you, Rhona?” he asks, staring down at me, his dilated pupils making his green eyes dark as a starless arctic night, but not half so cold. I almost wish they were. I'm starting to think the only thing worse than Camus's cruelty is his compassion.

“Would it be juvenile to say everything?” I respond.

“Yes.”

“All right.” I think more specifically. “For starters, stop calling me Rhona when we're alone.”

He's immediately confused. “Why?”

“Because I know you don't believe I'm her.”

“What do you propose I call you instead?”

“I don't know. How about Phoebe?”

“You want me to call you…Phoebe?” There's a touch of amusement in his tone, which makes me angry.

“No, Camus,” I say, exasperated. “I don't
want
you to call me Phoebe. But it's not fair, you calling me Rhona when you don't mean it. And if you try quoting poetry at me right now, that whole ‘a rose by any other name' bit, so help me.” Apparently I remember more Shakespeare than I thought.

“I'd never call you a rose,” he promises. “Thorny, on the other hand…”

“I'm being serious,” I say, put out.

“No, you're not. And neither am I. I thought you'd welcome the change.”

He's right. I'm deflecting. But I'm more interested in how we've managed to travel back in time, to a point where we were this casual with one another.
Was this how it was between us?
I wonder. I can't recall our romance in its entirety, or the friendship which must have coexisted alongside it. Maybe we've come full circle. I wouldn't know.

“What else is bothering you?” he prompts after a moment, serious again.

“Men died because of me,” I say, my voice coming out in a whisper. There's the rub.

“Machines killed those men, not you.”

“Small difference. It was my plan to send them out there in the first place.
My
plan that didn't account for the machines' timed response at Prudhoe…”

“Yes, that's true, but we all agreed to the plan,” he reminds me. “We don't live in a dictatorship. You didn't force anyone's hand. The soldiers themselves, they knew what kind of odds they were up against. What happened at Prudhoe was terrible, I'm not arguing that, but it wasn't unexpected, either. If you're going to claim sole responsibility for their deaths, I'd caution you to look at the facts again. You're clearly neglecting to see some of them.”

“I can't tell whether you're trying to provoke me or comfort me,” I say after a moment, my lips wearing a thin smile.

“Perhaps a little of both,” he admits, thumb rubbing the flap of my coat like I wish he would my cheek. “Anger can be a very cleansing emotion. Burns off the fog, clears the mind. My point is we still don't know what went wrong up there. That should be our main concern right now. There will be time for self-flagellation later.”

Camus compartmentalizes a lot better than I can. His advice is sound, but it's hard to apply a bandage and forget the pain when the wound is still bleeding.

“That all sounds nice and reasonable. Thing is, I can't just turn off the way I'm feeling with a flip of the switch. I feel bad for those soldiers, their families, their friends. You saw them in there. They expected us to get their loved ones back safely, and we didn't. How do I reconcile that?”