Page 29 of Identity Unknown
“Certain aspects of reality you’re about to get exposed to and can’t talk about with anyone except for those of us involved,” she replies.
“Such as?”
“I just said I can’t talk about it. But you’re perceptive. I won’t need to tell you what you’re seeing.”
Lucy turns the helicopter’s intercom switch to the All position.
“Marino? You holding up?” she asks.
“Jesus effing Christ!” His voice explodes in our headsets. “You trying to kill us?”
“That’s not the goal,” Lucy answers.
“I thought the damn truck was going to slam into the trees and pull us down with it. Or swing up so high it knocked us out of the sky like a wrecking ball.”
“Someone did a bad job with the chains,” she says.
“Damn sabotage,” he decides. “Who attached the one that failed? We need to find out. We could have crashed.”
“That wasn’t going to happen,” Lucy tells him.
“I’m seeing lightning. And I assume you are too.”
“The storm’s reaching us quicker than expected, with a possibility of tornadoes,” she says as if it’s no big deal.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me. We’re going to die in fucking West Virginia.”
“I’ll do my best to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Soon we reach Monterey, where people visit from nearbyand far away for the farmers’ markets. A cluster of red metal roofs are a conservation center where scientists work to save endangered species of animals, including ones from Africa, I’ve seen in the news.
“The Brileys are their biggest benefactors.” Lucy gives the place a wide berth, always considerate about not disturbing wildlife.
“So they hunt endangered animals in Africa and hang them on their walls while donating money for their survival?” I reply.
“The way they probably figure it, there’s more to shoot that way.”
“Don’t get me started.” I feel the anger deep inside.
Thunderheads rise blackly, shimmering with lightning as if the gods are warring. The rain is mixed with tiny ice pellets, and at times I can’t see the ground, just the shapes of tree canopies in the billowing gloom. Lucy makes another call on the satellite phone, this time to her investigative partner Tron, asking for confirmation that the landing zone remains unobstructed.
“Because of the trees, I’ll be coming in hot with a tailwind while doing a steep approach,” Lucy explains, and it’s a good thing Marino can’t hear what she’s saying. “It will be hard to keep the tail boom from swinging, and I don’t want anything around us. No cars parked there. Nothing.”
“The LZ is clear.” Tron’s voice sounds in my headset. “Nothing there but puddles. See you in a few.”
A mile from the Oz theme park I can make out the roller-coaster tracks soaring above the foggy horizon. The Witch’sCastle is a gothic silhouette shrouded in gray. As we get closer, the Yellow Brick Road shines through the rainy mist, the turrets of Emerald City a faint etching.
“Look familiar?” Lucy is lowering the collective, reducing power.
“Never seen it from this perspective,” I reply as we thunder low and slow over the entrance.
The front gates are open, the barricades removed to let emergency vehicles through. She eases into a hover as we reach the empty parking lot where I used to leave my car when we visited years ago.
“This is as close as I can get without blowing things around,” Lucy says, the asphalt potholed and cracked, tall weeds whipping in our rotor wash.
We set down harder than usual as she fights the wind. Lightning veins the dark sky above the hulking castle as if the Wicked Witch is throwing a tantrum. The heavens suddenly open, rain drumming the roof. Lucy begins the shutdown, going through her endless lists.
Cutting the engines, she pumps down the rotor brake handle, the blades slowing to a stop. Harnesses off, we open our doors, and I feel the chill and smell ozone. The rain smacks wetly, cold drops pattering on my head as I climb down, stepping on a skid, then the ground. Opening the baggage compartment, Lucy gathers the bright red tiedown straps to secure the main rotor blades.