approached from above the clouds. It materialized through the layer just offshore, then beat its way in toward the clearing.
We were sitting under the mess canopy, waiting for the Army and the rain. We hadn’t seen Chan since morning, and the brief hope sparked by her departure had faded. We’d told Bolton and Elliot about the plans for the power cells. Bolton listened with a polite skepticism, his eyes flicking restlessly across the landing field. Elliot hummed and spat sunflower husks.
Now we sat and watched the ugly machine coming in across the clearing. It was squat and slow, and spent a while finding the right position before it waddled onto its tiny legs and the pilot killed the engines.
We wandered out to watch. As the rotors spun down one of the cargo doors slid open and an MP stepped out and looked around. The pilot and her chief kicked open their own doors and leaned against the fuselage. It got quiet.
Then all at once Chan was racing around a corner and up to the helicopter. She pushed her way past the pilot with a mumbled apology, then pulled herself up to look at the instrument panel. She slipped back down and ran out of sight between the buildings.
The pilot took the performance with good enough humor, but the MP tensed. He watched her go, then walked over and stopped in front of Bolton.
“I understand we’re giving you a lift off the island? Kits ready? Anything heavy?” He was being friendly, but he looked at each of us in turn and didn’t seem to miss much.
We couldn’t think of anything to say.
The silence was broken when Chan ran up to the helicopter again, back past the pilot and into the seat. She picked up the microphone and set one of the radios, breathing hard from the run.
The pilot put her hands in her pockets and watched. The chief wandered around the nose to see. The MP folded his hands across his chest.
Chan brought the microphone to her lips.
“Paradise Control, Watchdog Three on guard.”
“Watchdog Three, Paradise. Go ahead.”
“Paradise, be advised I have a signature on a CH-seven-seven in grid four-two oscar, restricted zone.” She seemed to be reporting a sighting of the very aircraft she was calling from, although our island’s position in 42-oscar had never been restricted.
A pause by the controller.
“We show no restrictions in forty-two oscar, Watchdog. Say your point of origin, please.”
Chan ignored him. “Check your overlays, Paradise.” The morning’s airspace notices, not yet on the master grid.
“Stand by.”
Chan’s hand shot out to the frequency selector and waited. The MP turned to glance at Bolton, then looked back.
“Thank you, Watchdog,” said the controller.
Chan spun the selector and the same controller’s voice came up on the new frequency.
“—ster one-five, Paradise Control. Acknowledge.”
Chan stuck the microphone out the door to the pilot.
“It’s for you.”
The pilot raised an eyebrow but took the mike.
“Duster one-five.”
“One-five, you’ve entered restricted zone niner-zulu without authorization—”
The controller stopped.
“Stand by, one-five.” Apparently something else had popped up in front of him.
Chan ducked under the microphone cord and walked lightly around the MP to stand between me and Bolton. She squeezed my hand. The pilot and her chief looked at each other. The MP stared at the microphone.
“Duster one-five, our apologies. You are cleared into R-niner-zulu to pick up one Warrant Officer A. W. Paulson for routine reassignment, then return Motherlode-direct. All other orders are superseded. Clearance expires on zone departure. Contact me on engine-start.”
“Cleared R-niner-zulu, return Motherlode-direct. Roger one-five.” The pilot clipped the mike back and put her hands in her pockets. She and her chief leaned against the fuselage to watch us.
The MP stood halfway between them and our little group, then finally he, too, turned back to face us, looking grim. No one spoke.
Finally
We were sitting under the mess canopy, waiting for the Army and the rain. We hadn’t seen Chan since morning, and the brief hope sparked by her departure had faded. We’d told Bolton and Elliot about the plans for the power cells. Bolton listened with a polite skepticism, his eyes flicking restlessly across the landing field. Elliot hummed and spat sunflower husks.
Now we sat and watched the ugly machine coming in across the clearing. It was squat and slow, and spent a while finding the right position before it waddled onto its tiny legs and the pilot killed the engines.
We wandered out to watch. As the rotors spun down one of the cargo doors slid open and an MP stepped out and looked around. The pilot and her chief kicked open their own doors and leaned against the fuselage. It got quiet.
Then all at once Chan was racing around a corner and up to the helicopter. She pushed her way past the pilot with a mumbled apology, then pulled herself up to look at the instrument panel. She slipped back down and ran out of sight between the buildings.
The pilot took the performance with good enough humor, but the MP tensed. He watched her go, then walked over and stopped in front of Bolton.
“I understand we’re giving you a lift off the island? Kits ready? Anything heavy?” He was being friendly, but he looked at each of us in turn and didn’t seem to miss much.
We couldn’t think of anything to say.
The silence was broken when Chan ran up to the helicopter again, back past the pilot and into the seat. She picked up the microphone and set one of the radios, breathing hard from the run.
The pilot put her hands in her pockets and watched. The chief wandered around the nose to see. The MP folded his hands across his chest.
Chan brought the microphone to her lips.
“Paradise Control, Watchdog Three on guard.”
“Watchdog Three, Paradise. Go ahead.”
“Paradise, be advised I have a signature on a CH-seven-seven in grid four-two oscar, restricted zone.” She seemed to be reporting a sighting of the very aircraft she was calling from, although our island’s position in 42-oscar had never been restricted.
A pause by the controller.
“We show no restrictions in forty-two oscar, Watchdog. Say your point of origin, please.”
Chan ignored him. “Check your overlays, Paradise.” The morning’s airspace notices, not yet on the master grid.
“Stand by.”
Chan’s hand shot out to the frequency selector and waited. The MP turned to glance at Bolton, then looked back.
“Thank you, Watchdog,” said the controller.
Chan spun the selector and the same controller’s voice came up on the new frequency.
“—ster one-five, Paradise Control. Acknowledge.”
Chan stuck the microphone out the door to the pilot.
“It’s for you.”
The pilot raised an eyebrow but took the mike.
“Duster one-five.”
“One-five, you’ve entered restricted zone niner-zulu without authorization—”
The controller stopped.
“Stand by, one-five.” Apparently something else had popped up in front of him.
Chan ducked under the microphone cord and walked lightly around the MP to stand between me and Bolton. She squeezed my hand. The pilot and her chief looked at each other. The MP stared at the microphone.
“Duster one-five, our apologies. You are cleared into R-niner-zulu to pick up one Warrant Officer A. W. Paulson for routine reassignment, then return Motherlode-direct. All other orders are superseded. Clearance expires on zone departure. Contact me on engine-start.”
“Cleared R-niner-zulu, return Motherlode-direct. Roger one-five.” The pilot clipped the mike back and put her hands in her pockets. She and her chief leaned against the fuselage to watch us.
The MP stood halfway between them and our little group, then finally he, too, turned back to face us, looking grim. No one spoke.
Finally
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