“Good to hear.”
The president of the university nods in agreement. “We’re very excited about this discovery.”
“It is quite the achievement. Congratulations, Professor Gravett, and to your team.”
She glows in response to the compliment. “Thanks to you.”
Embarrassed, I glance at Ros, and it’s as if she can read my mind. “We should be going,” she says to the group, and we push our chairs back.
The president shakes my hand. “Thank you for your continued support, Mr. Grey. As you’ve seen, your contribution to the environmental sciences department makes a huge difference to us.”
“Keep up the good work,” I say. I’m anxious to get back to Seattle. The photographer will be delivering those photographs to Escala, and then seeing Ana. I’m fighting my jealous impulses and, so far, successfully keeping them under control. But I will be happier when we set back down at Boeing Field and I join them both at the bar. In the meantime, I have a surprise for Ros.
OUR TAKEOFF IS SMOOTH; I pull back the collective and Charlie Tango ascends like a graceful bird into the air above the Portland heliport. Ros smiles with girlish delight. I shake my head; I had no idea she could be this excitable, but then again, I always feel a rush on takeoff. Once I’ve finished talking to the tower, Ros’s disembodied voice asks over my headset, “How is your private merger going?”
“Good, thanks.”
“Hence the house?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
She nods and we fly in silence over Vancouver and WSU, homebound toward my goal.
“Did you know Andrea was getting married?” I ask her. This has bothered me since I found out.
“No. When?”
“Last weekend.”
“She kept that quiet.” Ros sounds surprised.
“She says that she didn’t tell me because of our non-fraternization policy. I didn’t know we had one.”
“It’s a standard clause within our employment contracts.”
“Seems a little harsh.”
“She’s married someone in-house?”
“Damon Parker.”
“Engineering?”
“Yes. Can we help him with a green card? I believe he’s on an H-1B visa at the moment.”
“I’ll look into it. Though I’m not sure there are any shortcuts.”
“I’d appreciate it, and I have a surprise for you.” I veer a few degrees northeast and we fly for about ten minutes. “There!” I point toward the barnacle on the horizon that will become Mount St. Helens as we get closer.
Ros actually squeals with delight. “You changed the flight plan?”
“Just for you.”
As we fly nearer, the mountain looms over the landscape. It looks like a child’s drawing of a volcano, tipped with snow, craggy at the top, and nestled within the lush green forest of Gifford National Park.
“Wow! It’s so much bigger than I thought,” says Ros as we get nearer.
It’s an impressive sight.
I bank slowly and we circle the crater, which is no longer complete. The north wall has gone, a casualty of the 1980 eruption. It looks eerily deserted and otherworldly from up here; the scars of the last eruption are still obvious, running down the mountain, displacing the forest and defacing the landscape beneath it.
“This is amazing. Gwen and I have been meaning to bring the kids to see this place. I wonder if it will erupt again?” Ros speculates, as she snaps photos with her phone.
“I have no idea, but let’s head home now that you’ve seen it.”
“Good idea, and thank you.” Ros gives me a grateful smile, her eyes shining.
I veer west following the South Fork Toutle River. We should be back at Boeing Field in forty-five minutes, which will give me plenty of time to join Ana, the photographer, and Elliot for drinks.
Out of the corner of my eye I see the master caution light flicker.
What the fuck?
The fire light in the engine T-handle flashes, and Charlie Tango dips.
Shit. We have a fire in engine one. I take a deep breath but smell nothing. Quickly, I execute an S-turn to see if I can see smoke. A trail of gray fog lingers in our flight path.
“What’s wrong? What is it?” Ros asks.
“I don’t want you to panic. We have a fire in one of the engines.”
“What!” She clutches her purse and her seat. I shut engine number one down and blow the first fire bottle while deciding whether to land or carry on with one engine. Charlie Tango is equipped to fly with a single engine…
I want to get home.
I give the landscape a quick sweep, looking for a safe place to land, should we need to. We’re a little low, but I can see a lake in the distance—Silver Lake, I think. It’s clear of trees at the southeast end.
I’m about to radio a distress signal when the second engine fire light flashes.
Motherfucking hell!
My anxiety balloons and I clench my fingers around the collective.
Fuck. Focus, Grey.
Smoke filters into the cabin and I open my windows and quickly check all the instrument stats. The dash is lighting up like fucking Christmas. And it may be that the electronics are failing. I have no choice. We’re going to have to land. And I have a split second to decide whether to kill the engine or keep it going to get us down.
I hope to Christ I can do this. Sweat beads on my brow and I dash it away with my hand. “Hang on, Ros. This is going to get rough.”
Ros makes a wailing sound, but I ignore her.
We’re low. Too low.
But maybe we have time. That’s all I need. Some time. Before she blows.
I lower the collective and reduce the throttle to idle and we autorotate, diving down, and I’m trying to maintain speed to keep the rotors spinning. We hurtle toward the ground.
Ana. Ana? Will I see her again?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
We’re close to the lake. There’s a clearing. My muscles burn as I fight to hold the collective in place.
Fuck.
I see Ana in a kaleidoscope of images like the photographer’s portraits: laughing, pouting, pensive, stunning, beautiful. Mine.
I can’t lose her.
Now! Do it, Grey.
I flare—pitching Charlie Tango’s nose up and dipping the tail to reduce the forward speed. The tail clips some treetops. By some miracle, Charlie Tango stays in line as I increase the throttle. We crash-land, tail first, on the edge of the clearing, the EC135 skidding and bumping across the terrain before she comes to a complete stop, in the middle of the clearing, the rotors whipping branches off some nearby fir trees. I activate the second fire bottle, shut down the engine and the fuel valves, and apply the rotor brake. I switch off all electrics, lean across and punch the buckle on Ros’s harness so it releases, lean farther, and open the door. “Get out! Stay low!” I roar, and push her so that she scuttles out of her seat and falls out to the ground. I grab the fire extinguisher beside me, scramble out my side, and run to the back of the cabin to spray CO2 over the smoking engines. The fires are quickly subdued and I take a step back.
Ros, bedraggled and deeply shaken, stumbles over to me as I stand and stare with horror at Charlie Tango, my pride and joy. In an uncharacteristic show of emotion, Ros throws her arms around me and I freeze. It’s only then that I notice she’s sobbing.