James Smith - Hybrid

Corey hung up then rose out of his seat and barked. “Let’s get to the airport!”

“There’s no light craft flying now, Jack.”

Corey seized Montgomery’s wrist and buried his fingernails into his flesh until it turned white. He pronounced each word with a military cadence as he spoke. “Radio to Gardiner. Tell them to get a chopper ready.”

While Montgomery prepared for the trip, Corey dashed home. He entered the side door and brushed past the kitchen table, where a large brown envelope lay unopened with a return address of the Livingston law offices of Higgins, Markley, and Jones. He charged up the stairs, two steps at a time, yanked off his clothes in the bedroom, and pulled another uniform wrapped in plastic out of the closet. It was freshly starched and pressed. Extra starch. He put on the tan shirt with the NPS logo and buttoned it up, then sat on the bed with his trousers and rubbed his forefinger and thumb along the crease. He walked back to the closet and scanned the floor. Where were his goddamn hiking boots?

He rushed to the garage and searched the shelves, looking among the tools and rags on top of and under the workbench. He knocked over a used can of paint and the lid fell off. Black enamel spread like lava over the floor. At the garage door he spotted the boots and kicked them up against the wall before picking them up. When he returned to the bedroom, he pulled on each boot, tying the leather laces with a double-knot. There would be a lot of hiking. In the back corner of the closet, he lugged out his scoped .30/.30, then opened the bottom dresser drawer and grabbed a box of shells, stuffing a handful into each pocket.

What if one of them had a weapon? People were known to shoot rangers.

Like what happened to Willie Petruski with Idaho Fish and Wildlife three years before. Willie tried to arrest two hunters who were stalking elk a week before the season opened. They shot Willie through the heart. Corey attended the funeral, along with over fifty rangers from all over the West. Only time in his life he ever cried.

Next to the box of ammo was a souvenir from his tour of duty in Nam, a Ka-Bar fighting knife encased in a sheath with an emblem of the US Marine Corps. He gripped the knife and twisted it about to study its features. Parkerized finish, with a razor edge. He dragged the blade along a forefinger, just delicately enough to draw blood.

In front of the full-length mirror, he carefully positioned his ranger hat. Bringing both hands up, he readjusted it, tilting it a half an inch to the right, a finger’s width forward. He gazed at his image.

What had happened to the dream? Where did it all begin to fall apart?

It didn’t matter. What mattered was respect. People had to learn that you can’t go around making fools of others, least of all making a fool of him. Some people just didn’t understand that simple moral principle. He jerked back his knee and with a swift kick shattered the mirror. Slivers of glass sprayed out over the bedroom carpet. Too much time had been wasted; had to get back to the airport.

There was urgent work to do for the Park.

Montgomeryfingered his mustache as he sat at the controls of a blue and white Bell 206 Jet Ranger. While the engine was warming he studied the sky and checked his watch one more time.

He held licenses to fly a variety of light fixed-wing aircraft as well as the smaller choppers. All of it was thanks to skills learned in the US Army.

But he had now grown sick of it all. Babysitting his boss to make sure he met his obligations was taking a toll—plus a daily Valium and forty milligrams of Prilosec. The glove box in his truck held a bottle of a hundred Tums but less than a dozen were left. The worst part of the job was covering for a guy whose biggest problem was fanatical hatred for so many he imagined were trying to do him in. McFarland was catching on and that was going to lead to nothing good.

When Corey sauntered toward the helipad Montgomery couldn’t believe what he saw—a rifle strapped over Corey’s shoulder. No ranger, absolutely no one, was authorized to use those scoped rifles stored under lock and key by the superintendent. Corey must have snatched one without notifying anybody. A gust of wind blew off his hat and sent it rolling across the chopper pad.

Montgomery jumped from his seat and chased it down. When he handed it over, he noticed a glob of dried blood on Corey’s shirt collar and the back of his neck was scratched raw.

“Thank you, ranger,” Corey said, as if speaking to someone he didn’t recognize. “Ready to fly?”

Over the whirl of the chopper blades, Montgomery could only read his lips. “Winds are gusting to thirty knots,” he shouted back. “And they’re calling for heavy precip.”

Corey walked toward the chopper, opened the passenger door and climbed in. Montgomery followed and peered in before the door closed. “Jack, we don’t have the weather going for us right now. Maybe later?”

“Let’s get moving,” Corey said. He spoke with an eerie calmness. “On the double.”

“Sorry, but I can’t go up for any recon this afternoon.”

“I don’t want you to do any recon, shithead. I just want you to take me out over the western border. Take a quick look and we can return. Let’s get flying. That’s an order.”

While Corey entered through the passenger side, Montgomery placed his hand against the cabin door and stared down at the ground. He had the right to refuse orders from anyone when inclement weather loomed.

Corey pounded on the window.

Montgomery yanked open the door and hopped into his seat behind the controls. He put on the headset and checked gauges on the panel, then spoke into the mic. “Gardiner traffic, this is N7785. National Park Service. Lifting off southwest helipad, exiting traffic pattern to the south. Monitoring one twenty-one five, Gardiner.”

Firmly gripping the collective and the stick, he lifted off. Corey sat strapped in, composed and staring straight ahead as if in a trance. Montgomery glimpsed around at the rifle propped up behind the seat. Hopefully, the damn safety was on.

They flew south to Sheepeater Cliff, then turned west to pick up Indian Creek and follow it between Antler Peak and Dome Mountain, staying clear of the 10,000-foot peaks. He was already shifting about in the wind and didn’t need any sudden downdrafts. Keeping south of Echo Peak, he veered to the northwest until he spotted Grayling Creek south of Crowfoot Ridge, then followed the creek toward the Park border at Highway 191, maintaining a heading of due north.

Corey pressed his forehead against the window. Montgomery tightened his grip on the stick and fought the winds blasting across the Gallatin Range.

“Circle back,” Corey said in a low monotone.

When Montgomery brought the chopper around, Corey pointed down at a parking area off the highway. A pickup was parked with a horse trailer attached.

“Let’s explore those trails,” Corey mumbled, barely audible. Montgomery flew low over the treetops for a better view. Not sure which trail was which, he covered several miles along two of them. The third trail followed the Gallatin River, the largest stream in the area.

They both spotted the figures by the Gallatin at the same time. Two hikers were pulling a pack animal and running for cover.

“Good job, ranger!” Corey said. “Take me downstream and find somewhere to land.”

“You want me to land?”

“What did I just say?”

“I have to get you back to headquarters, Jack. You’re my responsibility.”

“I said, set this thing down. Now.”

Montgomery dropped the craft into a narrow clearing close to the riverbank. As soon as they touched down, Corey released his strap and jumped out the open door. He reached behind the passenger’s seat and grabbed the rifle, then strapped it over his shoulder and looked back at Montgomery. “Thanks for the ride. I can handle it from here.”