“It’s all mechanical,” Blake explained, feeling the need to defend his idea. “Any electrical components aren’t necessary for flight, and Tommy thinks he can bypass them. Like he did for the trucks.”
Gabriel squeezed his hand. “It’s a good idea.”
“I don’t suppose they left us a full tank,” Phin said, looking over Tommy’s shoulder atAirframe and Aviation Mechanics.The book had been at the bottom of one of Irving’shoards. Probably from some abandoned library or an aviation enthusiast’s home.
“A gasoline, kerosene mix. I’m hoping the museum has some in storage, but if not, I think we can mix it ourselves.”
“And the chances of us blowing ourselves and the whirly bird up if we get it wrong?” Phin asked, his eyebrows raised.
“No comment.”
He rolled his eyes and then grabbed Gabriel so they could go look for the fuel in some of the outbuildings. There’s no real reason the museum should have the fuel. The helicopter had been retired and was clearly not used to fly any longer.
But desperation and audacity got them this far, and they weren’t going to back down now.
Tommy pushed the stanchions aside and began setting his books out, muttering to himself as he pulled tools from his bag and stripped his gloves off with his teeth.
Victoria had her arms crossed, lips pressed together as she looked at the helicopter dubiously. “You’re all assuming I can fly this thing.”
Judd wrapped an arm around her waist, tugging her close. “Darling,” he drawled. “You’ve got more talent in your pinky finger than all of us combined. I’d bet the farm there’s not a thing you can’t do.”
She blushed, the red seeping down her jacket collar. For a brief moment, she looked up at Judd, and her eyes softened. Two clear, blue pools full of somethingbesidesirritation and loathing. After a moment, she brushed herself off, pushed away from Judd, and stepped up to the cockpit, beginning to assess the equipment.
It was as close to swooning as Victoria was ever going to get.
Blake shook his head, feeling useless. He walked around the helicopter, getting a good look at the machine.
He’d read that brochure cover to cover, but it hadn’t prepared him to see the Huey in person. In a way, it was iconic. A real warhorse. The kind that was synonymous with the American military. Used in dozens of ways, anything from troop transport, search and rescue, ground attack, armed escort. Hell, they even welded rocket launchers onto the thing.
Blake reached out and let his gloved hands trail across the tail section. He could feel the chill from the metal, the bumps of rivets, and dents from a life lived. If he closed his eyes, he could practically feel the thick humidity of Southeast Asia. Smell wet soil and mossy jungle.
The life expectancy of a helicopter pilot in Vietnam was thirty days. That’s it. Dragged from their beds, shipped hundreds of miles to a place they’d never heard of, all the while knowing that the next time they saw home would probably be in a pine box, under a flag.
Blake wondered if they were angry. If there were restless spirits in military greens wandering jungles, they didn’t recognize. Or maybe they came home. Clung to their bodies just so they could watch the world forget them. Write them off as casualties of aconflictjust so the government didn’t have to admit they lost.
Shaking his head, he pulled his hand back. In many ways, he understood those men. They weren’t soldiers. They were just…people. With lives and plans. Futures they thought were theirs to write. Only for someone they couldn’t see, couldn’t touch, to come in and change everything. To destroy their lives.
Feeling more than a little foolish, he looked up at the rotors and made a quiet plea, whether it was to the ghosts of the men who had flown the Huey or the machine itself, he didn’t know.
Please, will you fly for us?
It wasn’t a demand or an order. It was a question. One this helicopter, Blake, and all the men who rode it before him were never asked. He hoped that counted for something.
“Hey, Blake,” Tommy called from the front of the Huey. “Can you hold this flashlight?”
He swallowed thickly. “Yeah.”
Firelight flickered across the pages of his paperback novel. Shadows licked between the neat, printed letters as Blake shifted to get better light. The book was one of those classic, nondescript romance novels that were a dime a dozen. They lined grocery store and pharmacy shelves, authors’ names and titles in script so curled it was sometimes difficult to distinguish. It was the size of his hand, the spine bent and bulging from holding so many pages in such a convenient little package.
But it was the pages Blake loved the most. Not just because that’s where the story was, but because of the smell. That rich, warmed almond-like smell of the printing process. The fluttery feel of pages so thin they just slipped between the pads of his fingers. The heft of pages as they traveled from his right hand to his left.
It was nostalgic. He couldn’t pinpoint a single memory that would make it so, but it was. And he was glad he’d taken the time to slip the novel into his backpack before they loaded up.
Blake was halfway through and found himself enjoying the story. It was just formulaic enough that it was comforting rather than boring, and when the main characters finally confessed to each other, drenched in cold rain and lightning flashing in the whites of their eyes, he smiled.
He’d helped work on the Huey until their hands went numb and Gabriel called it for the night. Now Tommy and Phin were sitting beside the fire, their heads bowed as Tommy spoke and Phin listened, his eyes soft like a well-fed dog lying beside his favorite person. Victoria was sleeping, wrapped up in some commemorative tank-themed blankets stolen from the gift shop. Judd and Gabriel were keeping watch.
They’d brought enough blankets Blake could set up a little nest by the oversized tires of a truck. It was massive, with an open bed. The tires came up to his waist. A two-ton box on wheels.