Page 46

"Morning, kid," Brian grunts, not looking up from the log.

"Morning," I say, dropping into a chair. Colston takes the seat next to me, kicking my boot under the table.

Des pulls up the route on the monitor. "Alright, gentlemen. The science team swapped out a couple of the tail Doppler components this week. I need you to hold the prescribed headings and altitudes exactly to the numbers today so we can verify the data is clean before hurricane season ramps up."

"Copy that," I say.

It’s routine. Take the P-3 up, fly the profiles Des needs for the radar calibration, and bring the plane home.

Normally, I love days like this. Nothing dramatic, just a few hours in the left seat doing the job I’ve wanted since I was a kid.

Today, my brain won’t fucking cooperate.

By the time we taxi out and I push the throttles forward, I’m thinking about Goldie instead of the flight. About her standing in Colston’s parking garage in those gray sweatpants with that huge smile on her face. The way she threw her arms around my neck and said, We did it.

We fucking did.

I’m going to be a dad.

The thought hits me all over again as the P-3 lifts off the runway, and apparently I’m smiling like an idiot because Colston’s voice comes through my headset a few minutes later.

“Keep your head in the cockpit, Wells.”

I glance over. He’s scanning his instruments, but the corner of his mouth is pulled up.

“We’re dead on the heading.”

“Yeah, I know.” His grin gets wider. “I’m just making sure you don’t start mentally high-fiving your sperm again.”

“Fuck off.”

He laughs under his breath, and I force my attention back where it belongs.

We settle into the first part of the calibration run, and eventually the familiar routine does what it usually does. My brain quiets down. Des calls out what he needs from the back, Colston and I keep the plane where he wants it, and Brian monitors the systems behind us.

Then Brian’s voice comes over the intercom.

“Wells, I’m losing oil pressure on number three.”

That gets my attention fast.

I look down at the engine gauges. The pressure’s dropping and the temperature is climbing right along with it.

“How fast?”

“Steady. It’s not a bad indication. We’re losing oil.”

Shit.

My pulse kicks up, but the rest of me settles in. This is the part people don’t understand about adrenaline. It doesn’t always make you panic. Sometimes it clears out every useless thought in your head and leaves room for exactly what matters.

“Alright. We’re done.” I turn us back toward land. “Des, secure everything in the back.”

“On it.”

Beside me, Colston already has the emergency checklist open before I ask for it. The joking disappears from his face, and his voice changes when he keys the radio, calm and clean as he tells Lakeland we’ve got an engine problem and need to come straight back.

I don’t have to tell him what I need. We’ve done this together long enough that he knows.