Ride the Thunder

Two

January 7: 1900

Of all things…! Nolan thought, turning and glaring at his Huey helicopter. It was dark and the garish lights from the flight line starkly illuminated ten Hueys, neatly parked nose to tail as they were loaded with another round of cargo destined for the L.A. basin.

Lieutenant Joyce Mason stood there with a roster in her hands, frowning at Nolan.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but you can’t take this Huey up to area six without a copilot. Your last temp, Lieutenant Steve Anselmo, was reassigned to his own Huey. You’ve got to stand down for tonight. Go back to the tent area and get some sleep. You’ve been flying for twelve hours nonstop today. Your copilot request has been logged. The major is seeing what can be done.”

Harried, Nolan shoved his long fingers through his short, dark brown hair. He glared at the officer, and then at the men who were hurrying to load a cargo of bottled water into his chopper. “Look, gimme a break, will you, Joyce? You know there’re people in my area that are literally dying of thirst. Would you deprive them?” He was in her face, glowering down at her as she stood before him in her dark green wool Marine Corps uniform and jacket to guard against the evening chill. Her cropped blond hair was tucked beneath her dark green garrison cap. Her eyes narrowed as he towered over her, trying to intimidate her into releasing him for one last flight.

“This won’t work, Nolan. Stand down,” she said, gritting her teeth. A slight wind riffled through the area and the papers on her clipboard rustled.

“Dammit, Joyce, I’m not intimidating you for the hell of it,” he rasped, backing off. “Think about those people out there, will you?”

“I am,” she said in a steely tone. “I’m thinking that you’re sleep deprived, Nolan. You’ve had two temporary copilots, and you’ve used up both of their flying time allowance, while you’ve kept flying. Look at you!” She gestured toward his face. “You’ve got dark circles under your eyes. Your eyes are bloodshot. You’re a cranky old bear, you’re irritable and you’re getting just plain mean. Now, this is an order—get out of here. Go to the chow hall and eat. Then go to the makeshift tent area and sleep, will you?”

Nolan knew he was beat. Joyce was from the flight desk. She didn’t set the flight schedules, she only enforced them. Rubbing his jaw, which badly needed a shave, he looked around. The flight line reminded him of a harried hive of bees hyped up on an overdose of steroids. Ten huge tarpaulin-covered trucks had arrived, filled with medical, food and water supplies for the ten Hueys that were now on the flight line. Their blades were tied down, the pilots standing by or taking a quick break before they had to get to their assigned areas once again.

“Joyce,” he said, exasperated, “you don’t have another flight crew to take over my Huey. This bird is down until tomorrow morning, when you’ll let me fly it again. What a waste! I could do one more flight. Just one?” And he held up a finger beseechingly.

Mouth tightening, Joyce said, “Nolan, I’ve known you almost two years now, and ordinarily, I’d let you get away with what you want. But not this time. You’re tired. You’ve met your flight limit for a twenty-four-hour period. You don’t have a copilot.” She shook her head. “Somehow, I gotta find you one for tomorrow morning. They don’t grow on trees, you know.” Her own frustration was obvious in her soft voice. “Don’t you think I want to give you clearance to deliver that water? Don’t you think I know there’re people out there, literally dying of thirst? I know area six is a Latino barrio, and it’s really bad off, but I can’t do this. I can’t authorize it. I’d be looking at a court-martial, and I’m not willing to put my career on the line for it. Please…just go to the chow hall, grab something to eat and then go crash in your assigned tent.”

Nodding, Nolan whispered, “Yeah, Joyce…I know you’re right, but dammit, you don’t see the hope in those little kids’ faces when I land with food, medical or water supplies. You don’t see the distraught look in the parents’ eyes, either. Area six is hurting.” He stepped forward. “Can’t you try and have the major swing a second Huey into area six? That barrio is elbow-to-elbow with families. Big families. They’re starving to death out there, Joyce. Can you try and get a second flight of supplies in to them?”

She smiled grimly. “You really know how to push my buttons, Galway. Heck, I can’t even find you a copilot so you can fly tomorrow morning, and you’re asking for a second flight with supplies into your area? You’re dreaming. Get out of here. Go get some rest.”

Wearily, Nolan turned and looked unhappily at his bird, which was being refueled as three men from the truck carried box after box of bottled water into the rear cargo area. “Damn,” he muttered. Frustration tightened in his throat. He saw the darkness in Joyce’s triangular face. “Yeah…okay, Joyce. I hear you…but I don’t like it….”

“I know,” she said unhappily, coming up and patting him on the shoulder. “Go on, Nolan. Get some well-earned rest. I’ll see if I can pull any white rabbits out of a hat for you…but no promises, okay? We’ve lost three pilots to food poisoning in the last two days, and trying to get replacements in has been hell. You see how this airport is stacked up to the gum stumps with incoming and outgoing flights?”

