Ride the Thunder. Lindsay McKenna

Lieutenant Steve Anselmo, was reassigned to his own Huey. You’ve got to stand down for tonight. Go back to the tent area and get some sleep. You’ve been flying for twelve hours nonstop today. Your copilot request has been logged. The major is seeing what can be done.”

      Harried, Nolan shoved his long fingers through his short, dark brown hair. He glared at the officer, and then at the men who were hurrying to load a cargo of bottled water into his chopper. “Look, gimme a break, will you, Joyce? You know there’re people in my area that are literally dying of thirst. Would you deprive them?” He was in her face, glowering down at her as she stood before him in her dark green wool Marine Corps uniform and jacket to guard against the evening chill. Her cropped blond hair was tucked beneath her dark green garrison cap. Her eyes narrowed as he towered over her, trying to intimidate her into releasing him for one last flight.

      “This won’t work, Nolan. Stand down,” she said, gritting her teeth. A slight wind riffled through the area and the papers on her clipboard rustled.

      “Dammit, Joyce, I’m not intimidating you for the hell of it,” he rasped, backing off. “Think about those people out there, will you?”

      “I am,” she said in a steely tone. “I’m thinking that you’re sleep deprived, Nolan. You’ve had two temporary copilots, and you’ve used up both of their flying time allowance, while you’ve kept flying. Look at you!” She gestured toward his face. “You’ve got dark circles under your eyes. Your eyes are bloodshot. You’re a cranky old bear, you’re irritable and you’re getting just plain mean. Now, this is an order—get out of here. Go to the chow hall and eat. Then go to the makeshift tent area and sleep, will you?”

      Nolan knew he was beat. Joyce was from the flight desk. She didn’t set the flight schedules, she only enforced them. Rubbing his jaw, which badly needed a shave, he looked around. The flight line reminded him of a harried hive of bees hyped up on an overdose of steroids. Ten huge tarpaulin-covered trucks had arrived, filled with medical, food and water supplies for the ten Hueys that were now on the flight line. Their blades were tied down, the pilots standing by or taking a quick break before they had to get to their assigned areas once again.

      “Joyce,” he said, exasperated, “you don’t have another flight crew to take over my Huey. This bird is down until tomorrow morning, when you’ll let me fly it again. What a waste! I could do one more flight. Just one?” And he held up a finger beseechingly.

      Mouth tightening, Joyce said, “Nolan, I’ve known you almost two years now, and ordinarily, I’d let you get away with what you want. But not this time. You’re tired. You’ve met your flight limit for a twenty-four-hour period. You don’t have a copilot.” She shook her head. “Somehow, I gotta find you one for tomorrow morning. They don’t grow on trees, you know.” Her own frustration was obvious in her soft voice. “Don’t you think I want to give you clearance to deliver that water? Don’t you think I know there’re people out there, literally dying of thirst? I know area six is a Latino barrio, and it’s really bad off, but I can’t do this. I can’t authorize it. I’d be looking at a court-martial, and I’m not willing to put my career on the line for it. Please…just go to the chow hall, grab something to eat and then go crash in your assigned tent.”

      Nodding, Nolan whispered, “Yeah, Joyce…I know you’re right, but dammit, you don’t see the hope in those little kids’ faces when I land with food, medical or water supplies. You don’t see the distraught look in the parents’ eyes, either. Area six is hurting.” He stepped forward. “Can’t you try and have the major swing a second Huey into area six? That barrio is elbow-to-elbow with families. Big families. They’re starving to death out there, Joyce. Can you try and get a second flight of supplies in to them?”

      She smiled grimly. “You really know how to push my buttons, Galway. Heck, I can’t even find you a copilot so you can fly tomorrow morning, and you’re asking for a second flight with supplies into your area? You’re dreaming. Get out of here. Go get some rest.”

      Wearily, Nolan turned and looked unhappily at his bird, which was being refueled as three men from the truck carried box after box of bottled water into the rear cargo area. “Damn,” he muttered. Frustration tightened in his throat. He saw the darkness in Joyce’s triangular face. “Yeah…okay, Joyce. I hear you…but I don’t like it….”

      “I know,” she said unhappily, coming up and patting him on the shoulder. “Go on, Nolan. Get some well-earned rest. I’ll see if I can pull any white rabbits out of a hat for you…but no promises, okay? We’ve lost three pilots to food poisoning in the last two days, and trying to get replacements in has been hell. You see how this airport is stacked up to the gum stumps with incoming and outgoing flights?”

      Looking around, Nolan agreed. The huge C-141 Starlifters from the Air Force were bringing in record amounts of foodstuffs, which had to be transferred out of their wide, gaping bellies to awaiting military trucks. Once loaded, the trucks lumbered slowly, like elephants, over to the helicopter flight line. Ground crews then began loading the supplies onto the choppers. Once each helo was carrying a maximum weight load, it would take off to its assigned destination.

      “Yeah…okay. Just find me a copilot, Joyce. I don’t care if he’s green and from Mars. Just so he can sit in the left-hand seat so I can legally fly my bird tomorrow morning, okay?”

      Grinning tiredly, Joyce said, “I even thought of blowing up one of those plastic balloon men and strapping it into your chopper so you could fly.”

      Chuckling, Nolan said, “You know where to find one?”

      “Oh, no you don’t!” She laughed.

      There wasn’t much laughter around the airport and Nolan appreciated the moment with Joyce, who had one hell of a job assigning flights and juggling personnel to keep in compliance with Federal Aviation Agency rules of flying. They were desperate for more pilots. Everyone had met their maximum flight hours in the first seven days, and by now were exhausted. Push had come to shove, and Nolan knew they were in for a long haul. But he also knew that there were people out there beyond the base starving to death, dying from lack of water, or desperately needing emergency medical attention. The weight of that knowledge bore down on his broad shoulders like ten tons, and he couldn’t escape it.

      Again patting him on the back in a motherly fashion, Joyce murmured sympathetically, “Get out of here, Nolan. You’ve earned this rest.”

      “What time do you want me back here?”

      “At 0500. But that’s not a promise you can fly, or that I’ve found you a replacement copilot, okay? Don’t come waltzin’ in here like you’re just gonna sit in that bird and take off. Come see me at the flight desk first.”

      “I hear you,” he murmured, giving her a wink. “Good night….”

      “Yeah….” Joyce turned and hurried down the flight line toward two pilots waiting near a Huey that was presently being loaded.

      Well, hell, Nolan thought as he made his way toward the chow hall tent near Ops, the place where his copilot had been severely poisoned three days ago. He noticed as he approached the huge tent, with its olive-green tarpaulin, that the line was shorter tonight. Navy cooks clothed in white uniforms stood in a row in one corner of the tent, behind large rectangular pans filled with steaming food.

      Grabbing an aluminum tray from the teetering stack, Nolan trudged tiredly over to the line. He noticed a number of pilots he knew ahead of him, inching toward the food service. A few strings of naked lightbulbs had been rigged up beneath the tent canopy, illuminating benches and tables below. The buzz of conversation was low but constant. Many of the flight personnel, plus men and women who fueled the birds, crew chiefs and their teams who kept the helos flying and repaired them, were in here, too. Usually, nighttime meant fewer flights, because all available pilots had flown their maximum hours.

      Frowning, Nolan wiped his face on his sleeve. He needed a shave. At the small tent where he and his copilot slept, there wasn’t a razor or water. A lot of the normal amenities had been blown to the wind with this continuing crisis.

      Looking