"Pretty shitty duty," I said to myself. The cobwebs didn't say anything in reply, nor did the old pilots' licenses hanging in their cracked frames. Still, with my MP3 going and a thermos of hot, hot coffee, I wasn't seriously complaining. It sure as hell beat Iraq - nobody trying to blow my ass up again.
I brushed the hair out of my eyes. Long blonde bangs look good in a bar, not so great when the dust swirls like a blizzard and cobwebs hang everywhere. I could feel a thin layer of mud building where the dust contacted the sweat on my skin, and cool liquid trickles under my arms and breasts. Meanwhile, the old-fashioned spirit thermometer outside the small window by the door read a cool ten degrees Fahrenheit.
My cell rang, a short riff from a Talking Heads song, 'Life in Wartime.'
"Yeah?" I said into it. It was the Powder River County Manager calling.
"Haven't you got that place closed up yet? If you get your ass snowed in, I'm not sending the Sheriff out to rescue you."
"Ernie, I'll get the place closed up, although not by your deadline. All of my staff are down with the flu, so it's just the Director of Public Works doing the work," I said.
His tone softened. "Melissa, I didn't mean to be gruff. It's just that the County Supervisors are chewing my ass about the cost of that airstrip. When we took it over, we thought the county could handle the upkeep. Hell, most of them were going around saying the town'd make a profit off the Belle Creek airstrip. Just do the best you can - and be careful, okay?"
"Yeah, sure," I said and ended the call. I wondered about the dreamy quality in Ernie's voice whenever he addressed me. He gave me a hard time, alright, but I know if he hadn't been able to raise me on the phone, he'd be out here, snow or not, just to make sure I was alright. Nice man, maybe we'd go out some time. But even in rural Montana, people frown on a boss dating his employee.
I was just getting ready to heft up another piece of thick plywood over one of the few windows in the small hangar, part of the soon to be closed 'Belle Creek Airpark,', which was really just a 1300 foot paved runway, and a couple of steel buildings. My muscles were already starting to get sore - I wasn't sure if I was next in line for flu, or if it was just my 34 year old muscles rebelling. After service in Iraq and a total of 10 years in the Army, I'd spent the last few years in Powder River County, a lovely little Montana county near, well, nothing. And Belle Creek was just a speck on most maps.
As I lifted up the sheet of wood, the shortwave radio in the building crackled, then a woman's voice came over, clear and strong - "Unknown air strip tower, this is Cessna 1564B, I need to set down. Do I have clearance? Can you verify runway length?"
What the fuck? I was only vaguely aware of how to even use the radio, and had no idea of clearances. Matt Granger took care of that stuff, including closing this whole shebang down, except, Matt was in bed....with Miriam, his wife, who he 'said' had the flu. He said he had the flu, too, but I'd seen his wife. Even I'd be tempted to be in bed with her, and I'm a chick.
"Um, hey there, this is Belle Creek air, uh, airpark. Sure, you can land here, there's no one else using the runway. And it's about 1300 feet long - I hope that'll do you." I wasn't going to be mistaken for a real control tower, I didn't think.
"Oh, great, that'll work," the woman's voice replied brightly. "The sky is lowering like mad, it looks like there's gonna be a blizzard. I can't get above it, and I can't fly through or around it. See you soon, tower."
I figured I'd better get outside and look her in. Soon enough, a tiny black dot in the western sky turned into a bigger dark red dot, which eventually became a lumpy looking burgundy thing with a small passenger cabin, a long tail, and one propellor, in the front. She came in, smooth as silk, then taxied down to the end of the runway, by the hangar and the sheds. The prop spun, then stuttered and stopped.
The pilot got out, a young and slim, black-haired girl of about 5'9", hair long and glossy, wearing aviator sunglasses, a brown leather bomber jacket over a thick sweater, blue jeans and cowboy boots. She looked around, then spotted me and strode over.
"Hi," she said, extending a hand. "I'm Valerie Gates - you are...?" Her words came out in a white cloud that hung in the still air around us. We shook hands - her hand was as cold as a banker's heart.
"Melissa Johnson. What brings you to Belle Creek?" I asked, being hospitable. She pulled off the glasses to reveal clear, warm brown eyes that smiled all by themselves. They didn't go at all with the cold hand.
"Those, and that," she said, pointing to the thickening clouds and building mist. As if they were her sidekicks trying to emphasize her point, the first few flakes drifted down between us, to add themselves to the two foot plus already serving as a base."Plus my cockpit heater went out." The red tip of her nose, her ice cold hand, and her bright red cheeks supported that claim.
"Wow, you must be pretty cold," I said, looking up at her. She had a good three inches on me. "I don't have much here, but I've got a thermos of hot coffee. Like some?"
"God, yes please, I'd love it!" she said, her lips shivering. I showed her the way into the old hangar. As the door thumped shut behind us, her leather boots echoed off the concrete floor and the open space of the vacant space. My rubber soled desert boots were almost noiseless. "Sorry I don't have any cream or sugar, I wasn't really expecting guests," I said.
"No worries. So long as it's hot...." She smiled. It was a nice smile.
"So, what's your story?" I asked. "You don't look as though you were planning on making a visit to Belle Creek..."
"No," she said. "I was transporting this Cessna 337 from Minneapolis to Seattle for my father. I can't get through the clouds and storm, so I looked around. Fortunately, you all had a strip here." She looked around. "I don't suppose there's a hotel or something?" She'd seen what Belle Creek looked like from the air.
"Well, there's a guest ranch...but it's closed until April," I said. "Otherwise, not much of anything for thirty miles or so." She frowned. It was still attractive.
"Maybe I could just bunk here?" she asked, the timbre of her voice rising, looking around the empty concrete. "I've got a sleeping bag in the plane..."
"Well....there's no heat, no water, and you might have a couple of feet of snow around you when you wake up." I smiled at her. "I could probably put you up, I live in Broadus, about 30 miles from here - there's really nothing here."
The space between her eyebrows furrowed. She hesitated, then answered.
"I don't want to impose..." she said.
"Oh, I've been looking for some excuse to knock off, anyway," I said, setting aside the straw broom I'd been holding absently. "These days I'm more suited to desk work."
"This isn't your usual job?" she asked, eyebrows raising slightly, a slight twinkle in her eyes.
