Hover

by Anne A. Wilson

  “AGHHH!” she shrieks, clutching her hair. “You suck at this, you know that? You don’t even grasp the implications. His shirt. His shirt! On you! Part of him on you! He’s claiming his territory, Sara!”

  “Claiming his territory? Em, that’s ridiculous.” I point to her stack of Harlequins. “Too many of those in your head.”

  “No, no, no!” she says. “I know how this works and you don’t!”

  “Em, I can’t handle this conversation.”

  I jump over her, launching from her mattress up to my bunk. But she stands and grips the railing, peering over the side.

  “You can’t hide,” she says.

  “Go away, Em.”

  “You are so busted.”

  I pull the covers over my head and turn away from her, but I can hear her breathing. And even though I can’t see her, I know she’s smiling. An I-got-you smile. I hate those kinds.

  “This shirt is softer, my ass,” she says. “Case closed.”

  13

  I’ve remained at the controls since Operation Low Level commenced at 0400. We’ve had our hands full with the challenge of flying on a moonless night, an inky black moonless night. We’re doing it the old-fashioned way, too—without night vision goggles. In typical military fashion, they were recalled by the manufacturer, but without replacements being offered. I have a throbbing headache because the concentration required during a flight like this is all-consuming.

  On a night like tonight, without goggles, it’s hard to know where the ocean ends and the sky begins. With no horizon reference, flight decks resemble little more than lighted postage stamps, floating in the middle of space. Everything seems to float—the stars, radio antennas, buoys, ships—in one vast, black, spherical void.

  When you can’t discern the water from the horizon, if you aren’t sharply focused on your instruments, you can get disoriented in a heartbeat. Many pilots have flown their aircraft into the water at night, never realizing they were descending, until it was too late.

  I breathe a relieved sigh when the sun finally makes its friendly appearance. We land on the deck of Nimitz, and I have to pull the dark visor of my helmet down to shield my eyes from the glare. But the security I felt upon landing quickly fades. You know the seas are bad when a mighty ship like this heaves with the waves, as it is now. The bow drops below the horizon and the pale new-morning sky that just filled my view is devoured by the leaden sea. Counting the seconds, I wait anxiously until the bow rises upward again, restoring my view of the heavens.

  The cycle repeats. I inhale and exhale in time with the troughs and crests. A living ocean. It breathes. It waits.

  I take a sip from my water bottle, pulling my gaze into my lap, forcing myself to think of something else. Anything else.

  So far, Operation Low Level has proceeded without a hitch, and just as Captain Magruder said, the Shadow Hunters have run the whole thing. Actually, Eric has run the whole thing. His voice has been a constant on the radios, calm as you please, directing one of the most complicated exercises I can remember. In fact, this has been one of the most well-run large-scale operations I’ve ever been involved in.

  While the H-46 platform offers unmatched maneuverability for its lifting capacity, the H-60 helicopter is unrivaled for its command and control capabilities. The Shadow Hunter aircraft contains sophisticated, powerful radar equipment, which, when linked to the Aegis weapons system aboard the Lake Champlain, further extends its already considerable operational range, allowing Eric to direct us just as an air traffic controller would.

  I’ve had plenty on my plate tonight, but it didn’t stop my brain from internalizing the charge I felt the moment I heard his voice. But that electric feeling has paved the way for a nice helping of guilt for the way I’ve treated him. He was absolutely right. The situation wasn’t fine with Commander Egan on the Kansas City, nor was it fine with Commander Claggett on the Lake Champlain. He was only trying to help and I pushed him away.…

  When I look up, Messy leads an eight-man SEAL squad to our aircraft. Because their faces aren’t camouflaged, I recognize most of them from my last cruise. We worked with the same group.

  The man who boards last hooks his helmet to our internal radio system. “This is Lieutenant Mike Shallow,” he says. “I’m the squad leader for the exercise today.”

  I remember Mike. We had several flights together when we worked off the coast of Oahu this winter.

  “I was briefed that Lieutenant Denning would be at the controls for today’s evolution,” Mike says.

