This is a sequel to the short story, Up in the Delta Sky
He and “Angie” danced beneath the Mississippi sun. It was a delicate performance — he led as she gracefully followed. Together they made fluid motions across Delta sky. “Angie” was his yellow Air Tractor 301 crop-duster named for his deceased wife. He was a retired Vietnam fighter pilot. As the plane clawed for altitude, he closed his eyes and imagined their wedding dance oh so many years ago.
Cancer tragically stole the real Angie from him. Now he and his plane soared daily into the heavens so he could get closer to her. Another pass, another field sprayed. And now today’s therapy session was completed.
After scanning his gauges, he looked down at his Rolex GMT. The sinking sun didn’t lie. It was 5 p.m. and quitting time. The pilot kicked the rudder and pushed the stick to the left. He buzzed the Mississippi River, wagged his wings at a northbound barge and then headed back to the east. His airstrip was south of Indianola, home of the wonderful B.B. King Museum.
Springtime had kissed the surrounding landscape. The once-brown fields were now erupting into a sea of green. One of the joys of being an agricultural aviator was that he got to see the land up close and personal. Just like when he flew his A-1 Skyraider protecting downed Air Force pilots and Naval Aviators over the jungles of Vietnam (and earning him the Air Force Cross for saving two of those men valiantly in 1968. )
1968. That was the year his son was born on the other side of the world. The next year, his baby boy was learning to walk while he was busy dropping napalm. When he finally left the military, he slipped into the cockpit of a Delta DC-9. Angie raised the boy on her own while he was flying around the U.S. By the time she got sick and he came home, the boy was a rebellious teenager. The two men stood on the either side of her casket — but might as well have been a world apart. (Just like 1968 all over again.) Now all they had in common was one woman. And she had been gone for nearly 20 years.
He looked down at Angie’s photo taped above the instruments. Never had he seen a girl so beautiful. She was there with him — and he’d fight anyone who’d deny it. Off in the distance was his landing strip; he started going through the landing cycle. Flaps. Engine. He checked the windsock and lined up with the runway. Off the the south of the strip was a cloud of billowing dust. A truck was racing toward the field nearly as fast as he was. He knew the truck. His stomach sank faster than the plane.
The truck met the plane as it rolled to a stop. A younger version of himself jumped out of the cab and ran toward the plane. The pilot threw open the cockpit flap and yelled, “What the hell do YOU want?”
“She’s missing, Dad. She’s gone. She wandered out and is missing. The sun’s going down and we can’t find her. I know we don’t exactly like each other — but this is bigger than us. This is about her. This is about your granddaughter. This is about little Angie.”
The pilot felt his eyes uncontrollably water. “What can I do?”
“Dad, I need your eyes. You have pilot eyes. I need you to take “Angie” up and find our girl. I need mom’s help, too. We’re racing the sun. We’re running out of time!”
The pilot waved at the overweight man in the trailer. “Fuel her up. I’m going up again. I’m searching for a miracle.”
The pilot tossed his son a radio. “Listen, boy. I’ll buzz the farm until I find her.”
Both men stared at each other silently. Twenty years of anger melted under the pressure of finding their lost little girl.
The Pratt & Whitney radial engine roared back to life. He whipped the tail of the plane around and pushed the throttle forward. Dust peppered the son as the yellow plane clawed against gravity and lept into the sky. It followed the main highway to the place that the pilot knew all so well.
“I need you, Angie, more than I’ve ever needed you before. Our little boy needs you. Be with me. Help me find her, Angie. Please.”
The pilot raced the setting sun and the clock.
The sheriff looked up at the crop-duster orbiting the farm. He’d lived in the Delta for 60 years and never had seen a plane that close to the ground. East to west. West to east. The pilot pushed “Angie” like he’d never pushed it before. He hadn’t flown like this since 1968.
“Dad, try down by the canal.” The pilot yanked back on the stick and climbed over the rapidly approaching tree-line. “Roger.”
“C’mon Angie. We got to find her now.” The sun was starting to dip down the horizon. Shadows loomed across the fields like monsters.
And then he saw her. She was near the waterline and was cowering in fear. “Found her! Get down by the canal and HURRY!!”
“We found her Angie. We found her.” The pilot said a prayer and flew back over his son and daughter-in-law’s house. He wagged “Angie’s” wings before heading back to the airstrip.
The sun set as the plane’s prop stopped spinning. The worn-out pilot threw open the cockpit and slowly climbed out. He really felt his age. Then he jumped off the wing and onto the ground as a truck’s headlights met him. Blinded by the its headlights, he put his hands up to his eyes, trying to see who it was.
Before he could see, a little girl tackled him and nearly knocked him over. “Thank you, Grandpa!” Coming out of the headlights was his son. “Nice work, Dad. Best flying yet. And I think you earned this.” His son handed him a medal. It was his Air Force Cross. “I found this in Mom’s stuff when she died.”
The pilot clung to his granddaughter named after the only woman he loved. He looked into the little girl’s eyes and for a brief moment, he saw his wife’s soul. Never had he seen a girl so beautiful. And at moment, the pilot fell in love for a second time. He pinned the medal on his little Angie and said, “For bravery in the face of danger.”
Miracles do happen, even to old pilots. All beneath the Delta Sky.
