Woody juked the stick left and immediately felt the aircraft respond.
He was made for this. He loved it like he'd loved his first car, his first girlfriend, his first everything. Each and every time he got into this helicopter - the Bell 412 - it was like the first time and his heart soared with his body above the clouds with sheer joy and exhilaration. He was in his element, master of air, machine, and destiny.
He flexed his hands on the controls. That was one part that was not like the first time. When he'd initially received his training, back in the waning days of Vietnam - a place he'd never end up seeing - his hands had not seemed to tense up and lock up like they did now. He'd been flying for nearly 40 years and was not any closer to retirement.
Woody had worked for the Garfield County Sheriff's Department for about two years. Before that he'd been flying sight-seers out of Las Vegas through the Grand Canyon, occasionally ferrying them back as far away as Los Angeles. It didn't matter the flight - although the Grand Canyon could be hairy at times with the wicked updrafts and sudden crosswinds. He would fly anywhere anytime.
The helicopter had been donated by a generous benefactor. There was simply no other way to account for the multi-million dollar machine belonging to the Department. Woody recounted what he'd been told of the acquisition, wishing he'd been there when the search and rescue team found the computer tycoon and his family stranded, hopelessly lost and nearly out of water in one of the slot canyons. With place names like Dirty Devil and Hell's Backbone, you'd think that people would give the desert more respect, Woody thought. The fanciest GPS system in the world still ran on batteries, batteries that have a way of giving out at the worst possible moments. And being at the bottom of that canyon certainly didn't help, Woody reflected. There was a very limited aperture for gaining signal for the satellites floating above them in space.
Luckily for the computer guy, the locals knew where to look. He wasn't even three miles from a road, but it might as well have been on another planet.
Come to think of it, didn't NASA do Mars mission training around here? Woody thought he'd heard something like that. Something about this place being similar to the surface of Mars, with the red sand and the heat fluctuations...
He turned his focus back on scanning the slot canyons. For all it's sophistication, the GPS on the helicopter could tell them where they were, but not where they wanted to be. You had to know that already...
Woody glanced over at his companion for this flight. The stone sober FBI g-man had commandeered his services just as he'd commandeered the entire Department. Oh, the Sheriff had been accommodating, but there was little question who was in charge. The man didn't even threaten - he just pointed and made sure that what was needed is what happened. He sat there in the copilot's seat - gratefully not touching anything, but constantly scanning. He'd seldom seen this kind of focus before. He wasn't sure if the guy was always like this or the frustration of the current situation was getting to him.
Something glinted off to Woody's right.
He couldn't be sure he'd seen it, and he didn't want to deviate from his course for something he thought he might have seen. But he'd seen it in that small depression over there...
He maintained course and speed, moving on as though nothing had happened. He'd come back later and check it out on his own, when the g-man was not with him, breathing down his neck.
He was made for this. He loved it like he'd loved his first car, his first girlfriend, his first everything. Each and every time he got into this helicopter - the Bell 412 - it was like the first time and his heart soared with his body above the clouds with sheer joy and exhilaration. He was in his element, master of air, machine, and destiny.
He flexed his hands on the controls. That was one part that was not like the first time. When he'd initially received his training, back in the waning days of Vietnam - a place he'd never end up seeing - his hands had not seemed to tense up and lock up like they did now. He'd been flying for nearly 40 years and was not any closer to retirement.
Woody had worked for the Garfield County Sheriff's Department for about two years. Before that he'd been flying sight-seers out of Las Vegas through the Grand Canyon, occasionally ferrying them back as far away as Los Angeles. It didn't matter the flight - although the Grand Canyon could be hairy at times with the wicked updrafts and sudden crosswinds. He would fly anywhere anytime.
The helicopter had been donated by a generous benefactor. There was simply no other way to account for the multi-million dollar machine belonging to the Department. Woody recounted what he'd been told of the acquisition, wishing he'd been there when the search and rescue team found the computer tycoon and his family stranded, hopelessly lost and nearly out of water in one of the slot canyons. With place names like Dirty Devil and Hell's Backbone, you'd think that people would give the desert more respect, Woody thought. The fanciest GPS system in the world still ran on batteries, batteries that have a way of giving out at the worst possible moments. And being at the bottom of that canyon certainly didn't help, Woody reflected. There was a very limited aperture for gaining signal for the satellites floating above them in space.
Luckily for the computer guy, the locals knew where to look. He wasn't even three miles from a road, but it might as well have been on another planet.
Come to think of it, didn't NASA do Mars mission training around here? Woody thought he'd heard something like that. Something about this place being similar to the surface of Mars, with the red sand and the heat fluctuations...
He turned his focus back on scanning the slot canyons. For all it's sophistication, the GPS on the helicopter could tell them where they were, but not where they wanted to be. You had to know that already...
Woody glanced over at his companion for this flight. The stone sober FBI g-man had commandeered his services just as he'd commandeered the entire Department. Oh, the Sheriff had been accommodating, but there was little question who was in charge. The man didn't even threaten - he just pointed and made sure that what was needed is what happened. He sat there in the copilot's seat - gratefully not touching anything, but constantly scanning. He'd seldom seen this kind of focus before. He wasn't sure if the guy was always like this or the frustration of the current situation was getting to him.
Something glinted off to Woody's right.
He couldn't be sure he'd seen it, and he didn't want to deviate from his course for something he thought he might have seen. But he'd seen it in that small depression over there...
He maintained course and speed, moving on as though nothing had happened. He'd come back later and check it out on his own, when the g-man was not with him, breathing down his neck.
*****
The soldier took his eye from his scope and slowly lowered the weapon back to his side. He'd begun to sweat - sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of the day. The helicopter was flying too close, but that was a law enforcement chopper - the markings were clear in the magnification of his scope - and he was reluctant to shoot down a police officer. He knew that would make all kinds of trouble and bring unwanted attention. Besides, they hadn't seen or noticed anything: their course continued on the way it had before with no deviation. So their camouflage worked. That was good to know. He continued to track the chopper across an impossibly blue sky as it drifted back off to the west. As the chopper vanished from sight, he returned to his scans of the sky, listening as much as watching. He wondered when his relief would arrive...
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