Chapter 10 - Bring Him HomeAt 2:17 that afternoon, Colonel Benson authorized our search flight.
The weather office had identified a usable corridor north of the strongest storm activity.
Search-and-rescue personnel had approved a coordinated plan.
Captain Reyes would fly as mission lead.
I would fly Tail Zero-Seven, using the aircraft's targeting sensors to examine the canyon from a safe altitude and relay possible locations to the rescue helicopter.
We weren't going into the storm to prove we were brave.
We were going because the conditions, aircraft capabilities, and rescue plan supported the mission.
That distinction mattered.
Before climbing into the cockpit, I found Lieutenant Mercer waiting beside the maintenance stand.
She looked exhausted.
“Captain.”
“Finch.”
She glanced toward the aircraft.
“Are you going to find him?”
I looked at her.
“I'm going to do everything I safely can.”
She nodded.
“That's what I figured you'd say.”
I noticed she was holding something.
A small photograph.
She handed it to me.
It showed Captain Drew Vega standing beside his wife and their two young sons.
“Drew keeps this in his locker,” Mercer said.
I studied their smiling faces.
The older boy had his father's eyes.
The younger one was missing a front tooth.
“His wife knows?” I asked.
“Yes. The casualty assistance team is with her.”
I handed the photograph back.
“Keep that safe.”
Mercer looked confused.
“Don't you want to take it?”
I shook my head.
“I already know who we're trying to bring home.”
Her eyes filled.
She stepped forward and hugged me.
It lasted only a second.
Then she pulled away, embarrassed.
“Sorry, Captain.”
“Don't be.”
I touched her shoulder.
“Stay with the operations team. They'll need your information.”
She nodded.
I climbed the ladder into Tail Zero-Seven.
McCann stood beside the cockpit.
He checked the final items with the same careful attention he gave every aircraft.
Then he looked up.
“Everything's ready.”
“Thank you, Chief.”
He hesitated.
“Your father used to tell me that the worst reason to fly was because somebody dared you to.”
I smiled faintly.
“And the best reason?”
McCann rested a hand against the aircraft.
“Because somebody needed you, and you had a sound plan.”
I nodded.
“See you when I get back.”
“That's the arrangement.”
A few minutes later, the canopy closed.
I completed the final checks.
The engine came alive beneath me.
And for the second time since arriving at Falcon Ridge, I rolled toward the runway in Tail Zero-Seven.
But this time, no one was questioning whether I belonged in the cockpit.
They were counting on me to do my job.
“Falcon Tower, Talon Zero-Seven. Ready for departure.”
“Zero-Seven, cleared for takeoff.”
I accelerated.
The aircraft lifted smoothly into the afternoon sky.
Below me, the desert unfolded in sweeping bands of gold and brown.
Ahead, dark storm clouds still clung to the western mountains.
Reyes flew in the lead aircraft.
His voice came through my headset.
“Zero-Seven, maintain assigned formation. We'll approach the search area from the north.”
“Copy, lead.”
The flight toward Gold Wash was quiet.
I checked the weather repeatedly.
I monitored fuel, position, and the approved search boundaries.
The last thing anybody needed was another damaged aircraft.
When we reached the northern basin, Reyes began coordinating with the rescue controller.
“Search Control, Talon Flight established north of the search area. Request current beacon coordinates.”
The controller transmitted the latest position estimate.
I entered the search coordinates and began examining the canyon through the aircraft's sensor system.
The terrain was difficult.
Steep rock faces.
Narrow washes.
Broken ground scattered with boulders and scrub.
Smoke drifted from the wildfire farther south.
At first, I saw nothing.
Just shadows.
Rocks.
And the kind of empty desert that could swallow a person without leaving a trace.
Then Reyes called.
“Zero-Seven, fuel check.”
I confirmed my remaining fuel.
We had enough time for the planned search window.
Not unlimited time.
A planned search window.
There was a difference.
I adjusted the sensor's field of view.
A narrow section of canyon came into focus.
Near the bottom, I noticed a pale shape tangled among dark rocks.
I studied it.
“Lead, possible object at the eastern wall of the northern wash.”
“Describe.”
“Light-colored material. Irregular shape. Approximately thirty yards across.”
Reyes began looking through his own sensor.
“Could be debris.”
“Agreed.”
I continued scanning.
The shape shifted in the wind.