  I’m really getting uncomfortable now. This is so highly irregular, I don’t know what to make of it. And by the look in Commander Claggett’s eyes, he doesn’t either.

  “Lieutenant Shallow, what the fuck is going on here exactly?” Commander Claggett says. “I signed for this aircraft, and as such, I decide who is at the controls. I let it slide when Captain Magruder brought it up, but what the hell do you know about it, and why do you care?”

  I cannot believe he’s treating another officer like this. Although, wait. Yes, I can.

  “Sir, what was your name again?” Mike says.

  “That has nothing to do with this. Now answer my question, Lieutenant.”

  “Sir, orders from Admiral Carlson.”

  “Admiral Carlson? Since when does an admiral, or anyone else for that matter, dictate who flies my aircraft?”

  “Sir, we have seven minutes to be overhead Leftwich, and I need to finish our brief.”

  I guess the surprise target is the destroyer USS Leftwich.

  Commander Claggett’s silence is enough of a response for Mike, who moves into the passageway that leads from the cabin to the cockpit. He leans in to look, and I face him.

  “Hey, good to see you again,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “No Animal tonight, huh?” he remarks. “Shame.”

  I shake my head. Commander Max Amicus, nicknamed Animal, served as the officer in charge on my last cruise, the one where Mike and I flew together in Hawaii. The two of them got on exceptionally well, probably because they were both Auburn University alum. I also got along with Animal—so much so that he sort of took me under his wing on that cruise. And I agree with Mike’s sentiment. I’d give any number of paychecks to have Animal flying in the seat next to me now instead of Commander Claggett.

  “Today’s exercise is pretty straightforward, just like our last two off Kaneohe,” Mike says. He resolutely ignores Commander Claggett, looking only at me.

  “Straight approach up the wake, ten feet, although lower would be better, one hundred twenty knots, but faster would be better, too,” he says. “We have eight men to deploy.”

  Mike turns to look behind him. “All set on the rigging, Lego?”

  “We’re good to go, sir.”

  “You’re gonna drop the rope to the deck when we’re finished, since we’re not doing multiples.”

  “Roger that, sir,” Lego says.

  He turns back to me. “Oh, and only the Leftwich’s skipper knows we’re coming. No radio calls on this one.”

  “Okay, no radio,” I say. “And it will be like before. We won’t be single-engine capable with you guys, so if I start sliding over and descending, I’m doing an emergency landing.”

  In the world of fast roping, an engine failure is one of the worst things that can happen. Descending without the power to control the rate of descent, knowing there is no other option but to land, and with SEALs sliding on a rope underneath the aircraft, it’s bad news all the way around.

  “Copy that,” Mike says. “Any questions for me?”

  I can’t help it. I have to ask. “Mike, really, why were you briefed that I would be at the controls today?”

  He pulls a notepad from his pocket and scratches an answer, then holds it up so only I can read it.

  Because we requested it, he has written. He grins before disappearing into the cabin.

  Well, I can’t think about it now. We have five minutes
and we’re going to need to bust tail to get there on time. Nimitz gives us an immediate takeoff clearance, and I head straight west to find Leftwich, who is cruising two miles off the bow.

  I push it to 130 knots and ten feet of altitude. Actually, I’m doing the altitude part by feel. All I know is that we’re oh, so close to the water. Too close. A sweaty sheen coats my skin. Focus on the target, Sara.

  When we arrive, Leftwich’s safety nets are pushed up around the flight deck. They have no idea we’re coming. I slow, simultaneously spinning sideways to arrive perpendicular to the ship. I briefly glimpse Eric’s helicopter, hovering just to the north of us, watching.

  “Rope’s away!” Lego calls. “First man out!”

  It’s only fifteen seconds after that when he gives his final call.

  “Last man out. On deck. Dropping the rope. Clear to go!”

  I nose over and we’re away. I bet we weren’t over that deck more than twenty seconds, which for a SEAL is everything. Time spent waffling to stabilize in a hover could not only get them killed, but get us killed, too, if it were an actual hostile boarding.

