Serpentine

by Peter Parken

  Then Nate saw it. The gleaming white trestles, the shiny silver track, punctuated here and there by the black color of the train itself—or at least what was left of it. The wreckage had been placed near the far eastern edge of the site—which told Nate that the ship that was going to dump the mess into the ocean would be loading up on the Safe Harbor side.

  “Take us down! Way down!”

  Ron fiddled with the controls again and the helicopter descended once more. They were very close now. “Turn us over on my side, Ron.”

  The chopper went into a smooth long turn over the mass of wreckage, and shifted effortlessly onto its side as it swooped across. Nate looked down at his creation. Now just a morbid pile of junk. It was sad to see it—his carefully crafted masterpiece had been unceremoniously dumped. Which seemed almost irreverent. Twenty-five people had died due to whatever it was that had caused the Black Mamba to go rogue. And the machine, that had been built with tender loving care, built for laughter and just pure unadulterated joy, was being deemed guilty without being allowed to defend itself. It had been judged and executed. As he looked down at his pile of junk, it felt to Nate as if it wanted to speak to him, to cry out in protest.

  Nate was determined to listen. He positioned his camera up to the window and snapped away, taking countless photos that he and his team would have the chance to enlarge and examine later when they got back to Virginia. Ron made another complete circle, keeping the chopper angled onto its side as Nate clicked away.

  He then pointed back in the direction of the airport. “We’ve got enough. Let’s head back. Tomorrow we’re gonna see it up close and personal.”

  Chapter 17

  Ron gently eased the stick forward, and then slightly to the left. The nose of the Bell helicopter dipped and the aircraft veered off in the direction of the airport.

  He loved this chopper—it was quite different from the attack helicopters he’d been trained to fly in the Navy. This one didn’t have the same maneuverability or the speed—but it had a much smoother ride.

  For some reason that he couldn’t really define, he enjoyed flying helicopters much more than airplanes. He was qualified to fly both. The type of fighter jet that he had the most experience with was the F-18 Hornet, which was one of the Navy’s favorite quick-strike aircraft. And in his career with the Navy, he’d had to make quite a few quick strikes.

  He glanced around through the panoramic cockpit window. This chopper was one of the latest from Bell—a 206L4 model. He knew that one of the reasons why it gave such a smooth ride was the Rolls Royce Turbine engine—tried and tested through more than 150 million miles flown.

  And for a commercial aircraft, it was quite responsive. It was equipped with a two-bladed rotor extended on a shaft above the roof of the cabin, and also a tail rotor that spun vertically, giving excellent directional control, especially at higher altitudes.

  Ron loved flying—that’s what he missed the most about being in the Navy. His rank upon retiring from the Seals was Lieutenant Commander. But he didn’t get to fly very much during his last five years—those were his Seals days, and those missions usually involved him and his team being flown somewhere by someone else. And then just as quickly flown out again.

  Instead of flying F-18 Hornets off aircraft carriers, his role as a Seal had been one of secrecy. Covert operations in the middle of the night in foreign countries that he never really got to see; at least not in the light of day. And killing more faceless nameless people than he cared to count. People who were just “targets.” No more, no less.

  After he did his five-year stint he’d had enough. He’d been in the Navy for a total of twenty years including his five years as a Seal. He’d earned his electrical and systems engineering degree at the pleasure of Uncle Sam, and at the expense of the American people. And also his pilot’s credentials. He had to admit, the military was a great way to get an education that a person would be hard pressed to afford otherwise. So he had no regrets in that respect.

  But, he had other regrets. His ability to kill without conscience during those Seal years still bothered him. He couldn’t understand how he had been able to do that so easily. The Navy had given him the killing skills, sure, but what had they done to his mind?

  Ron shook his head to bring himself back to the present. And the present meant soaring over the beautiful blue sea with his two best friends. He wished the three of them were there under different circumstances—wished they could just charter a boat and get out fishing for a few days. Fresh fish, barbecues and beers. With the two guys he loved and respected the most.