Fabric.
My pulse jumped.
“Lead, I think it's a parachute.”
Reyes was silent for several seconds.
Then:
“Confirmed possible canopy. Pass coordinates to Search Control.”
I transmitted the location.
The rescue coordinator acknowledged.
But we still hadn't found Vega.
A parachute didn't mean the pilot had survived.
I widened the scan.
Several yards downslope, a cluster of boulders formed a small sheltered area.
A faint thermal contrast appeared near one of the rocks.
I adjusted the sensor.
The image sharpened.
There was something there.
Something that didn't belong.
I stared.
Then it moved.
Only slightly.
But unmistakably.
“Lead, I have possible movement.”
Reyes answered immediately.
“Where?”
“Near the boulder group southeast of the canopy. Sending coordinates.”
He checked.
Then his voice changed.
“Zero-Seven, I see it.”
I held my breath.
“Can you identify it?”
“Possible person. Can't confirm identity.”
I switched to the rescue frequency.
“Search Control, Talon Zero-Seven. Possible survivor located at transmitted coordinates. Request helicopter verification.”
The rescue controller acknowledged.
A few moments later, the helicopter crew reported they were approaching from the safer northern corridor.
I watched the sensor image.
The figure moved again.
Slowly.
Painfully.
I could see enough to believe it was a person.
But not enough to know whether it was Vega.
The helicopter crew requested updated conditions.
Reyes relayed the relevant weather.
I checked my fuel again.
The flight plan established a minimum reserve requiring us to leave the search area within minutes.
I didn't want to go.
Every part of me wanted to circle until I saw someone lift Vega into the helicopter.
But remaining beyond our safe limit wouldn't help him.
It would only create another emergency.
“Lead, approaching planned fuel departure point,” I transmitted.
“Copy, Zero-Seven. We'll complete one final coordinated observation, then depart.”
I looked at the image again.
The figure had raised one arm.
I felt tears burning behind my eyes.
“Search Control, the possible survivor appears responsive. Movement observed.”
The rescue controller's answer came quickly.
“Copy, Talon Zero-Seven. Rescue helicopter has the coordinates. Excellent work. Proceed according to your recovery plan.”
I swallowed.
“Roger.”
Reyes turned toward our designated route.
I followed.
Leaving that canyon was one of the hardest decisions I'd ever made.
Not because I doubted the procedure.
Because the human part of me wanted to keep watching until I knew.
As we flew away, I heard my father's voice again.
Bring her home.
I understood something new about those words.
Bringing an airplane home wasn't separate from saving lives.
Sometimes it was part of saving them.
Twenty minutes later, we landed safely at Falcon Ridge.
McCann was waiting.
I climbed down from the cockpit.
He studied my face.
“Well?”
“We found a possible survivor.”
His expression softened.
“Then you did your job.”
“We don't know if it's Vega.”
“Not yet.”
I looked toward the operations building.
“I'm going inside.”
He nodded.
“I figured.”
I was halfway across the ramp when my headset radio, still connected through the ground communications equipment, carried a message from Search Control.
“Falcon Operations, Rescue One. We have visual contact with the survivor.”
I stopped walking.
The voice continued.
“Confirming identification.”
A long pause.
Then:
“Survivor identified as Captain Drew Vega. He's conscious.”
My knees almost gave way.
I pressed a hand against the side of the aircraft.
“Thank God,” I whispered.
McCann closed his eyes.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then the rescue crew reported that Vega was injured but stable enough for extraction.
He was going home.
But the relief lasted only until I entered the operations office.
Colonel Benson was standing beside an investigator reviewing the mission communications records.
When he saw me, he motioned me closer.
“Hollis, I need you to hear something.”
He played a recording.
It was Captain Vega's first weather warning.
Then Mercer's recommendation to terminate.
Then Major Calloway's instruction to maintain the assigned corridor.
The investigator looked at Benson.
“Sir, this wasn't the only warning.”
He opened another file.
“Flight operations received an updated weather advisory before that transmission. The advisory was acknowledged at the operations desk.”
Benson's expression hardened.
“And the recall?”
The investigator looked at the timeline.
“It was issued after the flight had already entered the deteriorating area.”
I stared at the screen.
May you like
Because for the second time in three months, a pilot had warned that the weather was becoming dangerous.
And for the second time, the first response from Major Calloway had been to keep going.
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