  It’s a fast trip home. After shutdown, I exit through the passageway into the main cabin, where Lego and Messy are stowing the gear.

  “So what was Lieutenant Shallow’s answer?” Lego asks.

  “He wrote, Because we requested it. I don’t get it, Lego. I don’t get it at all.”

  “That’s because you don’t hear what we do in the back, ma’am. You’d know why then.”

  Not only can I not see our passengers—in this case, a SEAL squad—but I can’t hear them either, not unless they’re hooked into the aircraft’s intercommunications system, or ICS. Most passengers are not hooked in when they fly with us, but Lego and Messy can still walk up and down the cabin engaging in conversations, albeit shouted ones, with anyone not plugged into the radio system.

  “Think about it, ma’am,” Messy says. “How much fast roping did we do in Hawaii? More than usual, right? It had to be twenty-some-odd exercises. And who was at the controls for those?”

  True, we did do an inordinate amount of fast roping. And now that I think about it … I was at the controls … on every one. And Animal was the aircraft commander on every one. I wasn’t writing the flight schedule, so I had no control over this, but we flew together a lot. I even remember mulling it over at the time, wondering why I was always paired with him. Not that I minded. He was an outstanding teacher—the best, really.

  Funny. I could say the same for Lego and Messy. They were on every one of those flights. Normally, the aircrew are rotated. At home in San Diego, I might fly with five different copilots and ten separate aircrewmen in the course of a week. But on that short deployment to Hawaii, and now on this detachment, I’ve flown the majority of my missions with the same two guys. I certainly haven’t questioned it, because they’re a dream to fly with, but yeah … unusual.

  14

  Because we requested it. The phrase turns in my mind as I walk to the ship’s weight room, a space enclosed in a metal, cagelike structure tucked behind apartment-sized freezers in the cargo area. It houses several cardio machines, including a stair climber, a stationary bike, and a treadmill—never operable at the same time, by the way—two universal machines, benches, a squat rack, and a full set of free weights.

  Probably a bit risky for the ship to keep it open in heavy seas like this, but I’m glad of it. I need a place to think. Not only about the pilot-at-the-controls thing, but Em’s convictions about my feelings for Eric. All of it has my head in a tangle, but it’s nothing some exercising won’t cure.

  I hear a familiar “S’up, ma’am?” from the far corner as I enter. It’s Petty Officer Jefferson, known to all as T-Bear. His given name is Torbjorn, which means “thunder bear” in Danish, even though he’s African American. T-Bear is mammoth-sized, standing six foot six and weighing close to three hundred pounds. It’s all muscle, too.

  He’s a weight room mainstay, along with his lifting partner, Petty Officer Diggins, known as Diggs. Standing next to T-Bear, Diggs looks “small,” but he still wields a frame that’s six foot four and he’s probably pushing 270.

  “Hey T-Bear, hey Diggs.”

  “Runnin’ or bikin’ today, ma’am?” T-Bear asks.

  “Biking,” I say, pointing to the aerodyne bike.

  “Tell me you’re gonna stop before an hour this time.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got a lot on my mind today, so I’m thinking it’s going to be a long one.”

  “Damn. I don’t know how you do it,” he says before turning back to the squat rack.

  I watch in humbled awe as he ducks underneath the bar and hoists it onto his shoulders. It bends with the weight of 520 pounds. With Diggs standing behind him to spot, he methodically cranks out ten reps. And the ship is rolling. Unbelievable. And he says he doesn’t know how I do it.

  I climb onto the bike and set it to level six, holding tight to the handles so I don’t fall off as the ship rocks. Within minutes, I’ve got a good sweat going, my heart, lungs, and legs in a rhythm, thinking I’m going to try to sort out why Admiral Carlson and the SEAL team would request me specifically to pilot one of their training exercises. But my heart has other ideas. Instead, I begin to replay my conversations with Eric.

  The longer I pedal, the more I downplay it. This is nothing. How many times have I interacted with other pilots? Hundreds. Other officers? Thousands. How many were nice guys? Lots. How many treated me with respect? Still, lots. But have I ever been affected like this? Never.