  But, instead, they were in Key West trying to save themselves from a fate that might be worse than death. Bankruptcy and, quite possibly, the rest of their lives in prison. They didn’t deserve this. The work they did at Flying Machines was not only state of the art, but it was also done with precision. They were the best in the world at what they did. And they didn’t make mistakes that jeopardized safety. Ever.

  Ron was forty-eight years old and had been out of the military for ten years. Civilian life had been good so far. It had been tough on the family when he was in the Navy; away far too much, especially during his time as a Seal. He’d missed so much with his wife, Monica, and their twin daughters.

  But there was still a lot to live for—a lot of life that he wanted to be free to enjoy. He wanted to walk his girls down the aisle, hold his grandchildren and play with them until they exhausted him, take romantic vacations with Monica—and kiss her goodnight, every night, for the rest of her life.

  But, instead of all that, his loved ones might be visiting him in prison and sneaking in chocolates at Christmastime as a special treat for him. Visiting with him for no more than an hour at a time once a week. Dropping off photos so he could see what he was missing and how they were all doing without him.

  No. That was not the way it was going to be. He started feeling angry thinking about how badly they’d been set up. He wanted to know why. And he wanted to know who.

  That indescribable ‘killing feeling’ was creeping back into his brain again—the feeling of absolute detachment, being able to picture a fictitious person and imagine how he’d do it. And he was trained to ‘do it’ in countless creative ways. He hadn’t had this familiar overpowering feeling for many years. Until now, there had been no stimulus in his life to trigger it. But today he felt like a Seal again.

  Ron blinked his eyes hard and then shook his head once more, symbolically trying to shake the thoughts out of his head. He could tell out of the corner of his eye that Nate was watching him.

  “You okay, buddy?”

  Ron smiled. “I’m doin’ just fine. But how’s our height-challenged friend doin’ back there?” He turned his head around and grinned at Tom.

  “Hey, I’m okay too—especially now that I know you’re headin’ back to the airport. Just get us down fast, please?”

  “It’s such a nice day and we paid for a minimum of two hours, I was thinking we should stay up a bit longer and tour around!”

  Nate gazed around at the panoramic view. “It is beautiful up here. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Ron? The flying part, I mean.”

  Ron chuckled. “I feel like a little kid with a new bike. This helicopter is a treat to fly.”

  “Which do you enjoy more? Planes or choppers?”

  “Oh, choppers by far. And they’re actually more challenging to learn to fly than a plane, believe it or not. There’s so much intricacy in a chopper.”

  Nate pointed. “I call that a ‘stick,’ but what’s it really called?”

  “Well, even we pilots just call it the ‘stick.’ But the official name for it is ‘cyclic.’ It controls the pitch, or angle, of the top rotor blades. Those blades are shaped like airplane wings so they provide the same kind of lift as in planes. When I shift the cyclic forward, the angle of the blades changes and the aircraft goes in a forward direction. The same applies in every direction I shift the stick. When the stick is in the dire
ct center spot, the rotor blades are actually in a flat position, not tilted in any direction. And that’s what allows a chopper to hover.”

  “Interesting. What’s that tail rotor do?”

  “It helps with maneuverability, especially at high altitudes. And counteracts the tendency of the aircraft to want to just turn round and round in one spot when it’s hovering. It’s a directional control aid.”

  Nate pointed back in the direction of the landfill site. “Since we still have this thing for a while, why don’t we go back for one more run around the site? Won’t hurt to get some more photos.”

  Ron smiled. “My pleasure, boss. More time in the air is just fine with me. Do you agree, Tom?”

  He heard a groan from the rear seat. “Does it matter what I think? You guys never listen to me anyway. Have your fun—I’ll just close my eyes.”

