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I imagine Lego leaning over the rim of the main cabin door—a door that rises to waist level—his body half in and half out of the helicopter, peering into the clear air.

“Sir, is your window open?” Messy asks.

“Yeah—” Commander Claggett says, his answer cut off by another spate of coughing. “And I can't see shit!” he finally finishes.

“Can you jettison your escape hatch?” Messy says.

“Just a sec.”

“Okay, ma'am, still lookin' good,” Lego says. “We're about fifty yards out. Nice and steady. Lookin' good.”

“The hatch's gone,” Commander Claggett says roughly, then clears his throat. “You're fifty feet above the water.”

“Okay, ma'am, steady on the descent and let's slow it down,” Lego says. “Mess, can you see if you can pull her window open?”

Messy pokes his head into the cockpit and reaches over me to grab the window handle. He starts coughing and has to pull back. “Shit! I couldn't get it.”

“How you doin', ma'am?” Lego says.

“I still don't have a visual,” I say.

I don't think I've ever gripped the controls as tightly as I am now. I'm flying on instruments, we're approaching the back of a ship, one with a very small flight deck, a deck that is anything but stable, and one that I can't see. I breathe through the narrowest slit in my teeth. I know I'll start coughing if I open my mouth any wider.

“Ma'am, we need to descend, nice and easy,” Lego says. “We're almost at threshold. Keep it steady. Steady. There. Crossing threshold. Steady. We're fifteen feet above the deck.”

I look up. Thank God. The ship's superstructure and the stabilization bar—a horizon reference. It's moving in and out of the smoke. Oh, crap. Now it's gone. I can't see the deck below me at all, which is probably a good thing because frankly, I don't want to know. My eyes go back to the gyro.

“Okay, ma'am, back two. Steady. Left one. Steady. The deck's movin' like a motherfucker. Steady. I'll try to call it on a rise. Steady. Back one. Steady.”

I'm swimming in sweat and my hands are starting to cramp.
Come on! Get this down!

Because Commander Claggett has jettisoned his escape hatch, the sound of the rotors echoing against the metal of the aircraft hangar doors resonates like thunderclaps. Wind gusts through the cockpit, rushing across my face, yet doing nothing to rid the aircraft of smoke.

“Once you're on deck, you'll need to keep flyin',” Lego says. “There's a good chance we might have to pick up again. Back one. Steady. Up one. Steady. Left one. Steady. Steady.”

I don't know how much longer I can hold this. My throat is scratchy and I can't start coughing now. Commander Claggett is hacking next to me. Oh please, let us get down fast.

“Sorry, ma'am. Left one. Steady. Left one. Steady. The deck's just … goddamn it! Steady. Left one. Okay, steady. Steady. Now! Down, down, down!”

I drive the helicopter to the deck, landing firmly. The chock and chain men run under the rotor arc to secure us.

The ocean lifts the ship, tossing it down the steep backside of a colossal swell, the wheels of the helicopter perilously close to slipping. If they do, we would slide straight across the deck and topple over the edge. So I move the stick like I'm flying, to keep the wheels in place while the men underneath work to tie us down. I'm still operating in the blind, so the manipulating of the controls is happening by feel. Shit. This is
not
good.

“Easy back on the cyclic,” Lego says. “Stay with it.”

Come on! Come on! Come on!

“Stay easy back,” Lego says. “We're still pitchin' down. Stay with it. Stay with it.”

God, this is taking forever!

“Damn it already! Come on!” Lego says, imploring the chock and chain men to hurry. “Okay, steady, ma'am. We're starting to pitch up now. Easy forward. Easy forward. You've got this. Steady. One more chain to go. You've got this. Steady. Steady. Okay, we're chained. Shut the bird down ASAP!”

You don't have to tell me twice.

I slump in my seat.
Holy hell …

 

4

“Mess, get the pax out the back!” Lego shouts.

Commander Claggett reaches by feel for the switches to kill the engines, while at the same time, Lego, who has jumped down to the deck, yanks on the outside handle of the pilot's escape hatch until it falls free. I breathe deeply, pulling in a lungful of smoke, and immediately begin coughing.