  I keep thinking about it. I keep thinking about him. And I shouldn’t. That’s not what I’m out here for.

  That’s right, Sara, remember why you’re here. Why you’re in the navy. All of it.

  “To Ian Denning!” my father said. “When you take your oath next week, you’ll begin a new journey, continuing the long and illustrious Denning family legacy of Naval Academy graduates and proudly serving U.S. Naval officers.”

  “And navy pilots!” my Uncle Paul chimed in.

  Because our send-off party included almost one hundred family members and friends, my hugs for Ian had to wait until the end. I remember we shared a long embrace.

  “Congratulations, Ian,” I said. “I’m so proud of you.”

  Our compulsory brother-sister banter proved strangely absent that evening. Our lives were headed in different directions and it was the first time we had actually faced this new reality.

  “Thanks.” His eyes started watering. “I’m stoked to get started,” he said, quickly gathering himself.

  “Well, you’re going to do the Denning family proud. No doubt about it,” I said.

  He looked at me thoughtfully, his tall, lanky frame supporting the suit and tie he wore like he was a coat hanger. Looking at Ian was like looking at myself—that always awkward slender build, the blond hair, the crystal-blue eyes—twins in every way.

  “I’m gonna miss you,” he said.

  The tears welled. “Me, too.”

  He cleared his throat. “Still up for tomorrow?” he asked with a gleam in his eye.

  I smiled, happy for the topic change. “You know I am!”

  His brilliant blue eyes sparkled with anticipation and excitement.

  I vaguely notice when T-Bear and Diggs leave the weight room, my breaths coming fast and heavy as I stand on the pedals, climbing the last of two artificial hills.

  I can’t shake the memories. It always happens this way—my subconscious ensuring that I remember the details. That I will never forget.

  “This is gonna be epic!” I said as we slid our white-water kayaks into the calm stretch of flat water at the Otter Slide put-in—starting point for the most challenging six-mile segment of white water on the Wolf River. It was a four-hour drive from our Minneapolis home to our favorite Wisconsin river, but worth it. At the time, I carried one wild indulgence in my life, white-water kayaking. “And we’ve gotta hit Big Smokey Falls!”

  “I don’
t know,” he said. “We’ve never had a flow like this. It’s awfully high.”

  “But we’ve run it before. And think about it. It’ll be the perfect send-off. You’re not going to get to do this for a long time once you start at Navy.”

  My enthusiasm, unbridled, was contagious.

  “All right,” he said.

  I remember the white water, roiling and careening over a minefield of boulders … and underwater, bright blue eyes.

  * * *

  When I return to our stateroom, Em sits up in her rack. “Hey,” she says, removing her headphones. “Look what the cat dragged in. You’re soaked.”

  “Aerodyne bike.”

  “And you wonder why I don’t work out.”

  I kick off my boots and remove my socks. “Nothing a shower won’t fix.”

  “Nope,” she says, popping the p at the end of the word. “No showers.”

  “What do you mean, no showers?”

  “We’re on water hours. Some issue with the evaporators. They’re not producing enough fresh water. And since the boilers are a higher priority than we are…”

  I drop into my chair. Great. “Is it like the normal water hours thing? Will they give us thirty minutes or something later?”

  “Yeah. I think three o’clock is the next window.”

  Oh, man. I’ll have to wait four more hours. I am so gross. I open my desk and spy my water bottle—and it’s full.

  Sweet. I peel off my workout gear, strip naked, squirt my water bottle on my towel, and do the best I can. A sponge bath is better than nothing.

  “Besides the fact that we don’t have water, has anything else come up I should know about?”

  “You’re flying a pax transfer with Commander Claggett tomorrow.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” How many flights have I had with him lately? Ughh. “Any chance you’d like to take that?” I ask.

  “Uh, let me think about that. No.”

  “You know, I never thought I’d see the day when you’d pass on flight hours, no matter how you could get them.”

  “I think everyone has a limit, and I’ve reached mine with him. You can have the flight hours. Even turning buttonhooks all day wouldn’t be worth it.”