Everything Has Changed Page 2

  And he got to ride in a helicopter twice a week.

  What guy in his right mind wouldn’t like that kind of job?

  Every Monday morning he drove his raggedy pickup truck a few miles into Anchorage and to the former auxiliary football field at Anchorage High School (home of the Mighty Eagles).

  The term “former” is used here because the Eagles football team didn’t use the field anymore.

  FEMA asked the school board if they could borrow the field for two years to stage supplies before they were lifted by helicopter to home sites at Etlunka Lake and several other places where they were parceling out land for Yellowstone refugees.

  “Gee, we’d like to help,” the school board said. “But we need the auxiliary field so our junior varsity team can practice. We have a winning tradition here, in that our JV wins as often as the varsity does, and we have two powerhouse teams instead of one.”

  “But…” FEMA responded. “It’s really ideal for our needs. We’d be willing to lease it from you for… say eighty thousand dollars a month.”

  FEMA had always gotten more than its fair share of funding by Congress, you see. Nobody wants to accuse the federal government of ignoring Americans in their time of need.

  In the wake of Yellowstone the money tap was turned on full bore for anything having to do with the disaster. FEMA and the Department of Homeland Security were given Daddy’s American Express card and were told, “There’s no limit. Spend as much as you want. We’ll figure out how to pay for it later.”

  FEMA had permission to spend money like a drunken sailor spends his pay on a Saturday night.

  The school superintendent said, “Let us take it under advisement and get back to you in the morning.”

  Later that evening, in closed session out of earshot of the press, they came to a unanimous decision.

  “Screw the JV football team. Take the money and run.”

  Sid now drove to the football field every Monday morning. He arrived by eight, and by eight thirty he was strapping himself into a Sikorsky CH-53 heavy-lift helicopter.

  It was the primary airlifter for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and had been for a very long time.

  Once the pilot had clearance he rose to about a hundred feet and hovered over a large blue bundle of stuff.

  The bundle was blue because it was inner wrapped with a blue plastic tarp forty feet square.

  It was outer wrapped with a nylon cargo net, also blue in color.

  The loadmaster lowered a ventral cargo hook capable of lifting a light tank.

  It was overkill, for the blue bundle of building materials weighed only a fraction of that.

  A ground crew member grabbed the hook and fastened it securely to the net, then gave the loadmaster a thumbs up.

  The pilot rose slowly until he felt a slight jerk; the not-so-subtle indication they’d taken all the slack out of the line.

  It was time to lift off for the first trip of the day to Etlunka Lake.

  There would be many more.

  Sid’s favorite part of going to work on Monday morning was when the chopper came into view of the refugees living in recreational vehicles along the shoreline of the lake.

  It was the first time in his life that Sid ever felt like a rock star.

  He wasn’t, remember, the athletic type. In high school he never went out for sports because he knew his limitations. Even at FEMA, where he was pressured to play intramural softball, he was much more likely to strike out than get a hit. It was so bad his teammates groaned every time he went up to bat.

  He was never musically inclined. When many of his high school friends were playing various instruments in the marching band or in garage rock and roll bands, he was playing with a deck of playing cards.

  Solitaire.

  Academically he was the same way.

  The only thing Sid ever found he was truly good at were Mario Brothers and Donkey Kong. And there weren’t a lot of fans following gamers around asking to take selfies with them.

  Perhaps it was because his self-esteem took a major hit that he enjoyed his new job in Alaska so much.

  When he boarded the helicopter on the Anchorage football field Sid was like everybody else.

  During the forty two minute flight from Anchorage to Etlunka Lake he was no different than any other guy.

  But when they cleared the treetops and came into view of the Etlunka Lake residents… when those residents started cheering and waving and catcalling… well, those were the moments Sid now lived for.

  For the first time in his life, Sid not only felt loved. He felt needed. He felt like he was accomplishing something important.

  Something vital.

  He was changing lives.

  In a good way.

  He felt like Superman.

  Chapter 4

  Hanging eighty feet directly below the big chopper, and swinging slowly back and forth in the wind, was bundle number 10434.

  That number coincided with a lot number on the southwest side of the lake. Section 10, lot 434.

  When this aerial delivery process first started the pilot and co-pilot sometimes had to make two or three sweeps trying to find their target spot in a sea of cleared land.

  Now it was easy to find.

  All they had to do was look for the crowd.

  On the ground, the process never got old.

  Sid had gone around the week before, you see, and had given very good news to the next twenty families or so who were at the top of the waiting list.

  The first of those families, at the very top of that list, was the Hillary and John Marshal family.

  “Congratulations,” he told the family with a broad smile. “You’ll be getting your building materials on Monday morning, on the first flight in. You can expect us sometime around nine.

  “Do not touch the bundle until I come around. We’ll cut the seal together and inventory the contents. If anything is missing I’ll put in an expedited order to have it brought out by truck. If it’s all there you’ll have the go-ahead to start building, and I’ll have the lumberjacks pay you a visit.

