Angel Flight

by R. D. Kardon

  “I’ll watch The West Wing with you. I like it too, you know.” He threw his words at her, along with a withering look. Mike’s hair was windblown, like he’d ridden a motorcycle without a helmet.

  “Mike, what’s going on?” He disclosed personal details like a mother doling out candy to her children—one piece, enough to satisfy their cravings, and that was all. Exactly like I do.

  Mike rhythmically rubbed his beard, scratching at its shaved edges. “Yeah,” he said to the air. “Well, no, but I think I should leave.”

  “What? What are you talking about?” Exasperated, she motioned toward the kitchen. “You just got here. We have Chinese.”

  “Fine.” He stomped into the kitchen. The silverware drawer slammed, and knives, forks and spoons created a metallic cacophony.

  Diverted from packing, Tris followed him. “Hey, baby. What is going on? Come on. We’ve both got a big day tomorrow.”

  Orion must have relinquished his post in the suitcase since he zipped by her toward the inviting smell.

  “C’mon. Let’s eat,” Mike said, carrying two plates of food into the living room.

  “You go ahead and start. I’ll be right there,” she said, and turned on the kitchen faucet to wash her hands.

  Mike tossed his napkin on top of his plate. “You know, honestly, I’m not hungry.” He walked over to the slider and parted the vertical blinds.

  “What? What’s happening here? You barreled in here, wanted to have dinner, and now you’re looking for . . . what are you looking for?”

  “You got a problem with me looking out the window?” His eyes were dark.

  “In fact, I do. Whatever’s up your ass tonight, talk about it or don’t. That’s fine. But please don’t take any emotional baggage on the angel flight that you can talk through now. Here. With me.”

  Mike side-eyed her. “Or what? You gonna ground me?”

  Tris blew out a breath of frustration. “Please. Don’t be an asshole. Mike, maybe you should go home. Have you even packed?”

  “Yup. Go bag’s in the car.”

  Tris touched the keychain with her fingertips. This crazy argument, this ridiculous test—no, it wasn’t the right time. She pushed it down into her pocket as far as it would go without tearing the fabric.

  “Baby, I want to hang out with you. I really missed you. But I don’t know what’s happening here. My mind’s on the angel flight. Let’s call it a night,” she finally said.

  Mike’s stiff posture softened, as if his behavior over the last ten minutes never happened. “I’m sorry. I really am. I’m stressed, I think. I don’t know why.”

  She didn’t believe him. “Okay.”

  Mike stuck both hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “This wasn’t the evening I’d hoped for,” he said, and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

  Tris accepted the kiss coolly. “The prep for the angel flight has been hard on all of us. Not to mention our passenger. I know we always have it in the back of our minds that our work is ‘life and death.’ And things rarely go wrong, but the stakes for Christine—Mike, this is the most important mission I’ve ever flown.” She pictured Erik Hudson, felt the pleading grasp of his hand in hers, his desperation as he spoke of his wife.

  Mike pulled away, looking grim.

  Tris went on. “This time, it really is a life we may be saving.”

  Mike strode to the balcony doors and slid them open. “I get it. See you tomorrow,” he said, and walked out into the starless night.

  Shaken, Tris paced between her living room and kitchen. Mike had his oddities for sure. But the events of the last half hour were strange, even for him.

  A breeze blew in from the patio. Mike had left the slider slightly open in his haste to leave. Tris moved to close it and noticed a folded piece of paper on the floor—it was a copy of one of the news articles in Christine’s file. The headline read, “Iqaluit Therapist Serves Community.”

  Tris remembered this article. There was a picture of Christine in what looked like a gymnasium talking to folks dressed in faded jeans, sweatpants, and sleeveless puffy vests that hung open over turtlenecks. The caption read, “Dr. Christine Edgemon donates her time to the Tukisigiarvik Society.”

  A small water stain spread in the upper right-hand corner. The folds in the paper appeared to have been worked extensively. Tris had a fortune cookie slip like that, which read, “You have the ability to excel in untried areas.” She’d kept it in her wallet for years.

