crossed the threshold and disappeared onto the runway before heading for the bathroom and inserting herself into the comfortable cocoon of hot water and white noise, letting the spray block out all but her thoughts.
Long, hot, luxurious showers had always been her best thinking time, something her brothers had never understood—especially when they had to wait endlessly for their little sister to release the bathroom.
But the never-ending supply of hot water in a major hotel was a wonderful luxury, and she’d taken advantage of such opportunities all her life—so much so, Gracie was fond of saying, that her name had become a permanent feature on the environmentalist hit list of international water wasters.
April closed her eyes and tried to remember what it was about the conversation with her mother the night before that was bothering her so. She’d left the hospital around seven and checked into the hotel, then had gone downstairs for a quick sandwich. But her mother was already ringing her room phone by the time she returned. Rachel Rosen needed to go over everything in great detail once more, and it had been therapeutic for both mother and daughter.
Something, however, had been bothering April ever since.
Okay … Dad said the prop threw a blade and everything started shaking wildly.
She let her mind replay her parents’ narratives.
Mom said Dad’s description of the prop blade must be right because there was this incredible noise, just as he said.
She turned around, letting the cascade of water inundate her face, standing in thought a few more minutes, melding her memory of the Albatross with their description of the moment.
April’s eyes fluttered open as an alternate possibility popped into
her head, a slightly bizarre thought that propelled her out of the shower and into a bath towel. She glanced at her watch, calculating the distance to the airport and wondering if there was enough time for a critical errand before her brother arrived.
RNCHORRGE HIR ROUTE TRRFFIC CONTROL CENTER
RNCHORRGE, RLRSKR 8:05 H.M.
April wheeled the rental car into the entrance of the FAA facility and stopped at the guard shack, ready to show her driver’s and pilot’s licenses. As a pilot, it had taken little more than a phoned request and a quick background check to secure the permission needed to visit the windowless radar rooms of the center. Pilots were always welcome, they told her.
April left her car and walked to the entrance, where the man she’d talked to was waiting with an outstretched hand.
“Ms. Rosen? Jay Simpson.”
“Yes. Thanks so much for arranging this at the last minute.”
“My pleasure,” he said, his eyes appraising her in a way that validated his words. “You said you wanted to sit and watch a sector for a little while, right?”
She nodded. “That’s what I didn’t get to do at the Seattle ARTCC.”
“The one in Everett?” he asked, obviously testing her.
“It’s actually located in Auburn,” she said, smiling at his pleased reaction.
Simpson handed her a clip-on security badge and led the way through a series of heavy doors into the subdued light of the main control room. The room was lined with glowing computer-generated screens tracking virtually all airborne traffic over the state of Alaska.
“You already know the basics about our airspace?” he asked.
April nodded with a smile. “I know you work traffic from south of Ketchikan all the way to above seventy degrees north, Kotzebue and Nome and the Bering Strait on the west, and Canadian airspace on the eastern border.”
“You got it,” he said, handing her a small brochure. “That’ll give you the statistics if you ever need them.” They moved up quietly behind one of the control positions and waited until the male controller finished handing off a Russian Aeroflot passenger jet to an adjacent sector. Simpson tapped the controller’s shoulder and the man turned and rose from his chair with a smile as Simpson
Long, hot, luxurious showers had always been her best thinking time, something her brothers had never understood—especially when they had to wait endlessly for their little sister to release the bathroom.
But the never-ending supply of hot water in a major hotel was a wonderful luxury, and she’d taken advantage of such opportunities all her life—so much so, Gracie was fond of saying, that her name had become a permanent feature on the environmentalist hit list of international water wasters.
April closed her eyes and tried to remember what it was about the conversation with her mother the night before that was bothering her so. She’d left the hospital around seven and checked into the hotel, then had gone downstairs for a quick sandwich. But her mother was already ringing her room phone by the time she returned. Rachel Rosen needed to go over everything in great detail once more, and it had been therapeutic for both mother and daughter.
Something, however, had been bothering April ever since.
Okay … Dad said the prop threw a blade and everything started shaking wildly.
She let her mind replay her parents’ narratives.
Mom said Dad’s description of the prop blade must be right because there was this incredible noise, just as he said.
She turned around, letting the cascade of water inundate her face, standing in thought a few more minutes, melding her memory of the Albatross with their description of the moment.
April’s eyes fluttered open as an alternate possibility popped into
her head, a slightly bizarre thought that propelled her out of the shower and into a bath towel. She glanced at her watch, calculating the distance to the airport and wondering if there was enough time for a critical errand before her brother arrived.
RNCHORRGE HIR ROUTE TRRFFIC CONTROL CENTER
RNCHORRGE, RLRSKR 8:05 H.M.
April wheeled the rental car into the entrance of the FAA facility and stopped at the guard shack, ready to show her driver’s and pilot’s licenses. As a pilot, it had taken little more than a phoned request and a quick background check to secure the permission needed to visit the windowless radar rooms of the center. Pilots were always welcome, they told her.
April left her car and walked to the entrance, where the man she’d talked to was waiting with an outstretched hand.
“Ms. Rosen? Jay Simpson.”
“Yes. Thanks so much for arranging this at the last minute.”
“My pleasure,” he said, his eyes appraising her in a way that validated his words. “You said you wanted to sit and watch a sector for a little while, right?”
She nodded. “That’s what I didn’t get to do at the Seattle ARTCC.”
“The one in Everett?” he asked, obviously testing her.
“It’s actually located in Auburn,” she said, smiling at his pleased reaction.
Simpson handed her a clip-on security badge and led the way through a series of heavy doors into the subdued light of the main control room. The room was lined with glowing computer-generated screens tracking virtually all airborne traffic over the state of Alaska.
“You already know the basics about our airspace?” he asked.
April nodded with a smile. “I know you work traffic from south of Ketchikan all the way to above seventy degrees north, Kotzebue and Nome and the Bering Strait on the west, and Canadian airspace on the eastern border.”
“You got it,” he said, handing her a small brochure. “That’ll give you the statistics if you ever need them.” They moved up quietly behind one of the control positions and waited until the male controller finished handing off a Russian Aeroflot passenger jet to an adjacent sector. Simpson tapped the controller’s shoulder and the man turned and rose from his chair with a smile as Simpson
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