  “They will cut the first few trees for you and show you how to notch them.

  “It’s very important that you pay close attention to them, because if you don’t notch them correctly your logs will not fit together properly.

  “After they drop several timbers for you they’ll leave so you can do the notching, but they’ll come back by every few days. They’ll drop more and more trees each time you need them and will check your work, but their job isn’t to do everything for you. Their job is to show you how, so that you can do most of the work yourself.

  “I’ll have other engineers come around to show you how to clear and level the land, how and where to dig, how to run your wire, etcetera.

  “Do you have any questions?”

  There were never any questions.

  What there almost always were, though, were much better than questions.

  There were hugs. Thank yous. Kisses on the cheek.

  Occasionally even kisses on the lips. Just three weeks before Lisa Murkowski, a one-time fashion model and one of the hottest women at the lake planted one on Sid, in front of her husband and God and everybody else.

  It made his head spin and gave him something to smile about for days.

  He leaned out of the chopper’s cabin and saw Hillary and John Marshal and their two young boys standing on the edge of a crowd of twenty or so, whooping and hollering and jumping up and down.

  He had a helmet on and was mic’d into the pilot and his crew.

  On the flight over he’d joined in the usual banter, talking about who did what that weekend and who wound up in the local jail because of it.

  Now that they were over their target, though, Sid grew as silent as a church mouse.

  He was an outsider, and even if they continued this project for another ten years he’d still be an outsider.

  He only came along for the ride twice a week.

&nb
sp; On Monday mornings, he was ferried out to the lake.

  And on Friday afternoons he was taken back to Anchorage.

  He spent most of his time each week working at the lake and sleeping in a FEMA-owned recreational vehicle.

  Just like the residents he was helping.

  The helicopter crew, on the other hand, were as close as brothers.

  They’d been doing this together for years. They were an Army National Guard team who was flying missions together long before Yellowstone even started rumbling.

  They’d worked to evacuate wildfire victims to safety and carry firefighters to work fire lines and hot spots.

  They’d worked to evacuate flood victims as well. And avalanche victims and lost hikers too.

  This crew had flown hundreds of missions together.

  They knew what they were doing, for they had the process down to a science.

  Sid’s input was neither needed nor wanted, but that was okay with him.

  He merely sat back and enjoyed the show.

  He watched tight-lipped as the loadmaster guided the pilot over the large number spray-painted in the dirt.

  The pilot and co-pilot, you see, can see forward. They have a panoramic view of the horizon and everything in front of them.

  But they can’t see what’s directly beneath them.

  When they came in they hovered directly over the target, the nose of their craft aimed due north.

  That made sending and receiving directions easier.

  The loadmaster, manning the line which was holding the cargo, had the best seat. He was in the center of the chopper, looking directly down.

  “Ten feet due west.

  “Good.

  “Twelve to fifteen south.

  “Just a bit more.

  “Perfect. Hold position.”

  The loadmaster’s name was Joe. Back in the days before technology was being developed so fast the equipment the Guard purchased was outdated even before they used it for the first time, things were much more complicated.

  Back then someone on the ground with a radio had to call up to the chopper as the cargo was lowered.

  “One hundred feet. Eighty feet. Seventy feet. Sixty feet.”

  The man on the ground was needed because even from his point of view, it was difficult for the loadmaster to judge the distance from the ground, even when he was directly above it.

  These days there was a wireless altimeter attached to the bundle.

  A radio wave transmitted from the altimeter to a monitor on the loadmaster’s console told him exactly how high above the ground the load was.

  Right down to the inch.

  It made lowering the load without damaging it so much easier.

  Chapter 5

  Once the bundle made contact with the ground the loadmaster pressed a button to sever the load. A QRP, or quick release pin, dislodged.

  The line which carried the load disengaged and fell to the top of the blue bundle.

  The chopper was free.

  But it couldn’t leave yet.

  The pilot pulled forward half a football field, until it was safely away from the crowd.

  Then he gently, almost tenderly, set the bird down.

  The props on a CH-53 helicopter provide enough lift to take several tons of cargo into the heavens.

  With lift comes wind. Lots of it. Enough to create a maelstrom of gale-force winds beneath the chopper.

  When taking off or landing from an earthen surface ten pound rocks have been known to be pulled from the dirt and sent flying.

  The turmoil is especially bad on loose dirt, where the soil swirls madly in every direction as though confused on which way to go.

  The dirt cloud was pushed down and outward from the lowering chopper, causing the spectators to turn away or shield their eyes, even as far away as they were.

  But the dusty turmoil wouldn’t last for long. For as soon as he felt the lurch of the wheels’ suspension system take on the weight of the heavy aircraft, Sid unfastened his chin strap.

  He took off his helmet and handed it to the crew chief over his left shoulder. Then the crew chief helped him unbuckle.