  Ron and Nate laughed as Ron eased forward and off to starboard on the stick. The sleek helicopter went nose down and over on its side—a smooth turn if there ever was one. They set a course back to the landfill site, which they could easily see off in the distance.

  Ron sighed with pleasure as he felt the power of the chopper rev in his hand. The stick gave the same sense of power that someone would get with his foot on the accelerator of a car.

  Suddenly, he felt a chill. Not a cold chill, a different kind of chill. Something ominous. Something was wrong. It was almost imperceptible.

  There was a slight shudder in the chopper—one that only a pilot could detect. And the stick in Ron’s skilled hand felt different. Not as responsive. He pulled back slightly to test it. Nothing happened. Shit!

  He was just about to try something else when the nose of the aircraft pointed violently upwards and the rotors roared. The helicopter started climbing at a breakneck pace. Ron pushed forward slightly on the stick, careful not to put it into a stall. No response again.

  He shoved the stick into the center position, trying to force the craft to hover. Again, it was as if the cyclic was disconnected—what he was doing had no effect whatsoever.

  Ron was vaguely aware of guttural sounds coming from Tom in the rear, and a cacophony of yelling from Nate through his earphones.

  He yelled back. “Not now, guys! Just hold tight while I figure this out!”

  His fist was clenched tightly on the stick—why, he didn’t know, because it was doing nothing at all. Perhaps it made him feel like he was still in control.

  The helicopter had a mind of its own now. He noticed on the altimeter that they had risen about 1,000 feet since the anomaly started.

  Suddenly, the ascent slowed down—and then stopped. The aircraft started hovering. Ron pushed forward on the stick. Still nothing. Then, inexplicably, they started spinning around in a circle.

  He could feel Nate’s hand shaking his shoulder. He turned his head and looked into his frightened eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on, Nate! Let me work it!”

  They were spinning around fast now—Ron could feel himself getting dizzy.

  Nate yelled. “Why are we spinning?!”

  “The tail rotor’s shut down. I’m going to try to restart it.”

  Ron stretched his sweaty hand out to the dashboard and punched the electronic ignition. Nothing. He glanced up at the instruments—everything seemed to be functioning normally except for the red warning light showing the tail rotor disengaged. His heart was pounding hard in cadence with the rotation of the rotors. Then, suddenly, that sound stopped too. An eerie silence descended upon the cabin. All three men were holding their breath.

  Then they started to fall. Slowly at first, then faster and faster.

  Tom yelled out, panic in his voice. “The engine’s dead!”

  Ron was trying desperately to figure it out—ignoring the outcries of his friends. First the aircraft had soared skyward all by itself with no command from him. Then it hovered. And then the tail rotor decided to shut down.

  And the main rotors had stopped. He knew that there was an automatic protection built into the craft in case this happened. The rotors would begin what was called ‘auto-rotation’ where the blades would keep turning, but at a much-reduced rate of speed—the blades would create a small amount of lift that would keep the craft from falling to the ground like a rock.

  They were still going to crash, though, and probably wouldn’t survive it from this height. There was only so much lift the slowly spinning rotors could provide, and for a short fall it was survivable. But not at the height they were dropping from.

  Their only hope was to re-start the engine, which could easily be accomplished on this model of helicopter even while in mid-air. He’d already tried to re-start the tail rotor with no success. Ron said a silent prayer that he’d have better luck with the main engine.

  He hit the electric start button and waited. Waited for the comforting sound of the rotors whirling. There was nothing but ominous silence.

  And, of course, the horrifying sight of the ground rushing up to meet them.

  His two friends were dead quiet. He wasn’t surprised—what could they possibly say? They were depending on him to get them out of this, but all of his options had been exhausted.

  Ron had a sudden pointless thought: If this was an F-18 Hornet I could eject; pull the handle, smash the canopy and pop up and out to safety. But—for the obvious reasons—there was no ejection option available with a helicopter. You went ‘down with the ship’ in these things.