Looking around, Nolan agreed. The huge C-141 Starlifters from the Air Force were bringing in record amounts of foodstuffs, which had to be transferred out of their wide, gaping bellies to awaiting military trucks. Once loaded, the trucks lumbered slowly, like elephants, over to the helicopter flight line. Ground crews then began loading the supplies onto the choppers. Once each helo was carrying a maximum weight load, it would take off to its assigned destination.

“Yeah…okay. Just find me a copilot, Joyce. I don’t care if he’s green and from Mars. Just so he can sit in the left-hand seat so I can legally fly my bird tomorrow morning, okay?”

Grinning tiredly, Joyce said, “I even thought of blowing up one of those plastic balloon men and strapping it into your chopper so you could fly.”

Chuckling, Nolan said, “You know where to find one?”

“Oh, no you don’t!” She laughed.

There wasn’t much laughter around the airport and Nolan appreciated the moment with Joyce, who had one hell of a job assigning flights and juggling personnel to keep in compliance with Federal Aviation Agency rules of flying. They were desperate for more pilots. Everyone had met their maximum flight hours in the first seven days, and by now were exhausted. Push had come to shove, and Nolan knew they were in for a long haul. But he also knew that there were people out there beyond the base starving to death, dying from lack of water, or desperately needing emergency medical attention. The weight of that knowledge bore down on his broad shoulders like ten tons, and he couldn’t escape it.

Again patting him on the back in a motherly fashion, Joyce murmured sympathetically, “Get out of here, Nolan. You’ve earned this rest.”

“What time do you want me back here?”

“At 0500. But that’s not a promise you can fly, or that I’ve found you a replacement copilot, okay? Don’t come waltzin’ in here like you’re just gonna sit in that bird and take off. Come see me at the flight desk first.”

“I hear you,” he murmured, giving her a wink. “Good night….”

“Yeah….” Joyce turned and hurried down the flight line toward two pilots waiting near a Huey that was presently being loaded.

Well, hell, Nolan thought as he made his way toward the chow hall tent near Ops, the place where his copilot had been severely poisoned three days ago. He noticed as he approached the huge tent, with its olive-green tarpaulin, that the line was shorter tonight. Navy cooks clothed in white uniforms stood in a row in one corner of the tent, behind large rectangular pans filled with steaming food.

Grabbing an aluminum tray from the teetering stack, Nolan trudged tiredly over to the line. He noticed a number of pilots he knew ahead of him, inching toward the food service. A few strings of naked lightbulbs had been rigged up beneath the tent canopy, illuminating benches and tables below. The buzz of conversation was low but constant. Many of the flight personnel, plus men and women who fueled the birds, crew chiefs and their teams who kept the helos flying and repaired them, were in here, too. Usually, nighttime meant fewer flights, because all available pilots had flown their maximum hours.

Frowning, Nolan wiped his face on his sleeve. He needed a shave. At the small tent where he and his copilot slept, there wasn’t a razor or water. A lot of the normal amenities had been blown to the wind with this continuing crisis.

Looking ahead, he spotted a tall woman in an olive-green flight suit waiting her turn in the chow line. It was her again—the woman with the gorgeous black hair. Who was she? Nolan frowned. As she stood there confidently, he stared at the patches on her uniform. On the left upper shoulder was the American flag. As she turned, he saw the squadron patch on her shoulder. His squadron. But she was new. A replacement, maybe? Did Joyce know about her? And then he scowled darkly. Damn women. He didn’t like them as pilots. Lucky for him, he’d never been assigned with one, and he was glad. He preferred flying with a guy.

Still, as she turned and looked around the chow hall, Nolan found himself watching her with interest. She had an angular profile, with that slightly hawklike nose, those high cheekbones and large, expressive eyes. He allowed his gaze to linger on her like a bee feasting on a flower. The rudimentary lighting in the tent made for a lot of shadows, and leached out everyone’s skin color. Though she looked pale beneath the lights, she seemed to have golden skin tones. Most of all, he liked her beautiful, long black hair, which streamed down over her shoulders like a cloak. Nolan’s fingers itched to touch that silky mane.

He laughed to himself, figuring he was so damn tired he felt drunk. This wasn’t the time or place to be thinking about women! Besides, from the looks of it, she was a pilot. Had she been coming to report for duty when he’d seen her earlier today? He knew all the pilots in his squadron. Maybe she was a replacement? But if she was, she’d have a different squadron patch on her flight uniform. He shook his head. Nothing made sense to him. The earthquake had thrown everyone into chaos, and Nolan tried to pay attention to little, everyday things to keep him sane in this insane emergency. But this woman threw him for a loop.

She was a looker, there was no doubt. Nolan knew that ordinarily one-piece, olive-green flight suits were not sexy looking in the least. They were drab and hung like potato sacks on everyone. But she made hers look good. Lean like a greyhound, she was small breasted though her hips flared just enough for the flight suit to show her womanly attributes. Maybe it was the psychosis of his present sleep deprivation that spiked his desires, but Nolan decided he liked her mouth most of all. It was full and soft looking. Very kissable. Of course, he was too dog tired to even follow that thought. Even if a woman snuggled with him in his sleeping bag at this point, he couldn’t do anything about it, he was so exhausted.