  It must have fallen out of Mike’s pocket when he reached for his keys. Tris refolded the page and put it into her trip folder, alongside her passport, flight plan data, and weather package.

  The smell of Chinese food was irresistible. She dug into the Kung Pao chicken and, a few seconds later, considered the clipping again. Today’s meeting was the first time Mike was briefed about their passenger. Maybe he pulled the clip from the file to study up.

  Orion strolled into the living room. She scooped him up and plopped him in her lap while considering multiple explanations for Mike’s odd behavior. She’d ask him about it tomorrow. Hopefully by then he’d have calmed down. She absent-mindedly ran one hand down the feline’s soft black and white fur and held an egg roll with the other.

  The spare set of keys in her pocket dug into her thigh. She’d present her gift to him tomorrow night in Iqaluit, when they’d both be more relaxed.

  Tris pressed her palm over the heart-shaped promise.

  IQALUIT, NUNAVUT

  CANADA

  April 11, 2000

  CHRISTINE

  My heart breaks every time you say we’ll get through this. I can’t follow the path I’ve been assigned to its horrible, predictable end, and I’ll use every ounce of strength I have left to make sure you won’t, either.

  Erik, dear, let me explain.

  Remember our flight to the states last year, when Tetrix sent its corporate jet to bring us to Exeter for your dad’s funeral? After the call that he’d taken a turn, you were almost catatonic. So, I made the plans.

  It was February, freezing, snow everywhere. Our flight was delayed due to extreme cold. As the last few hours of your dad’s life ticked by with us thousands of miles away, you were losing it: snapping at the woman behind the desk in the private terminal, practically charging the pilot when he came out of the men’s room, spouting nonsense, scaring me and everyone else within earshot.

  You were already grieving, my love.

  When I said, “His dad is dying, and we can’t get there,” you melted, landed in the closest seat you could find, and wept.

  The only other time I’ve seen you so sad was when we got my diagnosis. Because we both knew that soon, you’d be saying goodbye to me.

  I tried to blot that experience out of my mind. But some things I recalled. Like how lax security was in that private terminal. No cops, no guns, nothing but a security guard who looked like Humpty Dumpty and only carried a nightstick.

  How easy it will be. I’ll be up in the air, far from land, far from any place or person who can save me.

  Forty-Three

  Tris woke to find the t-shirt she’d worn to bed wound around her waist. She’d barely slept. That ridiculous argument with Mike had put concerns in her head she couldn’t shake.

  Was some of what Danny told her true?

  Or was she spinning a confusing story out of her own insecurities; connecting unrelated events, sprinkling them with salacious details that were likely untrue, all to manufacture a scenario that existed only in her imagination? Was she simply doing what she’d always done—conjuring a reason to walk away?

  She dragged herself out of bed. There was no time to dwell on it. She dressed quickly and packed a few final items in her overnight bag. The keychain lay in her purse.

  Trip paperwork listed her as pilot-in-command. During the angel flight, she’d support Bruce. But she’d also have her eye on Mike.

  Once at the airport, Tris walked quickly into the hangar. The huge, chilly open space
was quiet. Tris hugged herself, pulling the lined uniform overcoat she wore tightly around her.

  Then a door slammed, the sound reverberating throughout the hangar. Bruce had arrived, one hand wrapped around the handle of his overnight bag, the other holding a cake.

  “Hey. Heather had yet another shower this weekend. We had this cake left over. She didn’t want it, so I brought it in.”

  “Well, this is a first. I’ve never had anyone bring a cake to an overnight before.” Tris laughed and went to take it from Bruce. Looked like chocolate with coconut on it. Right up her alley. “My favorite. You got candles too?”

  Bruce laughed. “After Lemaster? Uh, no, I do not.” He looked around. “Where’s Mike?”

  “Around here somewhere, I guess. His car’s outside. So, Captain,” Tris said in a solicitous tone, smiling brightly, “may I stow your overnight bag?”

  “Ha. Nah. I’ve got it, Tris. I’ve got to check something inside the airplane anyway.” Bruce smiled, nodded, and walked over to review some weather reports that were posted on a nearby whiteboard.