  Suddenly, without warning or fanfare, that familiar comforting noise returned. Ron took a huge breath and exhaled hard as he heard, first, the main twin rotors, followed by the tail rotor. The helicopter was stabilizing itself at an elevation of 500 feet, and Ron had done nothing whatsoever to cause it to happen. His efforts at starting the engines had failed. The damn things had restarted on their own without his help.

  Ron heard his two friends cheering.

  He jiggled the stick toward him, trying to get the aircraft ‘nose up’ and back into a climb. He was uncomfortable with how close they were to the ground. No time or room for error if they started falling again.

  But, the chopper clearly had a different plan in mind than Ron’s. Instead of heading up in the direction that Ron jiggled, it went ‘nose down’ and dove. Swooping downward and then veering to the left—towards the water this time. Within seconds, they were over it, only 200 feet above the surface.

  Ron frantically shoved the stick around in its radius, trying desperately to get some kind of reaction. But his efforts were fruitless. He cursed as the chopper leveled out over the water, 100 feet above the whitecaps. Then he swore again as the chopper dipped down even closer to the dangerous swells.

  The thing decided to speed straight ahead and it seemed as if it was just skimming across the waves. Ron knew there was a real danger of the landing skids getting caught by the waves, and if that happened the helicopter would simply somersault at full speed into the sea.

  He didn’t want them to be trapped in a sinking death trap. As he was looking out the side window, gauging their distance from the water, he yelled out, “Unfasten your seat belts!”

  Suddenly, Nate yelled out, too. “Jesus fuck! Look!”

  Ron turned his head away from the side window and looked to where Nate was pointing. They were heading towards the shore now, towards a dock. And tethered to that dock was a massive cargo ship. The helicopter was on a direct line to crash into it broadside.

  Ron pulled his hand off the stick and grabbed his chest. There was a pain that was crushing him, a pain he’d never felt before. Probably an anxiety pain, no doubt brought on by the horrifying sight in front of them.

  Tom yelled, “Do something!”

  Suddenly, the chopper, clearly still with a mind of its own, rose upwards at a steep pitch. As they swooped over the edge of the ship with only a few feet to spare, Ron was vaguely aware of the sight of panicked seamen diving prone to the deck.

  The aircraft was climbing once again. Then—it stopped—and hovered.

&n
bsp; The pain in Ron’s chest was subsiding. He reached for the stick, to try one more time to gain control.

  He throttled it forward.

  It responded! He had control!

  Ron didn’t waste any time. The sooner they were safely on the ground, the better, before the thing decided to take them on another wild ride.

  He aimed the craft in the direction of the airport and went full speed ahead. Strangely, everything seemed fine. It was totally responsive to his touch.

  No one in the cabin said a word. He figured his friends were probably bracing themselves for another surprise, afraid to feel safe too soon only to have their elation dashed again.

  Ron could hear their heavy breathing though, which didn’t surprise him in the least. He was surprised that they weren’t all dead of heart attacks.

  He set the aircraft on a course for the tarmac near the hangar. Within a couple of minutes, they were above where they wanted to be. Ron hovered the chopper and lowered them slowly down to the circle. He shut the craft down, shoved the door open, and stumbled out onto the pavement. Followed quickly by his two stunned friends.

  They staggered away a safe distance from the helicopter, and then all three promptly collapsed to the tarmac.

  Nate was the first to speak, in between labored breaths. “What…the fuck…was that all about?”

  Ron rose to a sitting position. “My guess? Someone else…was flying that helicopter. It certainly wasn’t me. It was…like I wasn’t even there. For those few minutes, chaps, I think we were in…in a drone.”

  Chapter 18

  The helicopter charter facility was a dilapidated metal Quonset type structure, clearly in need of some TLC. But, as was typical of a lot of commercial buildings in Key West, the TLC thing would probably never happen. Most business owners on the island would prefer to just wait until the next hurricane and let the insurance company give them a new one.