  Sid stepped down from the chopper and, as he’d been instructed to do a hundred times, walked directly away from the craft for forty paces.

  Only then did he turn and salute the crew.

  Now, Sid was never in the military. Never had any desire to be.

  But he’d seen enough military ground crews launch their aircraft to be impressed with the crisp salutes they gave the pilot as he taxied away for his mission.

  He’d seen the ground crews of civilian airliners do the same thing for commercial pilots.

  The first time an aircrew dropped him off at Etlunka Lake he offered up a salute, and the crowd ate it up.

  So he continued to do it.

  He heard that other FEMA reps, deposited each Monday at other refugee settlement locations, had begun to use the salute as well, in appreciation for the flight crews who got them back and forth.

  Once he got the salute from Sid and the all clear from the crew chief, Army Captain Justin Seever rose straight up to two hundred feet, banked his aircraft to the east, and began his return flight to Anchorage.

  They’d make this trip nine more times on this particular day, skipping their lunch break by mutual agreement. By skipping their lunches they could make ten drops instead of nine, and get one more family on their way to building their permanent home.

  If asked about the gesture, Captain Seever would reply, in all modesty, “Ah, it’s no big deal. We’re all too fat anyway.”

  Our members of the Army National Guard and the Air National Guard almost always do far more than is expected of them.

  They do it for little pay, very few accolades, and rare thanks.

  They do it because they’re dedicated professionals and we’re lucky to have them.

  After his salute Sid turned and walked away, because he knew it was better to be blasted from behind by the prop wash than directly in the face.

  On most Mondays Sid didn’t get off the craft when the load was dropped. Normally the load was dropped, then he was delivered to another location, where his recreational vehicle/office was located and his work truck was parked.

  It just so happened that the load they’d delivered on this particular day was just a couple of hundred yards away from his office and vehicle.

  “I’ll walk from the drop,” he’d told the pilot before they departed Anchorage.

  He walked directly to John and Hillary Marshal and greeted them as though they were old friends, with a handshake and a smile.

  From a collapsible leather attaché he removed some paperwork and said, “How about we get our inventory done so you folks can get started?”

  They didn’t have to be told twice. They were chomping at the bits to begin work.

  “Oh, I’m so excited,” Hillary said. “For the first time since we arrived I finally feel like this crazy nightmare is really coming to an end. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “Good,” Sid answered. “Then let’s get started.”

  From his pocket he produced a pair of band cutters.

  “Okay, first off, before I cut off the tag, I need for you to verify the serial number.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll read the number from the invoice. You compare my number to the tag. If it matches, we’ll know the bundle is indeed yours, and that we can break into it.”

  “Have you ever had one that didn’t match?” Hillary asked.

  “Not yet. And hopefully today won’t be the first time. I want you guys to get started building almost as much as you do. Are you ready?”

  “Yes sir.”

  He spoke slowly and deliberately, as though this was the most important thing he’d do all day.

  And to the Marshal family, it was.

  “Seven… three… six… one… four… seven… six.”

  John smiled broadly. Hillary giggled
, then looked at the sky and said, “Hallelujah!”

  Then she hugged her husband, holding him for half a minute.

  The hug she gave Sid wasn’t near as long, but he appreciated it anyway.

  It was one of the perks of the job.

  As though living smack dab in the splendor of Alaska wasn’t enough.

  He cut the seal and gave it to John. Many of the new residents kept them as souvenirs. Many wore them around their necks as good luck charms.

  “Okay,” Sid said. “Let’s spread out the tarp and start separating everything so we can get an accurate count.”

  Chapter 6

  Thousands of miles away from the activities at Etlunka Lake, in the city of Wittlich, Germany, Wayne and Julie Hamlin debated a return to the states.

  Wayne was having second thoughts about running away to teach at a university

  He was a scientist, and one of the world’s leading experts on volcanoes and what made them tick.

  The eruption of the Yellowstone Caldera was the opportunity of a thousand lifetimes. He’d never have another chance to study such an eruption.

  And he was squandering that chance. It was frittering away while he cooled his heels in Germany in a comfortable job.

  A safe job.

  A very big part of him wanted to go back.

  A very big part of Julie told her she needed to stop him.

  That he was a man with little self control.

  She felt that if he went back he wouldn’t study the smoking hole in Wyoming as other scientists were: from a distance.

  No, Wayne would don a thermal suit and venture as close as he could.

  And he might suffer devastating injuries as a result.

  Something else Wayne was:

  He was stubborn as an old mule.

  Ultimately she knew it was his decision.

  If he decided to go back she wouldn’t be able to stop him.

  But then, she didn’t necessarily have to go with him.

  Wayne was like a lot of men, in that it sometimes took him forever to make a key decision.

  Often he’d go back and forth for months, weighing his options; applying pros and cons, arguments and counterarguments.

  Finally, once he made his decision, there was no going back. No changing his mind. It was as though the choice he took was so obvious, so very logical, that it was the only choice he had from the beginning.