Chapter 10 - THE CLEAR BLUE
Three weeks later.
The morning air over Republic Airport in Farmingdale, Long Island, was crisp and clear, smelling faintly of aviation fuel and cut grass.
Mara stood on the apron outside Hangar 4, wearing a dark green canvas flight jacket over her white shirt. She held a steaming paper cup of black coffee in her right hand.
Beside her, a small, two-seater acrobatic trainer aircraft—a sleek, white Extra 300 with blue racing stripes along its wings—sat glinting in the morning sunshine.
The hangar door rolled open, and a man in his late thirties with dark hair and a flight suit stepped out, carrying two light aviation helmets under his arm. He looked at Mara, a warm, knowing smile spreading across his face.
"You're late, Dalton," he said, holding out one of the helmets to her.
"Traffic on the Long Island Expressway," Mara replied, taking the helmet and running her fingers over the smooth fiberglass shell. "It's a ground problem."
"Are you ready to go back up?" he asked, looking down at her wrist, where the faded 421st Fighter Squadron patch was completely visible in the sunlight.
Mara looked up at the sky. It was a vast, unbroken dome of vivid, deep blue, stretching out endlessly over the Atlantic Ocean. There were no storm clouds. No warning lights. No ghosts.
She adjusted her helmet, pulled the strap tight under her chin, and smiled—a real, unreserved, radiant smile that reached all the way to her eyes.
"I've been ready for two years," Mara said.
She stepped up onto the wing of the aircraft, swung her leg over the cockpit canopy, and lowered herself gracefully into the pilot's seat.
May you like
As the propeller turned over, roaring to life with a clean, powerful hum, Mara reached out and rested her hand gently on the throttle lever. She didn't hesitate. She didn't look back.
She pushed the throttle forward, and took to the air once more.