I rip out my radio cord, undo my harness, and fumble to get out. It's about a five-foot drop to the deck from where I'm sitting, so Lego helps me down. Smoke is billowing out of the aircraft, and through the haze, at least a dozen sailors run toward the bird, some in flight suits, some with firefighting gear. I double over, racked with a fit of coughing. Lego keeps one hand on my back and the other on my arm as he leads me away. Several people rush to my side, supportive hands, ushering me along. The ship is pitching so violently, I'm having trouble balancing.

I need some space. I need to sit down.

“Fuck!” Lego shouts, looking behind us. “What the fuck are they doin'? Shit, they're comin' with fire extinguishers!” Lego is in a panic. They don't need fire extinguishers for this, and the chemical would be a nightmare if it got into the control box.

“Sir, can you watch her?” Lego says. “I'll be right back.”

“I've got her. Don't worry,” an unfamiliar voice says.

A man wearing a flight suit has me by the arm, leading me away from the aircraft. I quickly read the name tag—Lieutenant Marxen. The logo on the tag is instantly recognizable. Shadow Hunters.

He guides me toward a metal box near the railing that houses deck-edge lighting and I lower myself to sit. Dropping my elbows on my knees, I hold my helmeted head in my hands.

I need to get myself together. I've experienced my fair share of emergencies with this aircraft and it's always an out-of-body experience. I drift away from myself and watch the ultra-focused person that's left shut out all peripheral noise and execute.

The only problem with this ultra-focus is that once we've made it through safely, the extraneous noise I had kept at bay rushes into my brain all at once—the noise of what could have happened—a transmission grinding itself into oblivion and the rotors seizing, an aircraft breaking apart and freefalling, aircrew screaming.

But the worst part is knowing what waits below—an insidiously patient, always-hungry ocean. This fact alone is responsible for my physical reaction now—hands shaking, breath accelerating, body shuddering.

“Are you okay?” Lieutenant Marxen asks, putting a hand on my back.

No, I'm not okay. The enormity of what just happened, what could have happened. That god-awful water just laughing as it waits. I'm not handling it well. Damn it. I hate this about myself.
Just handle it, Sara!

“You're shaking,” he says.

“I'll be fine in a second. Just give me a second!” I say a little too sharply.

He removes his hand.

Lego returns, squatting down to my level. “How ya doin'?”

“Not so good,” I say more honestly.

With Lego, I can be totally open. Same with Messy. When we fly together, one risky mission after another, I entrust them with my life each and every time. Operating in close quarters, I move the controls almost instantaneously with their calls, not questioning, not hesitating, trusting that they're going to get it right. It's hard to hide anything from them, but even so, as a friend, I would never try to.

“Well, you fuckin' rock, ma'am! That's all I gotta say. I've never seen flyin' like that in my life. Hell, I still can't believe what you pulled off. Seriously, you were flippin' amazing!”

“She was flying?” Lieutenant Marxen says. “We couldn't see who it was through the smoke.”

“Fuck, yeah. And thank god she was at the controls. Smoothest pilot we got. Fuck, we woulda gone in the drink otherwise.”

“Kyle,” I say. “Thanks. I couldn't have done that without you.”

“Shit, that was all you, ma'am. But we do make a good team, don't we?” He flashes his crooked smile.

Messy runs toward us, breathing hard. “Hey, ma'am. Doin' okay?”

I nod.

“Kyle, I need you back at the bird,” he says. “Commander Claggett's recovered, and fuck, is he wound up!”

Lego looks to Lieutenant Marxen, who answers his unspoken request. “I'll stay with her,” he says.

With a gentle squeeze on my shoulder, Lego stands and sprints off with Messy.

The flight deck remains in a state of chaos, people running to and from the bird, the ship pitching and rocking to scary degrees I've never experienced before, seawater and salt spray showering us from the edge of the railing. Surely they can't leave the weather decks open much longer.

I turn to Lieutenant Marxen as the coughs begin to subside, embarrassed by the tone of voice I just used with him.
It's not
his
fault you were shaking
.

“Thanks, for just … for sitting here with me,” I say. “I'm feeling better now.”

“You're welcome.” His eyes remain on mine. So steady. I blink and look again. Strong eyes. What a strange thought.

