//------------------------------// // Came Around to Fix It All // Story: Friends For Life // by Split Scimitar //------------------------------// “Yo Dash, I’m home.” I text rather brazenly soon as I‘m parked at March. Not expecting a response and hoping I don’t get one immediately, I take care of some more immediate items of housekeeping and busy myself. Using an airport diagram and some little nuances in the pavement and layout as I drive along, I set up a nice little track and pick out my favorite performer, a car that’s as crazy as… as I am. Normally I’d say Pinkie Pie, but the Pinkie I know is zany and bubbly, so to call her crazy would be a broad, sweeping (and incorrect) assumption. Anyway, the car in question is… not even street legal. It’s a Pagani Zonda R. Described as the final movement of the swan song for one of the greatest automotive masterpieces ever made, I fire up the wild beast and head out, driving slightly aggressively to get everything warm and utilizing the old “NASCAR under pace car” technique. In the process of warming up the tires, I make the decision on whether to do a flying lap or start from a standstill. Ultimately, because of the layout, I start from a standstill, so with stopwatch at the ready and enough fuel for maybe a few laps, I rev up and count down. 3! 2! 1! *Incoming call* “Oh, for…” I say as I let out some pent up aggression. “God damnit. Telemarketer.” Revs up. Drive wheels eager to turn, held back by the brakes. 3. 2. 1. And we’re off! From where the turnoff centerline begins at taxiway C, a good run down runway 32, then a dab of brake, gas at the apex, and through onto taxiway D. Now onto the slalom section. Using the runway centerlines for 12, slalom to taxiway C then a hard left followed by hard right on the ramp, not quite a chicane but enough to require quick thinking and driver input. Speaking of quick thinking. As I exit the turn, revs pick up and the backend kicks a bit. I lift my foot off and the car starts to recover, but as soon as I reapply power, I feel the tires give again, this time with much more dizzying results. “Oh dear,” I shout to myself, “I’ve just spun $4.5M. I should probably go change my pants.” *There is someone at the front door* “Bloody [hell].” I grumble with a Manc twang. “Wonder who it is?” The mic picks up a very nervous, “C… c… c’mon!” Of course it’s Rainbow Dash. Why didn’t she ever text me back? “Scimitar?? I know you’re in there!” Well, I better go answer the door. Figuring I might be able to spin her ‘round in the car, I park it immediately and head inside. A couple hasty rings on the doorbell hurry me up, and once I look through the peephole, she’s gotten even more anxious. Before I can cause any more strain, I open the doors and ask, “Dash, what’re you doing here?” She says nothing, instead walking straight up to and wrapping her arms around me, clutching on like a child reunited with a parent. She’s not crying, she’s not sobbing, breathing’s normal. Good, she’s still tough. Even so, she still doesn’t let go. Eventually, seeing as I can’t find anything else left to do, I decide to reciprocate, wrapping my arms around her and hugging her gently. Now, as much as I value human contact, and the best hugs are the ones that last or about 20 seconds or so, to share this with someone like Rainbow Dash is equal parts humbling and off-putting. I love Rainbow Dash, and she is arguably everything most pilots strive to be: well-loved, honored, respected, commander of the Blue Angels… the list goes on. That being said, what I see before me is a side of Rainbow Dash I’ve never seen before. “Max!” “Yes, Rainbow Dash?” “What’s up?” She asks casually. “Uh, nothin’. [D’ya] want to come inside?” “Let me grab something from my car,” she says as she runs back and grabs a duffel bag, of similar size to my travel bags. “Okay.” She says as she squeezes past me and straight for the living quarters. “Wait, Dash. You want to spend the night here?” “Yeah. Are you okay with that?” “Of course. But I do have to ask why.” “House is tented.” “Termites?” “Yeah…” “Why didn’t you say so? I was expecting a text back.” “Oh.” She then says sheepishly with a creeping blush to match. “Sorry.” “Eh, no matter. How long are you planning on staying?” “Tonight and tomorrow