  Tris took her measure of the tall, lean man who might well be pilot-in-command in two days’ time. She was proud of him, but still wary; she’d test him a bit. “And what would that be?”

  He played along. “Well, we’re over water, remember? Just making sure all the life vests are in place. We don’t need a raft, thank goodness.”

  Bruce seemed fine. Yet, her emotions slid up and down like fingers on the neck of a guitar. Tris pushed them aside and focused on her last-minute flight preparations. She heard Bruce greeting Mike as he walked aboard the aircraft. Step by step, the three pilots got the trip ready. Why was she so rattled?

  The ramps and runways at Exeter International were clear of any snow or ice, and the winds were calm. The pale morning sky was dotted only by fair-weather cumulus clouds that looked like the crumbled topping of a coffee cake. The crew of the angel flight could not have asked for better weather.

  Mike sat behind them in the jump seat as Bruce prepared to command the Royal.

  “Before takeoff checklist complete,” Tris responded after Bruce confirmed that the last item had been checked. “You ready to go, Bruce?”

  “Yes,” he said, in a clipped, professional tone. “Tell Tower we’re ready.”

  Tris clicked the microphone. “Exeter Tower, Compassion Royal Four-Five-Quebec ready for takeoff, Runway Four Left.”

  “Roger, Compassion Royal Four-Five-Quebec. Fly heading zero-four-zero, Runway Four Left, cleared for takeoff.”

  Bruce rolled the turboprop onto the runway, gave it full power and in no time, they’d levelled off at four thousand feet.

  “Nice departure,” Mike mumbled. He was hooked into the pilot’s intercom through a spare jack behind the right seat. Crew communication under ten thousand feet was limited to items essential to flight, so he didn’t elaborate.

  The climb to their final altitude of thirty-five thousand feet was nothing short of glorious. Tris never tired of crossing Lake Michigan headed east. She scanned the beaches on the Michigan shore, deserted this time of year. In just a few months, they’d be packed with vacationers lounging under colorful umbrellas.

  Tris preferred the cool, stark beauty of winter, which was best appreciated from inside the Royal’s warm cockpit. What she loved was not so much what she saw, but the way she saw it: up high, with a view so wide she could follow the twisty road connecting the many small beachfront towns that sprouted up along the shore.

  Bruce had configured the airplane perfectly for cruise flight, and the peace of the stable cockpit was disturbed only by the occasional call from ATC.

  Tris was vaguely aware of Mike and Bruce discussing a point of procedure when Mike’s voice rose. It vibrated in her ear, disturbing her reverie. He’d begun flipping through the pages of the Practical Test Standards, then fired a question at Bruce.

  “Bruce. If you do well today, and I approve you as captain, what will your takeoff minimums be?”

  “Sorry, Mike,” Bruce replied diplomatically. “What do you need?”

  Mike repeated his question, this time more slowly.

  The captain-to-be in the left seat looked both startled and confused. “Uh, we finished my oral exam, didn’t we Mike? I mean . . .” Tris shook her head as imperceptibly as she could, imploring Bruce to just answer him.

  Luckily, Bruce caught on. “I’ll be a high mins captain, Mike. That means I’ll need to check visibility and cloud cover.”

  With no further discussion, Mike stood up, moved out of the cockpit and took a seat behind them in the cabin. Bruce shrugged, rolled his eyes, and continued to monitor the instruments. The autopilot was on, and they were cleared direct to Bangor.

  Just like that, the numb hum of an uneventful flight returned.

  Forty-Four

  “Hey, Mike,” Bruce called, after he moved his microphone away from his mouth so he didn’t blow out Tris’s eardrums. They were back in the air after fueling up in Bangor. Thirty-five thousand feet below them, Northeast Canada provided a view of snow, frozen water, and microscopic towns.

  Within seconds, Mike stood behind them. “Yeah? I was catching up with the news,” he said, waving a USA TODAY.

  “Hey, man, so, I wanted to ask. You know, I have an interview with Legacy coming up in about two weeks.”

  “I remember. Good luck.”

  “If this ride goes well, would you mind writing me a letter of recommendation?” Bruce didn’t hinge his request on their family connection. Tris admired that.