Well, at least she was easy on his eyes, a perk he hadn’t expected. Moving forward, he watched her go through the line and then sit in a far corner by herself. And then he saw several other pilots looking at her—going over to sit with her after they went through the chow line.

Nolan chuckled himself. He didn’t hold it against the guys. They were all single and had an eye for an attractive woman, too. However, he wouldn’t even consider sitting with a woman Marine Corps pilot. No way. He preferred his women out of the military—nice, soft civilian types, not hard-edged female officers, who were usually tougher than nails. As he held up his tray to receive his food, Nolan congratulated himself. He wasn’t going to go over and introduce himself to this new woman pilot. Let the slavering wolves—the younger guys—do that. Instead, he was going to eat his food, go to his tent and, he hoped, get a good night’s sleep. At 0500 tomorrow, he was going to pray that Joyce had found him a copilot, so he could fly to the aid of those desperate families.

January 8: 0545

Nolan scowled as the first light of dawn sent a gray ribbon across the eastern horizon. He was walking down the flight line toward his Huey when he saw another pilot standing by the opened door of the fuselage, inspecting the load of water. Nolan rubbed his sleep-ridden eyes. The shadowy morning light was playing tricks on him, he thought, trying to make out the figure by his Huey. It had to be his new copilot. In Nolan’s hand was an order, just signed by Joyce over at Flight Ops, for him to take Lieutenant R. McGregor on as his new copilot. He’d thanked Joyce effusively. She had told him Lieutenant McGregor was his permanent copilot replacement for the duration of the earthquake relief flights. Further, he’d heard that his old copilot was successfully recovering from the deadly food poisoning in that Seattle hospital. For Nolan, things didn’t get any better than this.

His jaw prickled and he rubbed the tender skin where he’d cut himself shaving earlier. Someone had thoughtfully left a bowl of water, some soap and a razor outside his tent. But trying to shave with a mirror and flashlight had proved disastrous. He’d nicked his face at least three different times. As he shaved, he had seen the trucks coming from the C-141s that had flown in last night with supplies. His tent stood in a line with forty others, barely a quarter of a mile from the runway. Usually when a Starlifter came in, the vibrations of the massive engines caused the tents to shake. He’d slept through it all, such was the extent of his exhaustion.

This morning, hope threaded through him as he quickened his pace toward his chopper. He had a new copilot! A permanent one! He saw the guy leaning into the open fuselage, making sure the cargo netting was holding the boxes in place. Good, he liked a copilot who was thorough and efficient and didn’t miss such details. Yes, life was looking good to Nolan. His step lightened considerably as he drew up behind his new copilot.

“Lieutenant McGregor?” he demanded.

Rhona gasped. The man’s voice was practically in her ear. She straightened and whirled around.

Nolan’s mouth fell open. It was the woman in last night’s chow line! The very same one he’d seen heading for Logistics with such determination. Today, her black hair was caught up in a French twist, off her shoulders. Her gray eyes were huge and startled looking.

“Who are you?” he demanded, taking a step away from her. This couldn’t be his copilot! Yet, as Nolan raked his eyes over her upper body, he saw a set of gold aviator’s wings stitched onto her flight suit on one side, and the name R. McGregor in gold letters on the black leather name patch above her left breast pocket. No! This couldn’t be happening! Not to him! Not a woman copilot!

Rhona stared at the six-foot-tall Marine Corps officer. He was looking at her like she was a snake ready to bite him. Gathering her nerves, which were frazzled by his booming voice, Rhona thrust out her hand.

“I’m Rhona McGregor, Lieutenant Galway. I’m your new copilot. Nice to meet you.”

Nolan stared at her long, thin hand. Her fingers were slender, graceful, but with blunt-cut nails—no nonsense hands. A flyer’s hands. That realization ran through his shocked mind before he could stop it. Even worse, he was discovering she was even more attractive in the dawn light than she had been last night in the chow tent. She wore small, unobtrusive pearl earrings in her delicate ears. Her face was oval, her eyes warm, a slight smile pulling at the corners of her soft mouth. There wasn’t anything to dislike about this woman. Not a damn thing, except that she was his copilot!

“I’m Galway, all right,” he snarled. “But you can’t be R. McGregor. I’m lookin’ for a male copilot.” He hooked his thumb across his shoulder toward Ops. “Lieutenant Mason just assigned me a Lieutenant R. McGregor. That can’t be you.” And yet, as he stared again at the name plate on her uniform, Nolan finally grasped the fact that it was. His stomach sank. His anger simmered. Joyce hadn’t mentioned his copilot’s gender. No, she had smiled brightly at him when he’d entered Ops earlier, waved a set of orders at him, telling him the good news. Nolan would have kissed her, if military rules allowed it. He’d been so thrilled at her finding him a partner, that he hadn’t asked any questions. Apparently, he should have.