night.” “Belated congrats on the promotion. Hope Spitfire can enjoy her retirement.” “She’s been in England for the past couple weeks, so I imagine yes.” “That’s nice.” “What’s been up with you though? I haven’t seen you since the hospital.” “Nothing unusual. Except running into Rarity, and Rares.” “I heard about that. Poor girl.” “I put her through a lot. And unfairly. She’s the reason I’m friends with all of you. We wouldn’t have met if it wasn’t for her.” “Maybe, maybe not.” I shrug my shoulders and show her to a bedroom. “Let me change into something a little more comfortable and we can go do something, yeah?” “That’s fine.” 5 minutes later, she emerges and asks if I’m hungry. I’m not, so she asks if I want to go for drinks. Again I decline. She asks if I want to go walking around a mall, and to that I say no. “What’s the matter with you, Max? I came here to see you and have some fun on my weekend off.” “I’m fine. I’ve not lost interest, I just don’t know what I feel like doing.” “What were you doing when I knocked on your door? Were you racing?” “As a matter of fact I was. Wanna ride along?” “Do I?!” She says as her eyes light up. With plenty of daylight, I fire up the Zonda R and get Dash onboard. “You’re in for it now.” I mumble to myself right before I give it the beans and rocket forward, hitting 200 kph in a blistering 2.8 seconds. With the start/finish line located on runway 32, I run the circuit as a flying lap with Dash along for the ride, so… After the pseudo-chicane, at the end of the ramp, take a right onto A, then a left onto A. From there, a slingshot corner onto runway 32, give it the beans, but brake ahead of a sharp but high-speed turnoff onto B, backtracking on A, to the ramp. We’re not done yet. Left at D, then onto the [closed] runway 30. Hairpin left on F, onto runway 14, then across the line where we started. Not eager to set a time, I didn’t even bother starting it, with a passenger in the car. Being a track car, I can’t hear a thing Dash says if she did, so after I finish the lap, I bleed speed off and return to the house via B and A, parking in front of the Pax Terminal. “Ya likey?” “That! Was! AWESOME!” RD shouts throwing a fist in the air. “I wanna try!” “You want to?” “Wh…what???” “She’s worth $4.5M or so. If you want to. We have our own racetrack, it’s plenty wide for most of the circuit. You want to?” “No. That’s okay.” “You command a squadron worth a combined $750M and can maneuver in three dimensions. I think you can handle $4.5M in two [dimensions].” “Fine, fine. Since you’re so insistent on it.” Switching seats and belting up, Dash then sets first gear and drives back out to the runways. As I expected, she can’t think fast enough to shift, as through 1st, 2nd, and 3rd, she hits the rev limiter. “Whoops.” “Sorry.” “My bad.” I can only laugh, but there is that slight part of me that hurts, seeing as how this the only car of its type in America, and one of 15 worldwide. In any case, as Dash gets comfortable with the car, I can feel her noticeably nervous, though that may be because she’s intimidated by a car that redlines faster than she can think. After about 10 minutes, she returns to the garage and asks me to get her another car to race. To my surprise, she chooses a near-equally rare car, a car that famously lost one while still in production, less than a year after its first deliveries, an Aston Martin One-77, affectionately registered as ‘ONE 76’. “Easier find than the Zonda. Road legal. And mortal enemies with curbs. Fortunately for you, Dash, there aren’t any here unless you want to hug the edge of the runway.” “Shut up. You can trust me.” “Yeah, since this car can shift itself.” “Ugh!” She groans as she fires up the engine. As she drives the Aston around, definitely fast and aggressive but not racing-level, I almost yawn by comparison, which is an unfair sentiment, considering we transitioned from a purpose built vehicle to a road car. As she makes her rounds and pushes the car to pretty close to maximum performance, I check the fuel tank. So far so good, running right now at about half. I sit back rather relaxed by this point as Dash starts to slalom around the centerlines like I did, but looking a bit less graceful, seeing as she’s taking these way faster than I would. After about a dozen or so rounds, she returns and parks the car in the garage. I then have her join me to the fuel pumps so I can refill both the Zonda and the Aston. For being a track car, she goes through quite a bit of petrol. So, once we return to the main room, Dash turns on the tv and looks for something as I sit down next to her. “Nice driving out there.” “You had real guts to let me drive that Zonda.” She says as we fist bump. “Airports make some of the best racetracks, just ask IndyCar.” “Drag strips for sure.” She replies as she tunes a Jet Drag replay. