Hover

by Anne A. Wilson

  “Good thing we’re pulling into Singapore tomorrow. Looks like another shopping trip’s in order.”

  “It’s not that bad—”

  “It’s that bad.”

  I roll my eyes, but there’s a skip in my step. Please let Em and me be back to normal.

  When we emerge onto the flight deck, smoke and a delicious barbeque smell fill the air. Hamburgers, hot dogs, and rows of chicken breasts vie for space between giant vats of baked beans, all of it spread across three extra-long barbeque grills. Mess cranks cook, ladle, and serve it all with marked efficiency to sailors formed in three makeshift lines behind each grill, paper plates and cutlery in their hands.

  All evidence of the Wog Day obstacle course has been cleared and the decks have been hosed down and cleaned. The sounds of Jimmy Buffett play through the ship’s intercom system and crewmembers sprawl over the deck, some sitting with their legs dangling over the side, and some, like our male pilots, resting on lounge chairs, shirts off, tanning in the equatorial sun.

  After we receive our food, it hurts to sit, so I stand instead. As I look around, it occurs to me that I’ve never seen the ship’s crew this happy. The laughs, the jokes, the smiles. The activities both last night and today were a definite morale-builder.

  But I’m exhausted. I can’t believe they’ve scheduled night flight ops after a day like today. It kind of puts a damper on the steel beach picnic for me. I’m imagining sitting in the cockpit for hours when I don’t want to put my bum on anything. But the operational tempo of the strike group never slows. No SEAL ops tonight—we’ll just be moving cargo—but damn, I could use a break.

  “What are you huffing about?” Em says.

  “Um, nothing,” I say. Tell me I wasn’t just talking out loud.

  “Damn? Damn what?” she asks.

  Crap.

  “I just … I have to fly again tonight—”

  “Of course you do,” she says, not hiding the sarcasm.

  “Oh, no … I didn’t mean—”

  “Christ, it’s not even a SEAL flight.”

  “No, Em,” I say. “Please don’t do this.”

  “Whatever,” she says.

  “No! I talked with Chad. I asked him why I had to fly and he said because I’ve been a regular on nights, he was just keeping me there. That’s the only—”

  “Hey, Em!” Zack calls from his lounge chair. He and the other pilots are waving her over.

  She waves back, before turning to me. “Wouldn’t want to keep you from resting up before your flight.” She moves toward the group. “Later,” she says over her shoulder.

  * * *

  By the time I’m in the aircraft, Wog Day is a distant memory, save for my derrière, which is a constant, painful reminder. It’s also hard to shell the image of Emily walking away from me, which is why I’ve decided I need to put my foot down about the scheduling. It’s not fair to Emily or Zack and it’s putting a wedge between Em and me that doesn’t need to be there.

  I keep telling myself, if I can just get through this flight, I’ll be in Singapore tomorrow. Eric will be there and I know he’ll lend an open ear and maybe even have some suggestions for what to do with the SEAL flight bunk. I don’t have any idea yet how we’re going to meet, but he said he’d find me, so I’m not going to worry about it.

  I’m flying with Matt tonight, and it’s close to midnight when the radios erupt in chatter. All airborne helicopters are told to switch up to SAR common, which is usually not a good thing. The search-and-rescue frequency is exactly that—used for coordination of SAR efforts.

  The H-60s have already been listening to this frequency. Nimitz is calling all of its Nighthawk aircraft to land on her deck.

  “Shadow Hunter six six, Lake Champlain Tower, confirm your position, over.”

  “Lake Champlain Tower, Shadow Hunter six six, four miles due east, one hundred feet. We’ve begun our search pattern based on last known position, over.”

  It’s Brian Wilcox. And they’re starting a search pattern. A search for what? Man overboard? Aircraft?

  “All airborne helicopters check in with Lake Champlain Tower for search coordination, over.”

  I quickly dial in the Lake Champlain navigational aid.

  “Lake Champlain Tower, Sabercat five five, three miles to the south, three hundred feet, over,” Matt says.

  “Sabercat five five, Lake Champlain Tower, proceed northeast, establish holding three miles east of our posit, maintain three hundred feet, over.”

