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“No problem,” she says. “Just a heads up, this is an open channel so if you mention how I walked in on your carnal knowledge of my mom like a couple of teenagers, everyone will hear it.”
“Thanks,” I say drolly, side eyeing her as I listen to the snickers over the radio.
“This is Mike-Hotel-Two-Zero-Two-Two requesting taxi down runway Alpha.”
“Uhh… this is ground to Mike-Hotel-Two-Zero-Two-Two,” crackles over the radio. “Permission granted to taxi and takeoff runway… uhh… Alpha.”
“Copy and out,” she says with a ridiculous smile on her face.
“So how many runways are there here exactly?” I ask.
“Oh, just the one,” she laughs. “There’s a short grassy patch we use in an emergency. Basically, only fisherman Pete takes off and lands there. We all have no idea why and no one’s asked him.”
“That’s… interesting,” I reply, and she laughs.
“Now let’s show you Alaska.”
And then she turns us away from the runway, pulls back on the throttle and launches us at breakneck speed up the grassy embankment. I’ve been in some hairy situation, most of them in deserts, not snowcapped glaciers and forests full of bears so it’s a nice change of pace that this is where I’m going to die. Ironic, really.
“What the fuck are you doing, Merritt?” someone shouts over the radio.
She doesn’t answer, only smiles a maniacal smile that has me clenching my arsehole. Then again, I’ve been in the air with plenty of pilots who felt they needed to prove themselves. Most of them are dead now, but I get it. Sort of.
The climb is so steep and so fast that my ears roar in pain from the change in pressure, and I have to crack my jaw to pop them. I don’t let her see if she’s rattled me or not since a reaction is clearly what she was going for and, based on the voice I heard on the radio, she’s already gotten all the reaction she needs, and then some, from poor Wyatt.
Merritt banks the plane to the left and then levels out over a forest, heavy with trees. She banks again to the right, and I hold my breath because it feels like if I breathe it will knock us one way or another and we’ll smash a wing on either of the hillsides she’s taking us between.
We don’t, but I now know that Merritt Harris has bigger balls than a lot of the SAS soldiers I served with. Maybe not bigger than Mason’s, with his wild look about him.
Wyatt is such a straight arrow that it’s hard to tell. Either way, it’s close and that’s clearly why they rub each other the wrong way and will continue to do so until they rub each other the right way. I also don’t want to think about their intentions toward each other because, since things clicked into place with Zelda, I’m feeling decidedly paternal where Merritt and her sisters are concerned.
She banks again and we fly over a glistening pool of sparkling blue water. A glacier is off in the distance. The sky is bright and shining blue, the sun reflecting off the water. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
She banks again and I watch fish jump in the water as we pass by. She heads back to the forest, and I see deer or caribou running between the trees. Alaska is as wild as it is glorious and I know that I could see myself living here for the remainder of my days, as long as Zelda is with me. Without her, it would hold no joy.
“Fuck,” she bites out, and I look back just in time to feel the jerk of the plane as the engine sputters. “No, no, no, baby. Don’t do this to me.”
“What’s happening?”
“Bird strike.”
“How bad?”
“Not great,” she says through gritted teeth as she wrestles the yoke.
“Mike-Hotel-Two-Zero-Two-Two, this is ground. What’s going on up there?”
“Bird strike,” Merritt confirms. “Losing engine power.”
“Turn back now,” they command through the radio.
“Bad copy, ground,” she says. “We won’t make it.”
“Fuck, Mer,” Wyatt shouts. “You’re not that far, turn back.”
“Can’t,” she whispers. “I know this plane. We won’t make it and I don’t feel like being shish-kabobbed on trees today.”
“This isn’t fucking funny.”