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m not gonna let you use either, or any of my airports for that.” “dUdE, yOu’Re NoT mY MoM!” “Very funny. If you wanted to invite friends to drag race with road cars, I’d be down.” “I have a few friends who would probably like that.” *Call from Van Nuys* “Hello?” “Hi, is this Mr. Split Scimitar?” “Speaking, Max is fine.” “Hello Max. My name is Sunny Flare. I’m a colleague of Torque Wrench’s. I’m calling at her insistence. She says it’s time for her to add another mechanic to her workforce. Could I arrange an interview with you?” “Absolutely. I’d love to meet you. When would be a good time for you?” “I’m not available this week or the next. I can be available the week after that.” “Okay. Um, one second. Let me check my calendar.” -Delta: Flight 1159 to Atlanta. -Meeting with Delta - business partnership. —In 9 days.” “I have appointments in two weeks but nothing before. How free are you the… last weekend of July?” “I should be available, but is there anything available the week before that?” “Um, there shouldn’t be. Which day works best for you?” “Either that Monday or Tuesday works.” “Okay. Let’s do… Monday. Would it bother you if we went multi-day on an interview? That’s just my track record; it’s what happened with Torque Wrench.” “Sure. That’s fine with me.” “Excellent! Just a couple things to keep in mind, I think we can expect a practical and an interview portion as it were. Also, just a couple of questions for you so I can understand where you’re coming from.” “Sure. Go ahead.” “What kind of work specifically are you seeking?” “Electrical. So, avionics and other things like that I enjoy.” “Okay. And uh, what sort of work are you seeking? Full-time, part-time?” “Torque Wrench praised you for her schedule, so how would you consider that?” “Full time, but also on demand. With the current downturn in travel, I haven’t seen many new hires. One last question, where do you live right now?” “Burbank.” “Would you like to do your interview in Victorville or Riverside? I’ll happily work with you on that.” “Where does Torque Wrench usually work?” “Victorville.” “I’ll go to Riverside then. Probably an easier commute.” “Sure. What time of the day is best for you?” “Anytime between 10:00 and 16:00.” “14:30 okay?” “That’s fine.” “Alright, you are set for a 14:30 interview on Monday in three, well two and a half, weeks. I look forward to meeting you.” “Likewise. Great day.” “Thanks, same to you. Goodbye.” “Who was that?” “A friend of Torque Wrench’s. I have an interview with her in a few weeks. Rightfully so. She’s been working harder than ever. Finally time she need another set of hands to help her out.” “Nice. You’re finally growing.” “What do you mean? I’ve been growing since we met. We’re just finally short staff. Except in the flight department.” “Aw, come on! Seriously?? You’ll hire a second mechanic but don’t want another pilot?” “Why would you want to work for me? You’d be downgrading from commanding the Blue Angels, and you’d be in much slower aircraft.” “That’s not the point, Max. I want to serve at your side, by your side. Look who you’re chillaxing with! I’m Rainbow Dash, god damnit! World’s greatest aviator, and most awesome friend!” “That’s not fair to the others. You’re all awesome in your own way. I can’t say any one of you is the most awesome. But you can keep telling yourself that.” “Max, I almost lost you. I’m here to help get you back into the swing of flying! So, help me get airline ready. You wouldn’t leave me out to dry would you?” I can’t even formulate a response, but eventually, when one comes, I can only say, “I don’t mean to sound unappreciative, I’m floored that you’re doing this, but this seems