  “What the hell’s goin’ on?” Lego asks.

  “Lace, switch up Nuts,” Matt says. “Let’s see if the Shadow Hunters know anything.”

  I switch up the discreet frequency we call Nuts, saying a silent prayer that it will be Eric who answers.

  “Shadow Hunter six six, Sabercat five five, on Nuts, over,” Matt says.

  “Sabercat five five, Shadow Hunter six six, go ahead.” I think it’s Rob LeGrand.

  “Six six, five five, what’s goin’ on?” Matt asks.

  “We think one of our sixties is in the water,” Rob says. “They disappeared from radar four minutes after their ops normal call.”

  Holy crap. A 60 in the water. One of our 60s … Our 60s …

  One of the Shadow Hunter 60s? Is that what he meant? One of theirs? Or is he referring collectively to the H-60 aircraft? Three ships carry them—the Nimitz, the Leftwich … and the Lake Champlain.

  “Fuck…” Lego says.

  “No shit,” Matt says. “Mess, better get your gear on.”

  “Already on, sir. I’m ready to go.”

  Lego and Messy are both rescue swimmers. If necessary, we can drop Messy in the water and pull anyone out via hoist.

  “Lake Champlain Tower, Sabercat five five, entering holding, due east, three hundred feet, over,” Matt says.

  From our position, I see the Shadow Hunter’s search light scanning the ocean. They’re low to the water, probably closer to fifty feet than one hundred now.

  And I’m staring at my worst nightmare realized—an aircraft down in the water, aircrew trapped inside. The mouth of the blackened sea has opened.

  The cockpit gauges blur and I’m transported.…

  I shiver in a watery tomb, consumed in blackness, struggling to free myself—drowning, in gut-wrenching clarity. The water presses in without mercy, long fingers slithering around my throat, squeezing. Watery tentacles coil through the airframe, dragging it downward. I’m being swallowed.

  And then, something I haven’t felt in over nine years—a panic that threatens my hold on the now.

  My fingers claw at the nylon webbing that holds me down. I press my feet against the cockpit floor, straightening to lift myself from the seat. Out! Get me out!

  Trapped, I grab at the shoulder straps, my heart racing.

  Don’t do this, Sara! Don’t do this! Stay here!

  My hands go to the harness release. I fumble, unable to find the lever. No! Stop! I pinch my eyes shut. Hold on! Stay here!

  I freeze, gripping the straps with all my strength, every muscle contracted to the point I feel I might snap.

  Say the facts. Say them! Transmission oil hot caution light. Location—master caution panel. Power—battery bus. Oil temperature thermal switches—two forward transmission, one aft transmission. Light illumination—110 degrees. Good. Say it out loud!

  Without pressing my radio switch, I say the facts aloud. Over and over I repeat them—thank god, Matt is flying—while I attempt to pull myself together.

  Let go of the straps. Breathe. Breathe. You’ve got this. You’ve got this.

  My mouth is powder, my throat scratched. I lick my lips. Your legs. Relax. Let the tension go. You’ve got this.

  As I regain my hold on reality, I’m already asking the question. Why? I’ve controlled my fear of flying over the water for years. Maybe it’s that an actual aircrew is down. Far too easy to project myself into this scenario … to project someone else.

  Which 60? Damn it, why d
idn’t they say which one?

  The panic subsides, replaced with a growing anger. For me. For behaving this way. You swore you’d never let this happen again.

  “Lake Champlain Tower, Shadow Hunter six seven, ops normal, four souls, four plus zero zero fuel.” Like I’ve received a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart, my body snaps to alertness at the sound of Eric’s voice.

  Thank god.

  I look to the west. They’ve just taken off from the deck of the Lake Champlain.

  “Shadow Hunter six seven, Shadow Hunter six six,” Brian says. “Take over on station. We’re departing for fuel.”

  “Copy, six six, we’re there in three,” Eric says.

  Shadow Hunter 67 closes 66’s position and takes over the search. The battle group converges. Like spiders scurrying to the middle of a giant web, ships move in from every direction.

  “Shadow Hunter six seven, Sabercat five five, on Nuts, over,” Matt says.

