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jet. Hell, he found he even missed flying choppers. He had often been tempted to approach one of the pilots and ask them to bring him up. Despite the fighter jock swagger most of them lived in awe of the CSARs stationed on base. He was sure some of them might even have been crazy enough to let him take the stick for a while. But he had never done it. The incident with the Pave Hawk three years before had raised enough questions. Thankfully Fitzpatrick had decided to let the matter rest but he knew that the base commander had never really bought his explanation. He couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself like that again.
    For now the bike would have to do. It could never match the thrill of flying but if he had to remain on the ground it was probably as close as he would get. He had bought the Yamaha, his third, that summer. A special edition of the R1 the company had produced to celebrate fifty years of racing in America. Only five hundred had been made and he’d had to travel to Vegas to find a dealer with one in stock. The black and yellow racing livery was a little garish for his taste but the bike was set up with front and rear custom Öhlins suspension and a torque-limiting slipper clutch, making it a thinly disguised production racer. Including the trade-in it had cost him eighteen thousand dollars, almost half a year’s salary, but he loved it. Besides he had little other use for the money. He lived on the base and the Navy provided him with his food and clothing. Most months he found he only spent a fraction of his service pay, when he was operational even less.
    He turned onto 118. The bike was warmed up, the exhaust thrumming evenly, and he twisted the grip just a fraction. The carburetors have been jetted to maximize throttle response and the bike immediately shot forward, the pitch of the engine note increasing to a wail as the revs rose, the three miles to the next junction dispatched in a couple of minutes. A quick check that there was nothing coming and he joined Highway 50, pulling away smoothly. He had left his visor half-open for the ride out but now he snapped it shut.
    The bike felt good beneath him. He’d had the dealership tune the engine to run slightly lean to compensate for the thinner air at the base’s elevation and now it fed on the cold dense air, snapping forward at the slightest twist of the throttle. The road east of Fallon narrowed from four lanes to two, the blacktop stretching inviting ahead of him. For the next four hundred miles there were only three small towns - Austin, Eureka and Ely – and this close to Christmas he knew there would be little traffic. He savored the moment, regretting again that he wouldn’t have the time to go further.
    The engine note rose to a wail again as he opened the throttle a fraction more, still short-shifting, his left toe flicking up through the gears below the redline, the surge as the bike shot forward with each gear change nevertheless satisfying. The road was straight for three miles as far as Grime’s Point and the base quickly disappeared behind him. The landscape changed, the irrigated farmland and marshy waterfowl areas of Carson Lake and Stillwater making way for the barren tundra of the flats. Even in the shelter of the valleys only plants that were capable of withstanding the harsh high desert climate, some shrubs, the occasional cottonwood tree, would be found. He could see Grime’s Point coming up quickly, the road disappearing to the left around the huge peak. He crouched down, twisting the throttle a fraction more, hearing the engine note rise as the bike surged forward again, the mountain quickly filling his vision. For a moment he thought he saw movement on the slopes and then an instant later something glinting in the sunlight. But then it was gone and he returned his attention to the road as it swept around to the left, leaning the bike into the turn, the tarmac a blur only inches below his knee. The bend was fast but it was