a little out of character.” “I never leave my friends hanging. You need someone who will always stay by your side. Lucky for you, I’m one of the most loyal people I know.” “I appreciate your gesture, I really do, but I don’t wanna inconvenience you.” “I knew you were gonna say that, and we’re not taking no for an answer, so too bad. We decided it’s best for one of us to live near you, and since I’m technically the closest…” “What about Pensacola?” “I’ll go when I have to. But there’s no way you’re spending the holiday season alone, especially since the Blues are at El Centro. That’s where everyone else comes in.” “What?” “You heard me. You need a family who loves you, because yours didn’t. They abandoned their own flesh and blood for their own hearts’ desire. Plus, you’re so much more than just family to me. You’re my plane ticket.” “If I’m just someone who can get you jet time, why don’t you talk to your fellow Angels? Didn’t any of them go to the airlines? Airlines love veterans.” “Why would I go to the airlines when I know I can count on you?” “I’ve been a solo operation ever since I left the airlines. Haven’t seen a reason to change it.” I shrug. “Besides, I don’t get enough hires in a given year to justify hiring another pilot. I’m sorry.” “I don’t need to be on a payroll. I just want you to get me qualified.” “You’re asking me, out of the hundreds of pilots you know and work with, to give you flight instruction?” “Well, I’d love to get type rated in at least one of the jets you have.” I think about it for a little, then suppress a smile and say, “okay. What type would that be?” The joy in her expression would put heart eyes to shame. I smirk knowing I have her in my hands, so I present her with pictures of every type of aircraft I have. “Don’t rush to pick a type. I made that mistake and look at where it got me.” “You can fly almost every single airliner in the skies today.” “Not my point. Just, please make sure you know the type you choose is the one you really truly want.” “Fine.” She responds indignantly. I don’t know if Dash is a petrol head like me, but at the very least, she seems to share very much the same interests as me. We both like speed, acceleration, cornering, agility, and sometimes practicality in cars. As for airplanes, that’s where we diverge. That said, I only know her as type rated in the F/A-18, so I’m equal parts anxious and excited to see which type she chooses. She’s made her hatred of the 737 very clear. Will she go smaller and choose the 717 (which covers the MD-80 and MD-90 under the DC-9 type rating)? Will she go directly against that which she hates and choose the A320 family? (Sorry, no 727 here.) Given she’s expressed a preference for wide-body aircraft, maybe she’ll choose the A330. Or the A350. A340 is out of the question, as I sent all of those to the Mushroom World. Will she then go all the way and choose the plane the size of her ego and pick the A380? (I have one A300 certified under the A310 type rating, but I lease her out.) Or will she choose from Boeing’s offerings? The 757 and 767 share a common type rating, so it would allow her to fly two different types with one training course, but something tells me she wants something a little different. She could choose the 747 or its near-direct replacement, the 777. Maybe she’ll choose something else. “Come on! Let’s go! I want some jet time!” Dash eagerly says shaking me awake the next morning. “Pick a type?” “7-5-[7]/7-6-[7].” “Okay then.” I say as I fire up ‘ONE 76.’ Once up in Victorville, I ask “-200 or -300?” “Uh, -200.” “Pratt & Whitney or Rolls-Royce?” “What’s the difference?” “Uh, actually, let me ask you this: who’s your most regular or favorite airline?” “What’s that have to do with anything?” “Well, American and US Airways, along with Continental, operated Rolls-Royce. Delta, Northwest, and United operated Pratt & Whitney.” “Uh, maybe I’ll just…” *Incoming call* “Ugh! Who’s calling me?!” Dash exclaims. “Hello?” “I’m kinda busy right now.” “Really?” “Uh, well why does he need to see me? I’m not the one who authorized that deal.” “Okay. Well, do I need to get rushed back to Pensacola?” “Okay then. I’ll meet him in El Centro. Bye. “Ugh!!!” “Gotta go?” “Super early tomorrow. I’m needed in El Centro.” “Is it serious?” “It