“He did? Fucking Limeys’re all the same, Scrag, even though in your case he was probably right as your family’s been Down Under forever, but even so you’re still busted a rank again and if you don’t behave I’ll ground you forever!”
But they never did. How could they? DFC and Bar, APC and Bar, sixteen kills, and three times as many missions, happily, as anyone in the whole RAAF. And today still flying which was all he wanted in the world, still trying to be the best and safest, and still wanting to walk away from a prang, all passengers safe. If you fly choppers you can’t not have equipment failures, he thought, knowing he had been very, very lucky. Not like some, equally good pilots, whose luck ran out. You’ve got to be lucky to be a good pilot. Again he glanced across at Vossi, glad there wasn’t a war on which was a pilot’s great testing ground. I wouldn’t like to lose young Ed, he’s one of the best in S-G. Now who’s better that you’ve flown with? Charlie Pettikin, of course, but then he should be, he’s been a bush pilot and through the wringer too. Tom Lochart the same. Dirty Duncan McIver’s still the best of the lot even though he’s grounded, may he rot with his bleeding three-month medicals - but I’d be just as mean and just as careful with him if I was grounded and he was flying around at sixty-three like a junior birdman. Poor bugger.
Scragger shuddered. If the CAA bring in the new regs about age and enforced retirement, I’ve had it. The day I’m grounded I’m for the pearly gates and no doubt about it.
Siri One was still well ahead. He had landed there three times a week for a year or more. Even so he was planning his approach as though it were the first time. “Safety’s no accident, it has to be prepared.” Today we’ll do a nice gentle low approach an - “Scrag.”
“Yes, me son?”
“You scared the bejesus outta me.”
He chuckled, “You scared the bejesus out’ve yourself, that’s lesson number one. Wot else did you learn?”
“I guess how goddamn easy it is to panic, how lonely you feel, helpless, and to bless your eyes.” Vossi almost burst out, “I guess I learned how mortal I am, goddamnit. Jesus, Scrag, I was scared - shit-scared.” “When it happened t’me I did it in my pants.”
“Huh?”
“I was flying out of Kuwait, a 47G2 in the old days, the sixties.” The 47G2 was the small, three-seat, bubble-shaped, piston-engined Bell, now the workhorse of most traffic control and police forces. “The charter was for a doc and an engineer in ExTex. They wanted to go out to an oasis, past Wafrah, where they had a CASEVAC - some poor sod mixed his leg up with the drill. Well, we were flying with the doors off’s usual ‘cause it was summer, about a hundred and twenty degrees, and dry and rotten for man and chopper as only the desert can be - worse’n our Outback by a long shot. But we’d been promised double charter and a bonus, so my old pal Forsyth volunteered me. It wasn’t a bad day as desert days go, Ed, though the winds were red-hot’n gusting’n playing tricks, you know, the normaclass="underline" sudden eddies whipping the sand into dust clouds, the usual whirlwinds in the eddies. I was at around three hundred feet on the approach when we hit the dust cloud - the dust so fine you couldn’t see it. How it got through my goggles God only knows but one moment we were okay and the next coughing and spluttering and I had both eyes full and was as blind as an old Pegleg Pete.” “You’re kidding me!”
“No. It’s true, swear to God! Couldn’t see a bleeding thing, couldn’t open my eyes, and I’m the only pilot with two passengers aboard.” “Jesus, Scrag. Both eyes?”
“Both eyes and we swung all over the sky to hell until I got her more or less even and my heart back in me chest, The doc couldn’t get the dust out, and every time he tried or I tried we near turned belly-up - you know how twitchy the G2 is. They were as panicked as me and that didn’t help a bleeding bit. That’s when I figured the only chance we got was to set her down blind. You said you was shit-scared, well, when I got our skids on the sand there wasn’t a dribble left to come out, not even a dribble.”
“Jesus, Scrag, you got her down for real? Just like today but for real, both eyes full of dust? No shit?”
“I got ‘em to talk me down, just like I did to you - ‘least the doc did, the other poor sod’d fainted.” Scragger’s eyes had never left his landfall. “How’s she look to you?”
“No sweat.” Siri One was dead ahead, the landing pad esplanaded over the water. They could see the landing master and his obligatory fire crew standing by. The wind sock was half full and steady.
Normally Scragger would report into radar and begin their gradual descent. Instead he said, “We’ll stay high today, sport, a high-angle approach and let her settle in.”
“Why, Scrag?”
“Make a change.”
Vossi frowned but said nothing. He rescanned the dials, seeking something amiss. There was nothing. Except a slight strangeness about the old man. When they were in position high over the rig, Scragger clicked on the transmit: “Kish radar, HST, leaving one thousand for Siri One.” “Okay, HST. Report when ready for takeoff.”
“HST.”
They were set up for a steep-angle approach, normally used when high buildings or trees or pylons surrounded the point of touchdown. Scragger took off the exact amount of power. The chopper began to settle nicely, perfectly controlled. Nine hundred, eight seven six five … four… three … They both felt the vibration in the controls at the same time. “Jesus,” Vossi gasped, but Scragger had already put her nose down sharply and floored the collective lever. Immediately she began to go down very fast. Two hundred feet, one fifty, one, vibrations increasing. Vossi’s eyes leaped from dial to dial to landing point and back again. He was rigid in his seat, his mind shouting, Tail rotor’s gone or tail rotor gearbox…. The landing pad was rushing at them, the ground crew scattering in panic, passengers hanging on in sudden fright at the untoward steepness, Vossi holding on to the side of his seat to steady himself. Now the whole instrument panel was vibrating, the engine pitch different. Any second he expected them to lose the tail rotor completely and then they’d be lost. The altimeter read sixty feet… fifty … forty … thirty … twenty, and his hands reached to grab the controls to begin the flare but Scragger anticipated him by a fraction of a second, gave her full power and flared perfectly. For a second she seemed poised motionless three feet up, engines screaming, then she touched down hard but not too hard on the near edge of the circle, skidded forward, and came to rest six feet off center. “Fuck,” Scragger muttered.
“Jesus, Scrag.” Vossi was hardly able to talk. “That was perfect.” “Oh, no, no, it wasn’t. I’m off six feet.” With an effort Scragger unlocked his hands from the controls. “Shut her down, Ed, quick as you can!” Scragger opened his door and slid out fast, the airflow from the blades whipping him, and went back to the cabin door, opening it. “Stay where you are a moment,” he shouted over the dying scream of the jets, wet with relief that everyone was still belted in and no one hurt. Obediently they stayed put, two of them pasty gray. The four Japanese stared at him impassively. Cold bloody lot, he thought.
“Mon Dieu, Scrag,” Georges de Plessey called out. “What happened?” “Don’t know, think it’s the tail rotor - soon’s the rotors slow we c - ” “What the hell are you playing at, Vossi!” It was Ghafari, the Iranian landing manager, and he had shoved his face near the pilot’s window, taut with rage. “How dare you pull a practice engine out on this rig? I’ll report you for dangerous flying!”
Scragger whirled on him. “I was flying, not Capt’n Vossi!” Abruptly, Scragger’s enormous relief that he had got down safely, mixed with his long-standing detestation of this man snapped his temper. “Piss off, Ghafari, piss off, or I’ll thump you once and for all!” His fists bunched and he was ready. “PISS OFF!”