  “Five five, six seven, go ahead,” Eric says.

  “Who are we looking for?”

  “Knight Rider four five. Stand by—”

  Leftwich’s bird. They have only one aircraft.

  “Lake Champlain Tower, Shadow Hunter six seven, we have a visual, over.”

  Please let the next call be a rescue call—an aircrew that needs pickup.

  “Six seven, five five, we have our rescue swimmer standing by, if necessary, over.”

  “Five five, six seven, stand by,” Eric says.

  Their searchlight scans a small area now. What do they see? Debris? Strobe lights atop the crewmen’s helmets?

  My stomach is churning. It’s too close. Too real.

  “Shadow Hunter six seven, Lake Champlain Tower, we have safety boats en route, over.”

  “Copy, in sight,” Eric says.

  Smaller craft close Eric’s position. They carry rescue swimmers and could affect a pickup, as well.

  The lack of reporting from Eric has me worried. Signal flares burst in the distance, the smoke rising like shimmering orange ghosts. This eerie, glowing cloud alternately brightens and dims as searchlights from several surface craft pass through it.

  A flicker of orange catches my eye.

  “Matt, low fuel,” I say.

  “Crap,” he says, before keying his radio. “Lake Champlain Tower, Sabercat five five, we need to depart holding for fuel.”

  “Sabercat five five, Lake Champlain Tower, roger, cleared to depart holding. Cleared to shut down.”

  Oh. We won’t be needed. That can be good and bad.

  Once we land, our pilots and maintenance crew come out in force to meet us, wanting to know what we saw.

  “One of our boats is out there,” Commander Claggett says.

  “Anything on ship’s radio?” Matt asks.

  “Not yet.”

  There’s nothing more sobering. As a result, the Sara-at-the-controls nonsense, the flight hours complaints, the snide looks, the flippant remarks—all absent.

  “Flight ops have been canceled,” Commander Claggett says. “Probably best for us to call it a night.”

  As the group disperses, I remain on the flight deck, where the air reverberates with the solemn, steady beat of Shadow Hunter 67’s helicopter blades. In the far distance, I see the water awash in silver from probing searchlights, a crowding of ships, orange smoke hovering thickly over it all … and a satisfied sea.

  30

  I thrash, my movements frantic, animalistic. Upside down, I grapple with the kayak’s rubber skirt at my waist, twisting and jerking. I wrestle with my life vest, clawing at the straps. Every procedure I’ve memorized and practiced for a wet exit has left me.

  Involuntarily, I suck inward, clamping my mouth shut at the last moment. The water just finds another way. Through my nose, it scours my sinuses until my mouth explodes open. The water consumes me.

  In a surreal moment of clarity, I realize that “drowning” is a horrifically inadequate word for what is, in truth, a violent death—long, excruciating, and suffused with raw, primal terror.

  Before I succumb to oblivion, I see Ian. His eyes look reassuringly into mine, calm beyond reason, as he pulls me free of the kayak. He holds me close as the water snatches us into its current, tossing us like toothpicks. With superhuman effort, he reaches his hand upward, grabbing an overhanging willow branch, pulling me toward the shore.

  The water arcs over us, yanking our bodies straight like stiff pennants in a gale wind, Ian’s hand the sole anchor point for our safety.

  “Grab on!” he yells, indicating a rocky outcropping.

  I try to do the action, but fail. Using his last reserves of strength, Ian pulls my arm up and over the rock, hooking it there. I turn my head just in time to see Ian’s hand slipping from the willow branch.

  My brother. My twin. The one I loved most in the world. Whose kindergarten construction paper Valentines still hung in my bedroom. Who snuggled with me at night in our tree house. Who held my hand on our first day of school. If I hadn’t panicked, he wouldn’t have had to come for me. He would still be alive today.

  I stand on the pedals, cranking hard, the lactic acid searing, using this pain to mask the other. My heavy breaths echo loudly in the empty weight room, the ship unnaturally quiet and eerily still, having pulled into Singapore a day late. The strike group’s delay is due to the deaths of the four aircrew of Knight Rider 45. We’ve only heard bits and pieces of the story—the detailed version won’t come out for weeks—but supposedly they found their helmets floating among the wreckage. Every time I picture it, my eyes start watering.

