The helicopter was falling now, the roll dampened out by the downward motion. She felt it wrench hard to the left, counter to the motion of the roll as the pilot applied maximum rudder in an effort to stabilize the airframe. Amazingly, the engines were still screaming, although the sound had a sick, unhealthy undertone to it. Then the engines sputtered, coughed twice, and died.
The silence was deafening. She could hear the wind now as it sought out the cracks and crevices in the once-solid airframe, feel it spinning through the passenger compartment and cockpit. At least they were upright, and she could hear the pilot and copilot frantically trying to restart the engines, trying anything to slow their downward descent.
“Auto rotate,” the pilot screamed. “If we can just get a little bit of power, we can…”
Auto rotate. Not a chance. While at least in theory the ground effect and rotation of the helicopter blades might soften the impact, this helicopter was too far out of control to even consider it as a possibility. At least the roll had stopped as gravity took control. They were nose down, maintaining some forward speed as they plummeted through the night air.
Pamela grasped frantically at straws. They were upright. That gave them a chance, since the helicopter was built to take impact on its undercarriage. There was a chance, at least a chance, that they could survive.
“Into that bare spot,” the copilot shouted, gesturing off to his right. “Not very big, but if we can just clear the treetops, we might make it.”
The helicopter jerked hard to the right as the pilot forced it into a shuddering turn. The front windscreen was gone and wind tornadoed through the cockpit, battering her with loose gear. She could see blood trickling down the side of the pilot’s face. A grim, determined expression was on his face. The noise was unholy, atmosphere shrieking mixed with the screams of metal shattering under forces it was never designed to bear.
“Brace yourselves,” the pilot shouted. Brett lay moaning on the floor of the helicopter, barely conscious. Pamela leaned forward to try to pull him up into his seat, then stopped. Depending on how badly he was hurt, moving him could simply make matters worse. After the battering he’d taken inside the compartment, there was no telling whether or not he could survive the crash at all. Or if any of them could. Better to let him die where he lay rather than torture him by moving him to the illusion of safety in his seat.
The cameraman and Mike were holding on to their armrests, stark white faces gleaming dimly in the moonlight. Had she been given a choice, this was not the company she would’ve chosen to die with. No, if she had a choice, she would have died with…
Tombstone. For a moment she tasted the name in her mouth, heavy with memory and regret. What they had had, what had mattered then… she would never know now, would she? She had screwed up, screwed up badly, and there would never, ever be a chance to make it right.
The helicopter approached the clearing in the forest, its rate of descent increasing. It passed over the first line of trees, then the front skid caught on the tip of a pine tree. It wasn’t a large tree, but given the helicopter’s instability, the impact was enough to flip it tail over nose in an airborne summersault. Pamela’s last vestige of hope vanished, just as the face she saw in her mind was beginning to seem so real.
Tombstone. Oh, Stony. What have I done? Then the world disintegrated into noise and blackness.
General Arkady slammed his hand down on top of the radar set. The picture wavered, went blank, then reappeared, the contacts slightly offset from their previous locations. Clearly a transmitter alignment problem, one that the operator would have to correct later. But for the moment, in the face of General Arkady’s rage, no one dared move. Not the watch officer in charge of the ground control center, not his supervisor, not the officer of the day, not even General Arkady’s chief of staff, Colonel Zentos.
“I gave an order,” Arkady howled. “A simple, direct order. ‘Conduct a fly-by.’ You all heard that, didn’t you?” He glared at the assembled men and women. A chorus of nods answered him.
“You,” he said, pointing at the officer of the day. “What went wrong?”
The officer of the day tried to stammer out an answer, aware that by selecting him as the scapegoat for the entire incident, General Arkady had just terminated the OOD’s career in the Army, unless he could find a way to reverse the situation. The OOD thought frantically.
Finally, it dawned on him. An old military adage, one as true today as it had been in the days of the Pelleponesian wars. Shit rolls downhill. If ever there were a time when he needed that to work, it was now.
“The pilot,” the OOD began uncertainly. He saw General Arkady’s eyes shift slightly, and felt more confident. “Yes, General, the pilot. He disobeyed your orders. I distinctly heard you give the order, sir. It is clearly the pilot’s fault. An almost treasonous act, I would call it.” By now the OOD’s voice was strong, and he felt the mood of the crowd begin to shift.
It seemed an eternity, but General Arkady’s expression finally thawed slightly. “Yes, of course,” the general said. “Have him return to base immediately. And bring him to me. I will deal with this matter personally.”
The airfield stretched out before him like a giant game of tic-tac-toe. Spiros banked the Tomcat gently, slowly bleeding off air speed and altitude. Touching down on a land-based airfield was child’s play compared to his experiences as an exchange student with the United States Navy. The carrier landings… he shuddered at the memory, the black, clawing sea, the shifting deck and uncertain winds. How they manage to do it every day, every night, he would never know. He still had nightmares about his last night trap.
This, however, was simple — maybe too simple. He made a slight correction in the course, lining up on the runway now. Anyone could do this. For a moment, just a moment, he realized he missed the challenge of trying to wrestle tons of aircraft onto the deck of an aircraft carrier.
The touchdown then, light and gentle. He rolled out smoothly, taking up more runway than he actually needed. He used his nose wheel steering gear to turn the jet toward the flight line. A yellow “follow-me” truck appeared.
After he had completed his post-flight shutdown checklist, Spiros unstrapped from his ejection harness and swung out over the side of the aircraft. His feet sought out the familiar pattern of the boarding ladder, and he jumped lightly to ground. His backseater was still in the aircraft, stuffing charts and kneeboards into his flight suit.
Colonel Zentos was waiting for him, much to his surprise. Spiros snapped off a hasty salute, stammered out a greeting.
“Sir?” Spiro stammered. “Did you want to see me?” Of course he does, you idiot. That business with the helo — it’s your fault, you know. You’ll be lucky if you’re still flying after this. He felt a wave of regret, a rush of sympathy for the helo pilot. He hadn’t intended to swat them out of the air like an insect, but it had happened.
“The general wants to see you,” the colonel said finally. “You will come with me immediately.” He turned and led the way back to his vehicle. The driver had kept the engine running.
“But my aircraft,” Spiros began. “My RIO.”
Without turning back, the colonel said, “You alone. The flight line crew will take care of the aircraft. Come immediately.”