seemed that way. Can’t give anything away.” “I get it. If you’re up for it, we can race down 86.” “Let’s just fly for awhile, eh?” “I own airliners. It’d be tough to make meaningful flight with anything I have. These burn insane amounts of fuel below the flight levels.” “Aw, come on! Do you not like flying with me? Or wait, are you jealous of me??” “Believe what you want. I said I don’t want to hire a second pilot for financial reasons.” “You’re avoiding the question, Max.” “No Dash, I loved flying with you, and I may or not be jealous of you. I am however at the least intimidated by you, especially now. It’s not very often that someone can tout that they’re buddies with the commander of the Blue Angels, less so if you’re a fellow aviator. Forgive me if I feel inadequate next to you.” “Chill, Max. I wanted to spend time with you to escape the hectics of the Blues, but if the only thing on your mind is just how great and awesome I am, then maybe you’re not as great and awesome of a friend as I thought you were.” “Rich, coming from little miss ‘never leave my friends hanging.’” “Max, if I’ve learned anything from the academy to field time to my reserve time and to now, you really need to stop comparing yourself to other people, least of all me. Just because I lead some of the best pilots out there doesn’t make me any more superior to you. Look at all your type ratings! That’s something to be proud of!” “However true that may be, Rolls-Royce or Pratt & Whitney?” “Rolls-Royce then.” “Icelandair or ex-Con[tinental]?” “I don’t care.” Since I can’t release her in the airplane, even for training purposes, I pull out all the manuals and give her a basic lowdown on the airplane, making sure to highlight the specificities of Rolls-Royce powered jets. History lessons and variance among variants aside, she then joins me in the cockpit so I can show her the systems, and so she can familiarize herself with the cockpit. As she adjusts the seat and orients herself to chair-fly, I scroll through the EICAS displays and scan for any errors or other messages outside of the ones normally associated with shutdown. The only one I end up seeing is “Low Fuel,” which is good news, since this plane has been sitting for a little while since I received it. When Dash calls it a day in the cockpit, she brings her car round and runs my power circuit, posting a lap time with no metric whatsoever. To provide some parity against her Mustang, I grab one of my Camaro SS, tripedal of course. As I make my way around, I throttle back my competitive spirit enough to deflate my desire to win, this is Rainbow Dash after all. In the middle of the hairpin down F towards runway 14, I throw away my chances of winning by throwing the car sideways, creating a nice smoke trail as I recover and drag it down the runway, crossing the line and very much getting quite an earful from the clear victor. We each run a few more laps to increase our chances, declaring a draw after we take three races apiece. Too caught up in the races to think about lunch, we instead take advantage of an early bird dinner by ordering from the drive thru, each in our own car, just for giggles and grins. With a dinner of a hodgepodge of fast food places, we share laughs, swap some food, and call it a night early, seeing as how in order to make her appointment, she’s gotta leave here between 3 and 4 am. Rise and not shine, though at this time of the year, sunrise is close to 5, so I guess if you really want to, we should be at Palm Springs or to 86 by then. Since she needs the stretch, ONE 76 will be chasing. All I have to do is keep up. 12.3 L, 1210 HP, 20 cylinders. ‘Dis gon’ ‘b ‘gud. As we zoom onto 60, Dash puts her foot down at the on ramp, the loudest thing for a few miles. I let my less uncouth symphony sing out as I catch up to her with ease. If she feels a need to try and pull away, all I have to do is put my foot down with relative ease. With so few cars on the roads now, I keep my radar detector handy in case of any traps. Making no effort to challenge her, I have her bested quite easily, I only drive aggressive enough to keep up with her as we meet the rising sun head on. Once it starts to get bright, we really hammer down so we can begin our more southerly track down 86, so the