The Serial part I: The Noise

It was a beautiful Michigan summer night, perfect for hot air balloon rides or sunset flights along Lake Michigan. It was perfect for even sitting on one's back porch, perhaps sipping a beer or enjoying a cigar.

It was even perfect weather for working outside, but Ryan didn't see it that way. He was stuck at work instead of going for a hot air balloon ride, or flying along the lake shore. The sun was setting behind him, a brilliant display of the deepest reds and oranges one could see, melting the clouds into a buttery mass that slid into the purple twilight to the east. But he had a fuel nozzle in his hand, not a beer.

As he pulled up to his eighth aircraft of the night, Ryan's mind was instead filled with the work to be finished before he could once again see his bed. There were two more aircraft to be fueled, then all ten had to be put in the hangar for the night, his empty fuel truck had to be refilled at the fuel farm, and his daily paperwork had to be processed and filed. Ryan guessed that all this would take him the next two hours, and was angry that his shift was supposed to end in half an hour. The overtime meant that his girlfriend would most likely be asleep when he finally did get home, offering little balm for the wound of Ryan's not-so-good day.

It was not that Ryan hated his job. Ryan had grown up around airplanes, so working at the airport was as natural as breathing. It was more his lack of options at present that grated on his mind. The Gerald R. Ford International Airport was the largest airport within reasonable driving distance, and Grand Rapids Air Service was the only large employer on the airport, except for the airlines. Ryan had tried the airlines and they were not to his liking, and with the current state of the airline industry anyway, they would not be a very healthy career option.

The brilliant reds in the clouds were fading into the most royal of purples as Ryan finished up and began reeling the fuel hose back in. The truck's diesel engine was rumbling loudly, and the fuel pump was adding to the noise, so much so that Ryan had put his hearing protection in earlier. It was uncomfortable in his ear, and sometimes gave him a headache, but was worth it to reduce the truck's noise into a vibrating rumble felt only in Ryan's chest. Ryan felt isolated when he had his hearing protection in, and that offered another small solace to him. Alone with his thoughts, he could free himself from the hectic schedule he had been given, and allow himself time to think about his options. Perhaps school, or maybe an inside office job, away from the summer's heat and humidity and the winter's bitter cold. Ryan tried to convince himself he would be fine away from the airport, but knew deep in his bones that working away from aviation would drive him nuts. So he put on his hearing protection and settled in to his own thoughts, filling out his fueling log without much thinking about it.

He was so lost in his thoughts that at first, he didn't notice the noise. It's a funny thing about hearing protection: the foam and plastic cones that are placed into the ear do deaden sound, enough that one can stand to be outside while a jet is running it's engines, for instance. But it is odd the sort of muffled, even faint sounds that can be detected even with the devices in your ear. One can hear another person talking while wearing them, can hear radios squawking in the background, can even sometimes hear coins dropped into a vending machine or a dropped tool in the hangar. It was as such with this particular noise. At first, it was lost in the rumble of Ryan's fuel truck. It then separated itself from the truck's rumble, so subtly at first that Ryan wondered how long he had been listening to it without realizing it. It steadily grew louder, until Ryan could definitely distinguish it from all other noises. It was felt as a slower, thumping vibration, different from a passing airplane or jet, yet familiar in a far off, distant way. Ryan recognized the noise. It was a noise he had not heard in a long time, yet it seemed as though he had heard it yesterday. It was not a daily noise from the airport.

The noise had lodged itself deep in Ryan's mind and had gone dormant for some time now. It would surface at airshows, or sometimes in his daydreams about far-off places, but for the most part lay gathering dust in a corner in the attic of Ryan's thoughts. But now it was here, in the present, growing louder by the second. The dust had been shaken off, and it was threatening to burst out through the roof, so large and loud it was. Ryan shut off his fuel truck and took out his hearing protectors. He leaned closer to the open window to hear better.

That was the problem with noises like that: One could never quite tell what direction it was coming from. It would bounce off far away buildings, and bounce off close in buildings, so that the direction one hears the noise coming from would actually be opposite the direction of the source of the noise. Even at the airport, with its relatively sparse buildings, the sound could bounce, rebound, and echo enough to confuse even the most sensitive auditory nerves.

It was a helicopter, no doubt. Ryan was sure it was a helicopter. It was a different sound than most helicopters that Ryan heard coming in to the airport, though. It was slower, louder, and perhaps a lower pitch than those helicopters. Ryan knew exactly what kind of helicopter it was, and knew exactly what was happening, but his mind still battled his present reality. It was, but it couldn't be, could it? Questions stormed Ryan's thoughts, assaulted his memories, and carried him back to a hot, dusty life thousands of miles from Michigan. Why here? Why now? What could possibly have happened that this particular noise was approaching?

This particularly distinctive whump-whump-whump of the rotor blades had been, a generation ago, the sound of freedom and safety for thousands of the nation's finest brave young men, and it was not much different in Ryan's case. Instead of a steaming, rotting jungle, though, it was a scorching, lifeless desert. And instead of the Army, Ryan had chosen the high-risk, high adventure life of a security contractor. Things got crazy from time to time, but Ryan's experience was nothing like what was being reported in the news out of The Sandbox.

The noise now was rattling everything in sight, overpowering all other sounds with it's volume. Ryan knew that it would be only seconds before the mystery was solved, and also knew that the solving of this mystery would lead to many more before the night was through.

It was an old military surplus UH-1 Iroquois, better known to everyone as a Huey. It suddenly appeared just over Ryan's hangar, perhaps forty feet off the ground. It was slowly drifting over Ryan's ramp, the pilot looking for a spot to set it down. Ryan, as he shielded his eyes from the sudden maelstrom of the downdraft, could see two men sitting in back, their legs hanging out of the open doors. Behind them, shadows of more men were standing, one hand raised grasping at the handles on the helicopter's ceiling.

The noise was deafening now, even with the hearing protectors back in Ryan's ears. He knew what was going to happen even before the fatigue-clad man jumped out of the Huey and ran toward him, though he still could not believe it was happening. In addition to military fatigues, the man had a full assault vest, and was carrying an M-4 slung across his chest. His skater helmet was slung just above the rifle, for easy access when needed. His wraparound mirrored shooting glasses obscured his eyes, but his bald head gave Ryan all the identification he needed.

The helicopter had not yet touched down, and the man had covered the thirty or so yards to where Ryan was standing, hands holding his hat. The man stood in front of Ryan and offered his hand.

"Long time, no see, you land-loving, rubber-legged, crazy son of a bitch!" He said. In shock, Ryan said nothing, but slowly extended his hand for the man to shake. He did so, in a familiar iron grip.

Ryan blinked hard, and his shock subsided instantly.

He was back.

"You scum-sucking swabbie bastard! What the hell are you doing on my ramp?" They were face to face, noses inches from one another, yelling to be heard above the roar of the helicopter.

The man's face broke into a huge smile. "We're going on an adventure, and we thought you might like to come along!"

"You always did understate things." Ryan yelled back. "The excrement's hit the ventilator?".

"I'll explain on the way. Let's go, Rubberlegs!" The man was off, running back towards the helicopter, which had not yet touched the ramp.

Rubberlegs hesitated just long enough to leave his job behind. He wasn't sure when he'd be back, but his old friend Mike apparently needed his help. He ran to the helicopter, where three outstretched hands grabbed him and pulled him in. He swore as his shin broke open on the lip of the sliding door, and the others laughed at their new companion. As the pilot swung the aircraft to the north and nosed over, gaining speed and altitude, Ryan wondered when he would get back home to see his girlfriend. And when his boss would find out he'd gone missing.