“Eric Marxen.” He holds out his hand and I take it.

“Sara Denning.”

He releases my hand, but not his gaze. As his eyes move across my face, I have the strangest sense that something's not right.

“What is it?” I ask.

“You're, uh … you're not what I expected.”

“Expected? What do you mean?”

He studies me in a bubble of drawn-out silence, oblivious to the frenetic activity surrounding us. His olive-green eyes move quickly, purposefully, sharp like a hawk's. Light brown hair worn in typical military fashion, close cropped, but slightly longer on top, frames an angular face. Several inches taller than I, he has broad shoulders and a lean build, and I have to admit, he's strikingly handsome. And this throws me. I make it a point not to notice the looks of the officers I work with and it usually doesn't take much effort. But I have indeed noticed Eric's, so much so that it's hard not to return his stare.

“It's nothing,” he says finally. “Never mind.”

I don't dwell on the comment, because my attention has been drawn to my hand, the one I hold in front of me, trembling. I make a fist and tuck it into my lap, disgusted by what I'm seeing.

“You know, most of us mere mortals would have been shaking during the emergency itself and probably botched the landing,” he says. “But you held it together when it counted. That's the definition of a pressure player.”

I wish I felt that way.

“You certainly know how to make an entrance!” The man who approaches wears a flight suit, lieutenant commander insignia, and an easy smile. His dark brown skin is slightly lined, his black hair sprinkled with a touch of gray. He holds out his hand. “Brian Wilcox.”

“Sara Denning, sir.” I shout to be heard over the wind.

“Brian is our officer in charge,” Eric says.

“Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Nice to meet you, too. And it's just Brian.”

I've known Brian for exactly two seconds and I instantly like him. Far more relaxed and easygoing than Commander Claggett.

Brian waves over the rest of the Shadow Hunter pilots, and as they encircle us, Eric makes quick introductions. “This is Rob LeGrand,” he says, motioning to the pilot standing next to Brian.

“Hey, Sara,” he says, ducking to avoid a shower of seawater.

“And Ken Watkins, Ben Holcomb, and finally, Stuart Grady,” Eric says, pointing to each. “So get this, did you know that Sara was the one flying just now?”

“Yeah, we found out from the crewmen,” Brian says. “All I can say is
wow
.”

The others nod in agreement.

This is new.

“Let's get out of this weather,” Brian says. “Nick has already gone in. I think he's calling the
Kansas City
to let them know what's up.”

Funny, I can't bring myself to think of Commander Claggett as “Nick.” It would make him too … normal.

As I push myself to my feet, Brian adds, “We'll head to the wardroom. We can get you some coffee or something.”

“Sounds great. Let me just run by the bird first,” I say.

I zigzag toward the aircraft on unsteady legs, removing my helmet. The wind promptly whips my hair into a frenzy, wild strands blowing across my face and sticking to my mouth.

The only way I can wear my helmet with any degree of comfort is to have my hair down. I tuck it in my flight suit for flying and then tie it up before I leave the aircraft because it's too long to wear loose. I'll need to grab my hair tie from my helmet bag first thing.

As I corral my hair with my free hand, I look back to see the group following me. Maybe they're curious about what happened to the transmission just like I am.

A crowd of maintenance guys from the Shadow Hunters cluster inside the aircraft, Lego and Messy in the middle of it all. I poke my head in the main cabin door and make eye contact with Lego.

“Ma'am, the tranny just basically shat itself! We're gonna have to replace the whole fuckin' thing!”

“What?”

“Yeah, we're gonna have to do it right here, too.”

“But how are we going—”

“Five four's gonna have to deliver it all—the parts, our maintenance guys. Good god above, it's gonna take fuckin' forever to get this done.”

I turn to Brian and the rest of the pilots. “And we're going to be clogging your deck the whole time.”

With our helicopter taking all the space on the flight deck, there won't be room to move their helicopters out of the hangar. This sucks for them. Oh, and I bet their captain is pissed. He won't have his air assets available to him the entire time we're here. Not good. That means the whole maintenance effort is going to be performed in a pressure cooker. The only concern of the
Lake Champlain
's captain is going to be how soon we can get off his deck.