sun isn’t directly in front of us. By the time we hit the desert cities exits, the only thing we’re waiting for is the ball of sun to appear on the horizon. Since we’re kind of surrounded by mountains, we can get lucky with that, so we hanker down again in the hopes of flying out of the interchange. As Coachella isn’t for another couple months, I gladly take the opportunity to be loud down 86, especially during the stretch we parallel highway 111 because as soon as we cross over 111 and begin that southerly track, we encounter considerable truck traffic heading towards Calexico. Dash, being the personality she is, does a bit of weaving, but for me, instead of shooting that same gap, I play it and see if it changes, quickly following suit just as another fast-mover comes up from behind. Soon, we hit the Imperial Valley, but the NAF is located outside of El Centro town center. For security reasons then, when Dash makes the final turn onto the barracks access road, I continue straight so as not to cause a disturbance. Instead, I throw a uey at the next junction, heading back towards El Centro, figuring I oughta grab an authentic bite to eat down here. Hoping she silenced her phone, I text, “heading back to PSP for lunch, unless you know a good place down here.” With no care to how much a fill-up is gonna cost, I take Highway 111 to Palm Springs to get some more noise out of the engine, and because I figure I can take a scenic route. To my surprise though, when I get only to about Indio, the petrol light comes on. I know we did some pretty high-throttle motoring to get down here, but given how much I started with (one notch off a full tank), I’ve averaged about 9.8 MPG. I think I’ve managed worse, but as far as roadgoing goes, this is my new low. No matter. A fresh tank is a reset for me, so once I arrive in Palm Springs, I cruise gently up Palm Canyon, wishing I had a convertible to relive a popular activity in the 80s and 90s. Instead, I park right in front of one of my favorite ice cream joints, Lappert’s. Home to a few of my favorite ice cream flavors of all time, I order my usual, wishing I could get some pints to go. Nevertheless, after eating just outside the shop, I just stare at the car, along with quite a few other people, who take notice and snap many a picture. I could’ve used one of my many Bugatti at my disposal, but I chose a car that although slower is much much rarer than them. I’m glad I did too. Seems a bit on the nose to drive one of the world’s fastest cars in the company of a Blue Angel, but whatever. Anyway, right around 10 or so, the temp hits triple digits, so once I decide to leave Palm Canyon behind, I head down to El Paseo to walk around the shops there. Seeing no need to be anywhere until I get a response from Rainbow, I just do laps walking, since none of the shops here really appeal to me right now. After about a half hour, fearful I’ve garnered attention as someone who’s wandering aimlessly around the property, I decide just for the heck of it to head back to Imperial. I think I’m craving some auténtico Mexican for I guess it would be lunch, sequentially speaking. Taking Highway 111 down, I pass through Brawley when I get a text. “We’re running a little behind. What do you want to eat?” “I’m hankerin’ for Mexican.” “There’s a couple places I like down here.” “¿Por qué no las dos? Plus, I do have a couple of stops I wanna make if you don’t finish too late.” “I hope so. We’ve basically gone nowhere but in circles, and we’ve been at this since 7.” “Sorry to hear.” When I return to El Centro, I find a promising taco bar and head in. Feeling a strange déjà vu, I banter with the bartender en español before ordering a bit of food. To my complete and utter surprise, about 35 minutes later, after going through enough food to almost call it a meal, who should walk in through the front door? It’s Rainbow Dash. Plunking herself in the seat right next to me and even lightly body-checking me in the side, she orders. “Talk about good luck.” I quip back after she gets her drink. “How’d you know I’d come here?” “I’m psychic, I don’t know. I’m a simple man. I saw “Taco Bar”, I went in.” “This is the best here in town.” “And since we have enough time, I want to pick up some things from Palm Springs.” “Which