  My thoughts move to Eric as I pedal faster. I need to see him. For many reasons. One of which is the need for a sounding board, wrestling as I am with how I reacted during the search for Knight Rider. I almost succumbed to panic … just like nine years ago.

  I spin faster, breathing in hitches. And while I can never change what happened, I’ve been on a mission since that day to do right by Ian’s memory, to finish what he would have started.

  Following in his footsteps to the Naval Academy was an easy decision. So was flying. I knew good and well it would always occur over the water. I knew I would have to face what I feared the most every time I strapped into the cockpit. Many would call it an irrational fear of drowning and maybe that’s true.

  But after all these years, I thought I had learned to control it.

  Until now. And this scares me more than what I feared in the first place.

  * * *

  Dressed in my maroon pajama top and gray running shorts, emotionally and physically drained, I drop into my desk chair and pull out my hydraulic systems book, desperate for a distraction. I remember Em’s comment—that I need to put away my aircraft systems manuals and let go of myself. I’d never admit it to her, but I can probably add this to the list of things she’s right about … a rather lengthy list.

  The knock on the door doesn’t bother me anymore, now that Commander Egan is no longer on the ship. I suspect it’s Trey Perkins, the communications officer, coming by to shoot the breeze as he often does when we’re on duty together. He has taken over as the interim operations officer until Commander Egan’s replacement arrives.

  I open the door and my heart surges.

  “Hey,” Eric says.

  I step back, he follows, the door closes, and I’m in his arms.

  He squeezes so hard, it’s difficult to breathe.

  “God, I missed you,” he whispers in my ear.

  He pulls away slightly, looking me over.

  “How are you?” he asks, his eyes drifting downward and stopping on my arms, now yellowed with the aging bruises.

  “I’m good,” I say, holding them up for inspection.

  “They’re healing,” he says.

  “But I have new ones.” I turn and show him the backs of my legs, raising my shorts slightly so the welts are clear.

  “What the hell?”

  “Wog Day.”

  “No way! Was I just hugging a
newly minted Shellback?”

  “A genuine, bona fide Shellback, and with the scars to prove it.”

  I take his hand, leading him to a seat on Em’s bunk. I cross my legs and turn to face him.

  “Did you get sick?” he asks with devilish curiosity. He seems intent on ignoring the elephant in the room—Knight Rider. But for now, I’m glad of it. I don’t want anything to spoil this time between us.

  “Yep.”

  “Wog Breakfast?”

  “No, Royal Baby.”

  “You threw up on the Royal Baby?”

  “No, I threw up before I ever got there. Just looking at what was coming … god.”

  I make a face as my stomach turns a mild queasy twist at the memory.

  “But it’s just a big fat guy with grease on his stomach,” he says, chuckling lightly at my sour expression.

  “Yeah and that guys pulls your head into his stomach and rolls it around. Yuck!”

  “Did you get the cherry?” He cringes.

  “I did, and by that time, I didn’t have anything left to throw up. I was just dry heaving after that.”

  He laughs. So good to hear him laugh.

  “So you’re already a Shellback then, I take it?”

  He nods while looking at my arms again. “Did anyone ask questions?”

  “No. I was able to hide them. And then Wog Day came along and they assumed my arms fell victim to a few errant shillelagh whacks.”

  “Good cover.”

  But then, thinking about my bruised arms, I remember something.

  “Commander Egan is no longer on this ship,” I say.

  “Is that so?” he says, feigning ignorance.

  “And you don’t know anything about that?”

  “Has it been better for you?”

  “Seriously, how did you—”

  “You didn’t answer my question. Has it been better?”

  “In that regard, certainly.”

  “In that regard?”

  “Well—” I stop myself. I don’t want to complain. “Are you hungry?”

  * * *

  I walk down the deserted passageway to the wardroom, proceeding to the counter that reliably supplies the makings for peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. I prepare two of them before spying the apple pie that Petty Officer Sampson has left out from lunch—two slices remain.