  Mike’s pause exceeded a comfortable length. “Bruce, look, I get where you’re coming from. The more letters you have, the better. But I’m not sure, uh, that I’m the person you want.”

  “Yeah, but I figured you quit on good terms. Didn’t you?”

  Mike snorted. “Yes, I guess you’d say that. I don’t think I have any enemies there. But I did leave. I’m not sure I’m the person you want to write a letter. I’m going to decline. Ask Danny.” As he walked back to the cabin, he called to Bruce over his shoulder, “But you’re doing great today.”

  “What was that about?” Bruce whispered to Tris over the intercom when he was sure Mike couldn’t hear.

  “Well, I—” Tris stopped. Danny’s tale wasn’t the type of thing she’d repeat, certainly not without confirmation. “My advice is to leave it alone.”

  “You don’t know?”

  Tris deflected the question. “Well, don’t you? He’s family, right?”

  “Not close,” Bruce replied immediately.

  “So, what was he doing at your anniversary party?”

  Bruce chuckled. “I think he only wrangled an invitation when he heard you might be there. At least that’s what Heather said.” Tris smiled serenely and let her concerns from the previous night slip away, just a little.

  Bruce lifted the thick folder Tris had put together with the details about Christine. “So, let’s talk about our passenger for a few minutes. Her husband arranged the trip, right? But we’re not carrying him?”

  “The husband goes back and forth frequently. He’s already in Exeter.”

  “Good. Man, I read some stuff about her disease on the internet. Brutal.” Bruce shook his head.

  “What’s this?” Both pilots were startled when Mike appeared behind them, this time holding an open plastic bag with a familiar yellow item inside.

  “Huh? Is this a trick question?” Bruce tried not to sound sarcastic.

  “Why isn’t this pouch sealed? Westin Charter Operating Specifications require that life vests be in a plastic pouch, sealed, with the seal not broken.”

  Bruce looked over at Tris, who shrugged. Perhaps. But still . . .

  “I get it. I’ll check it out when we land in Canada and see if I need to get a replacement. No biggie. There are four more aboard. I put an extra one on,” Bruce replied evenly.

  Mike huffed and returned to his seat in the cabin.

  “What the fuck?” Bruce looked over at Tris,
who could only shrug.

  The Royal descended on final approach into the wide-open landscape of Iqaluit. Visibility was low. Bruce rhythmically scanned the flight instruments as Tris talked to ATC. She’d shifted as far forward in her seat as possible but hadn’t made visual contact with the ground. Finally, the tiny town popped out in relief against towering banks of snow, seeming like an intruder in this area surrounded by miles of wilderness.

  Mike sat in the jump seat watching Bruce’s approach and landing. Tris resisted the urge to coach Bruce, who, as it turned out, needed no help. With the wind gusting to twenty knots, Bruce had only a few seconds to straighten the airplane’s nose and set the Royal down straight on the wide asphalt runway, which he did expertly.

  “Nice job,” Tris whispered between responses to ground control at Iqaluit and completing landing checklist items at Bruce’s command. Mike said nothing, just grunted and took a seat in the cabin as soon as they were on the ground.

  Bruce steered the Royal to the ramp like an experienced captain. Her face twisted into an expression of mild surprise mixed with pride. Bruce was kicking ass—he was prepared, left nothing to chance, and had the aircraft, procedures, and paperwork precisely put together. Most gratifying to Tris, he’d incorporated advice she’d given him in the past about how to command an aircraft.

  The Iqaluit ramp sported a few airplanes, two helicopters, and a yellow fire truck. A small building with the letters “FBO” perched on top sat next to an odd-looking sallow structure: the Iqaluit Airport commercial terminal that locals called the “Yellow Submarine.”

  The crew quickly secured the airplane and left it to ground handlers to tug into the hangar overnight. They hustled out of the cold into the tiny executive terminal, that sported an imposing mounted moose head. A large polar bear pelt hung on the wall.

  A dark-haired woman in a puffy coat sat at a desk. Bruce asked where he could check radar and followed the finger she pointed to an anteroom with a flight-planning computer. Once he was done, the three pilots requested a ride to their hotel.