places?” “Pints from Lappert’s and some Manhattan in the Desert.” “You have good taste.” “So do you.” I say as I dig into what are probably my in the dozens tacos. Street style, soft corn tortillas, a bit of cilantro and cebolla, this is good. “This other place, best ceviche I’ve ever had.” “Thank goodness for small tacos.” “Mexican food is the best!” She exclaims as she downs a bottle of beer. “Ey, watch yo’self.” I say as I enjoy that sweet feeling of eating tacos. Slamming the bottle back down on the counter, she smiles and slugs me in the side in the jolly spirit of a drink. It’s likely redundant for me to tell her, but she cuts herself off, so in response I order two shots: each “chased” with a taco. In my buzzed stupor, I unabashedly slur out, “Hello and good morning once again ladies and gentlemen. My name is Jose Cuervo and I am under the influence of Captain Morgan for today's flight.” I see a stunned Rainbow Dash, mouth wide open, taco mere centimeters from her face. Immediately upon hearing that, she puts her taco down and loses it, laughing so hard, I think I may have broken her. Thinking rather highly of myself for cracking a line like that, I activate my smug face and just indulge in a hysterical Rainbow Dash. “Good one Max!” She says struggling for air. Before too long though, I finish the last of my food and close the tab as Rainbow eventually recovers. She then orders two more tacos and a glass of cola before we head for our next destination. Enjoying a large order of their house special ceviche for which RD praises, I let her enjoy it, since she paid for it. “Here, have the rest.” She then says after about half of it goes. “Why so much left?” “I ate a bit at the mess [hall.] Plus, you have to try it.” “Fair enough.” I say as I dig in. “Lappert’s and Manhattan in the Desert after?” “I’ll get one of them and we can just meet at March.” “Do you want to get the ice cream or the deli?” “Manhattan [in the Desert]. I love that place.” “Great minds, right?” “Aw yeah! What do you want?” “[Out of] curiosity, what do you usually get?” “Turkey or Pastrami.” “Alright then, I’ll do a Frankfurter and a Knockwurst (Knackwurst).” “Plate or bread?” “One on a plate, one on bread.” “Cheese?” “No.” “Which one on the bread?” “Doesn’t really matter.” “I’ll make it random then.” “You want a pint of ice cream from Lappert’s?” “Sorbet [of] me?” “Funny. That’s one of the ones I was gonna get. I’ll just double it up then.” “I just want a double scoop for myself.” “Oh alright then. I’ll double up on Hana Road.” “Cool. I’ll meet you back at base.” She says as she closes her tab and stands up. “Yeah.” With that, we both race up 86 and hot brake at our exit off I-10, going our separate ways once we reach Palm Springs. I expect to have a time advantage, but I’ll undoubtedly have to fill up again. “Hello again!” The same person behind the counter as this morning calls. “I’m back, and here for more!” “What can I get you?” “Can I get a double scoop of Rainbow Sorbet and a separate double scoop of Kauai Pie and Hana Road?” “Got it.” After those two, I then order “two pints of Hana Road and one pint of Rainbow Sorbet.” Feeling rather gluttonous but knowing it’ll last me a while, I soon make my way out and make sure everything is stable. This is now a race to see who’ll make it back to March first. Because Palm Springs is so far off I-10, Highway 111 runs as a proper highway and merges onto I-10. For those coming from Los Angeles, this is the first opportunity to reach the city. As such, once I clear the last traffic light and race toward the interstate, I put my foot down and drive as fast as I can, figuring I should pad my lead. When I stop at the Morongo petrol station, I do a quick head calculation. If my more hard and aggressive driving nets just under 10 MPG, then how many miles to March? About 40 miles? This car has a 26 gallon tank, so at 9 MPG, that’s… 234 miles of range. I only need a few gallons then. Between 5 and 10 gallons roughly. I have enough then to act as my buffer, so if I use a round cash amount, I can make this pit stop a splash and dash. Tortured metaphors aside, I guesstimate between $25-$30 for this fill up, so once I get the pump going, I watch the cash total, cutting the fuel flow at $25.25. Patting myself