Woody knew he should not be flying.
Pilots are all a superstitious bunch. You didn't stay alive long without listening to the stories of near-misses and escapes that were inevitable when propelling a steel tube through the sky. Those who could glean information and experience from others often found themselves better prepared when the time came to exercise calm and judgement. Unfortunately, much of what was passed was so much snake oil and rabbit's feet. But it was still religiously adhered to, almost as closely as the pre-flight checklist. And some of it made sense.
Such as this morning. He was cranky. He knew it. He'd had a real blow out with his wife last night - something trivial and inconsequential, really, but it had seemed so important at the time. It made for a bad night's sleeping, which made for a bad day's flying. He had a hard time focusing on what he was doing.
But the sky was clear and the winds were calm when he arrived at the airport, and after his pre-flight check he was actually starting to feel the usual excitement that accompanied a solo flight in his chopper. On the ground, things could be as clumsy and solid as a brick outhouse, but once he was in the air, he soared among the clouds. He was the master of the sky and the king of all he saw.
Lifting off, he immediately angled back towards that strange shining he'd seen the other day. The longer he thought about it, the more troubled he was. This was on the top of one of the many mesas around here, a place barren and almost completely smooth rock. There were a few random depressions, most of those at least partially filled with sand, which made them barely distinguishable from the adjacent rock. There was no reason for any random person to be up there. The only ones who would purposefully go up there were rock climbers and scientists, of which there were plenty of both in this area. These were not the type to leave garbage hanging around, much less a beer bottle. That's what the shining thing had reminded him of - the glint off of a broken beer bottle bottom. He'd seen plenty of those, of course, looking for lost people around campgrounds. But to see one way up here, in such a remote location, particularly without any other detritus associated with the kind of camping that would produce broken beer bottles (i.e., drunken, riotous camping with huge bonfires and lots of left-over garbage).
So he wondered what it was he'd seen and how it got there. Seemed worthy of investigation. It was probably nothing, but it was about an hour's flight away and he enjoyed the time by himself. It helped him to cool his mind. He radioed in his position as he approached where he'd seen the glinting.
There was little hope of him seeing anything. The time of day was sure to be different, and the angle of reflection would almost surely eliminate the possibility of him seeing anything. But again, this was more about alone time for Woody than any real hope.
He was about 1000 yards away from the place where he'd seen the reflection when he saw the flash of light that could only be an explosion. It was off to his right, off the top of the mesa and down somewhat into a canyon. He instinctively dove down and accelerated, not knowing what he'd seen for sure. All that was left was a plume of smoke that had a strangely familiar shape - like something he'd seen in his childhood, something terrible - and a low rumble that carried through his headphones...
At that exact second, several things happened at once. He keyed his radio to report what he'd seen - even if it was some kind of industrial accident or something, they'd need some help down there cleaning up. And if it were something less benign, well, that needed investigation also. But just as he keyed in and began to speak, he felt his chopper take bullet fire. He could not immediately identify the source, but he didn't want to hang around to find out, either. He moved left, again trying to get closer to the ground. Rather than report the explosion, what came out of his mouth started with an expletive...
"I am taking small weapons fire!" Woody shouted into the comm piece near his chin. His aircraft was not responding to his repeated course corrections. "My aircraft has been hit and I have lost control. I am just above Washington Mesa, about 1 and a half clicks north of Highway 12!"
Woody had no more time to say anything. His chopper was auguring into the ground and he knew the end had come for him. His last thought was of his wife, of the argument they'd had that morning over nothing of consequence. His last words spoken to his dear wife had been in anger as he'd stormed out of their home. Now he'd never have a chance to make things right.
The last thing Deborah heard over the radio coming from Woody's chopper was a very faint, "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." Attempts to raise Woody after that were unsuccessful. Deborah's eyes widened in shock. Oh, dear God in Heaven, she thought. Not again...
Pilots are all a superstitious bunch. You didn't stay alive long without listening to the stories of near-misses and escapes that were inevitable when propelling a steel tube through the sky. Those who could glean information and experience from others often found themselves better prepared when the time came to exercise calm and judgement. Unfortunately, much of what was passed was so much snake oil and rabbit's feet. But it was still religiously adhered to, almost as closely as the pre-flight checklist. And some of it made sense.
Such as this morning. He was cranky. He knew it. He'd had a real blow out with his wife last night - something trivial and inconsequential, really, but it had seemed so important at the time. It made for a bad night's sleeping, which made for a bad day's flying. He had a hard time focusing on what he was doing.
But the sky was clear and the winds were calm when he arrived at the airport, and after his pre-flight check he was actually starting to feel the usual excitement that accompanied a solo flight in his chopper. On the ground, things could be as clumsy and solid as a brick outhouse, but once he was in the air, he soared among the clouds. He was the master of the sky and the king of all he saw.
Lifting off, he immediately angled back towards that strange shining he'd seen the other day. The longer he thought about it, the more troubled he was. This was on the top of one of the many mesas around here, a place barren and almost completely smooth rock. There were a few random depressions, most of those at least partially filled with sand, which made them barely distinguishable from the adjacent rock. There was no reason for any random person to be up there. The only ones who would purposefully go up there were rock climbers and scientists, of which there were plenty of both in this area. These were not the type to leave garbage hanging around, much less a beer bottle. That's what the shining thing had reminded him of - the glint off of a broken beer bottle bottom. He'd seen plenty of those, of course, looking for lost people around campgrounds. But to see one way up here, in such a remote location, particularly without any other detritus associated with the kind of camping that would produce broken beer bottles (i.e., drunken, riotous camping with huge bonfires and lots of left-over garbage).
So he wondered what it was he'd seen and how it got there. Seemed worthy of investigation. It was probably nothing, but it was about an hour's flight away and he enjoyed the time by himself. It helped him to cool his mind. He radioed in his position as he approached where he'd seen the glinting.
There was little hope of him seeing anything. The time of day was sure to be different, and the angle of reflection would almost surely eliminate the possibility of him seeing anything. But again, this was more about alone time for Woody than any real hope.
He was about 1000 yards away from the place where he'd seen the reflection when he saw the flash of light that could only be an explosion. It was off to his right, off the top of the mesa and down somewhat into a canyon. He instinctively dove down and accelerated, not knowing what he'd seen for sure. All that was left was a plume of smoke that had a strangely familiar shape - like something he'd seen in his childhood, something terrible - and a low rumble that carried through his headphones...
At that exact second, several things happened at once. He keyed his radio to report what he'd seen - even if it was some kind of industrial accident or something, they'd need some help down there cleaning up. And if it were something less benign, well, that needed investigation also. But just as he keyed in and began to speak, he felt his chopper take bullet fire. He could not immediately identify the source, but he didn't want to hang around to find out, either. He moved left, again trying to get closer to the ground. Rather than report the explosion, what came out of his mouth started with an expletive...
"I am taking small weapons fire!" Woody shouted into the comm piece near his chin. His aircraft was not responding to his repeated course corrections. "My aircraft has been hit and I have lost control. I am just above Washington Mesa, about 1 and a half clicks north of Highway 12!"
Woody had no more time to say anything. His chopper was auguring into the ground and he knew the end had come for him. His last thought was of his wife, of the argument they'd had that morning over nothing of consequence. His last words spoken to his dear wife had been in anger as he'd stormed out of their home. Now he'd never have a chance to make things right.
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