Firstborn. Lindsay McKenna

Ms. Dazen?”

      “Yes, I am, Mr. Trayhern. Let’s fly….”

      Annie held the pen in her right hand, the clipboard across her thighs as the Apache lifted smoothly from the ground. She talked him through the air corridors flight pattern that every helo had to follow when taking off from the base. Once they were out over the countryside, the flat plains of Kentucky changed to gentle, rolling hills, a landscape of green, as they flew across the state boundary into Tennessee. The massive Army base sprawled across the state line, part in Tennessee, but the bulk of it in Kentucky, where ninety-three thousand acres had been set aside for flight training and firing ranges.

      At this time of day, flying was often rough, and Annie was jostled continuously as the helo hit air pocket after air pocket. As the summer sun beat down on the earth, thermals rising off the hills created unstable conditions that made flying a challenge.

      “I remember this,” Jason said, feeling the collective and cyclic in his hands. It felt good to be flying again. They were at five thousand feet and heading to a restricted air space where they could fly maneuvers without hitting a civilian plane.

      “What? The thermals?”

      “Yeah,” Jason said. He’d been nervous, but the comforting shudder of the helo had taken his anxiety away. “We all went through Apache training school in Alabama. I remember I always got afternoon flights, when the humidity was at its highest. It wasn’t fun at first. My lunch was always comin’ up. Flying out of this base reminds me of afternoon flights at Fort Rucker.” Southern states in the U.S. always got high humidity coming in off the Gulf. At Fort Collins, Colorado, the air was much drier, making it easier to fly.

      Chuckling, Annie looked around the sunny cockpit, then drew down the dark visor on her helmet. “Oh, yeah, bag time. How long ago did you last eat?”

      He laughed shortly. “Bag time” meant throwing up during flight, into a red plastic bag that was stored in the right pocket of every cockpit. “Not to worry this time around. I learned a long time ago to eat lightly at lunch.”

      “Fill a few, did you?”

      “A couple. You?”

      “Nah. Indians don’t get airsick.”

      Smiling slightly, Jason found himself curious about her Native American background. “I see….”

      “In all honesty,” Annie told him, “I had two hundred flight hours in helicopters before I came into the Army. And I was kidding about Indians not getting airsick. We’re human just like everyone else.”

      “I’ve never flown with an Indian before. I guess it’s something I’ll have to get used to.” Well, that didn’t come out right, did it? He cringed over his spontaneous choice of words. It was one of his problems: foot-in-mouth disease.

      “Now, should I take that comment as an insult or a compliment?”

      Jason frowned, his gaze flying across the cockpit dials. “No, it’s me not thinking,” he said abruptly.

      “Oh?”

      “Yeah, sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain.”

      “Does it happen often?”

      “Pretty much. And I apologize.”

      She heard him almost choking on his words. Was it because he didn’t say he was sorry very often? Or was he genuinely trying to get along with her but fumbling it? Annie chose to believe the latter, not wanting to think that he was prejudiced on top of everything else. After all, this was his first day in a new squadron with a new air commander. He had to be nervous.

      “You don’t know much about Native American culture, do you?”

      “No…hardly anything. You’re the first person I’ve even run into that was Indian.”

      “I see….” The helo jostled and dropped a good ten feet when it hit a huge air pocket. Annie smiled as she felt Trayhern adjust and stabilize the bird.

      “We moved around a lot when I was a kid. I didn’t get to know anyone too well,” he told her.

      “Typical military brat?”

      “Yeah, kinda…”

      “Not me. I was born on the White River Apache Reservation in Arizona and never left until I joined the Army after high school.”

      “I’ve never been to Arizona.”

      “It’s dry and hot. Not like this place. Fort Campbell reminds me of a sponge. I can hardly wait to get to Afghanistan. It’s hot and dry there like it is on my res. I’ll feel right at home in that desert environment.”

      “Weather is the least of my problems.”

      Annie thought it was an odd statement, but said nothing. “Okay, Cowboy, take this bird to ten thousand feet. Now.” She smiled at the nickname she’d spontaneously given him. He reminded her of an Old West cowboy—stoic, rough, a little rusty on social protocols, but heroic just the same. If he took umbrage with the new handle she’d given him, he didn’t say anything. All pilots had a nickname they were usually called by instead of their real name.

      Jason powered up both engines, and the thumping of the Apache’s blades deepened. In seconds, the helo was clawing upward, the pressure of the climb pressing Annie against her seat. From ten thousand feet, the carpet of trees looked like lumpy green cottage cheese below them. They were safely within the restricted airspace, and she looked at her HUD to make sure no other aircraft was in the vicinity. Usually, at this time of day, few were flying because of the nasty up-and downdrafts created by the sun’s heating of the earth.

      “Okay, nice going, Mr. Trayhern.” Annie leaned forward and shut off both engines. “You are now without power. Get this bird down in one piece.” She heard him gasp once, but that was all. Instantly, the Apache fell, nose first. Without his quick intercession, the bird would have continued to plummet. Trayhern clearly knew what to do. He stabilized the helicopter, using the flailing blades that still whirled above them despite the lack of engine power. An experienced pilot could use the air as a cushion, and the blades as helping hands, to get a chopper down in one piece. As they plummeted closer and closer to the earth, Annie was pleased to see Trayhern moving the wallowing helo toward a small meadow off to the right. That would be where he’d try an emergency landing.

      Jason wrestled with the Apache. The last thing he’d ever thought he’d be doing was attempting a dead-stick landing. She’d cut the engines! Just like that! What the hell was she thinking? His anger surged, then receded as he jockeyed the sluggish bird toward the meadow, which was coming up very quickly.

      Annie braced herself. At one thousand feet, Trayhern pointed the nose downward. The earth came rushing up fast. At five hundred feet he suddenly eased back on the stick, raising the nose abruptly. The whirling blades caught the cushion of air once more. At the last moment, he steadied the Apache. They hit the knoll with a thud and then rolled forward through the grass, finally coming to a stop.

      Annie’s teeth unclenched. They were down, the blades spinning slowly around and around. As she relaxed her jaw, she heard Trayhern breathing hard in her earphones. Placing a checkmark in the emergency landing box, she said, “We’re in one piece. That’s good, Mr. Trayhern. Now take her up again.”

      Jason suddenly realized she was testing him, and the fact made him angry and frightened. What if he had screwed up? Well, he hadn’t on the emergency landing. He flipped on the engine switches, the familiar hum and whine filling the cockpit once more. He busied himself with getting the bird airborne again. Once he had climbed to five thousand feet, he wiped the sweat off his brow. Pulling the dark visor down across his upper face, he pressed the microphone near his lips.

      “Why didn’t you tell me this was a damn flight test?”

      “Why should I?”

      “Because I have a right to know.”

      “No, you don’t. You’re my copilot,