on the back for hitting a round total. After I get going onto I-10, I change lanes frequently due to a sporadic mix of trucks who are hanging in the left lanes early so they don’t have to fight for CA-60 when they’re less than a mile from the interchange. As I leave I-10 behind, I notice a police car behind me, so I gently pass a truck and move over so they can pass. The Dodge Charger are popular in this neck of the woods (for obvious reasons), as it passes along with a tag team partner in excess of 100 mph, even through this section, where the road is a dual carriageway. Nevertheless, once they disappear from my radar detector, I increase my speed to about 85 MPH once we clear the last at-grade intersection. The road then winds through a mountain pass, so you know I’m gonna hunker down. The pass is a small one, and so the road eventually begins to flatten out, but is still a dual carriageway, so I weave carefully, making good time, and only slightly feeling trapped by the spread of lane hoggers and some trucks, I eventually take the exit for March and narrowly run a red light or two to get to the entry gate. When the gates open, I drive through, and just as they start to roll closed, I hear a couple of honks ahead of what appears to be a noticeably upset Rainbow Dash. She lost, so I wouldn’t expect anything less. I present her with her Rainbow Sorbet and her face changes slightly. I gesticulate to ask if she wants to park here, and she nods. I return the Aston to its parking space while she parks on level 1. I give her her dessert and she gives me my dinner. The Frankfurter is in the bun and the Knockwurst is on the plate, so once I cut each in half and do a halfsies on each, we dig in and start talking again. “You know, the Blues cancelled the rest of their summer shows.“ “What happened??” “DoD orders. I guess there’s some fighting in the Middle East somewhere.” “Qatar.” “Yeah, there. Something about a civil uprising?” “The vote to host next year’s World Cup may have been rigged. Basically, since Qatar won the host vote, allegations came forth that Qataris are forcing people to work in inhumane working conditions, which has been likened to slavery. I think that may have been the tipping point.” “I wanted to go, but Soarin wanted to keep me here.” “Wait, Soarin’s SECNAV (Secretary of the Navy)?” “No, he’s MCPON (Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy).” “Oh. Wow. I didn’t know that.” “He’s the acting, since the current MCPON wanted to go to the Middle East.” “If they’re sending the Navy, sounds like a Hormuz conflict.” “Maybe. I haven’t heard a whole lot about it surprisingly. It’s pretty need-to-know, even for officers like me.” “That’s interesting, since you’re a pretty senior official. Though I guess keeping you home may be a bit of a marketing ploy, since having the Blues is a bit of a recruitment tool.” “Maybe, but that’s what Top Gun is for.” “Aren’t you under obligation to like it?” “I do, but I guess it’s gotten old for me. I’ve seen it so many times.” “Fair enough.” “I guess I should be glad for the time off though.” “Sure.” “Hey, thanks for all this.” “Of course! I’m glad we can hang out again, especially outside of work. I’m also glad hosting you worked out even though you had a bit of relearning to do when you made it to San Bernardino.” “Thank YOU. No other airport nearby would be able to accommodate us.” “Invite’s always open. As long as you don’t pin me for violating some DoD thing.” “Nah. I’ve got your back.” “Happy to help.” Then, at the end of the meal, after I take care of all the trash and the dishes, Dash retires early, but calls me over before she heads to bed. “Max, I’m only gonna say this once. I didn’t think I’d be as affected as I was when I saw you lying on the ground like that. Being a service member has definitely made me tough, but it’s different to see one of your own literally turn on themselves. I don’t know what you saw while you were in limbo, but thanks for coming back.” She blushes, so I wait a little before responding, “Well Dash, tell you what: you’ve gotten acquainted a bit, how’s we get started on that big adventure?” “Obviously!” “Alright then. Tomorrow, let’s fly happily.” “Together.” She then finishes by extending her fist. “Together.” I reply with a bump.