Mack Maloney - Chopper Ops

The Hind wasn’t like any other copter. That much was certain now. It didn’t take off vertically because it was so damn big. It had to be rolled down a runway, just like an airplane.

“Hang on, partner,” Norton called ahead to Delaney. “Let’s see just how good the Russians build helicopters.”

“I have just one question first,” Delaney asked. “Why are we wearing parachutes?”

Norton consulted the crude manual again. “If this thing goes unstable, we open up and step out.”

“With that eggbeater still turning above us?” Delaney cried. “Are they nuts?”

Norton couldn’t argue with him. It seemed like a choice between two deaths. Go down with the ship or step out and be sliced and diced by the rotor.

“We won’t need them,” Norton said back to him. “Don’t worry.”

“Yeah, that’s what my first wife said about using rubbers,” Delaney replied, his voice trailing off and leaving Norton wanting some kind of punch line.

Did Delaney have kids? Norton wondered. He didn’t even know.

But his mind was soon back on other things. He booted power and adjusted to 60-percent torque, just as the photocopy instructions told him to. Then he popped the brakes, and the huge gunship began moving.

“Oh, Christ,” he heard Delaney gasp. “This ain’t going to be good. I just know it….”

“Relax, Slick,” Norton reassured him. “Think nice thoughts.”

The ride was bumpy, and Norton’s steering very herky-jerky, but in good time they had reached the main runway. Turning left and creeping up about fifty feet, Norton finally touched the brakes and the gunship came to a stop.

He did one last check of the control panel, and then tried to think back to all those hours in the Tin Can. It seemed odd, but this was not that much different from flight-testing an airplane for the first time. But had he really learned enough about the Hind to actually fly it?

There would be only one way to find out.

“You still breathing?” he called ahead to Delaney.

“I assure you I’m going through several bodily functions at the moment,” was Delaney’s reply.

“OK, then,” Norton said. “Get ready to do one more.”

With that, he took a deep breath of the artificially cool air, hit the gas, and off they went.

About a quarter mile away, Ricco and Gillis were rolling out in their new aircraft too.

The two refuelers were less sullen than when they’d first stepped into the cabin of the gigantic Mi-6 Hook. The interior control work done on the huge copter’s controls had been extensive. Through the use of microprocessors and a hundred miles of rewiring, nearly sixty percent of the controls had been converted to look and act like those on their KC-10 Pegasus. Even the steering yokes and throttle bars were the same.

So the tanker pilots were more comfortable with their new set of wheels. But they had not left the ground—yet.

It was a tribute to his professionalism and toughness that Rooney, just months away from retirement after thirty-five years in the CIA, had agreed to go along with them on this initial flight. He was now sitting in the flight engineer’s hole, parked directly behind Ricco, who was sitting in the left-hand pilot’s seat.

The huge Russian helicopter was moving slowly towards the southern end of the runway. Rooney had to admit that the tanker pilots—for all their complaints—were handling the big bird pretty well so far. Taxiing out to the airstrip was no more or less comfortable than the bouncing and jostling one experienced in a commercial airliner. The only difference was the constant roar of the copter’s huge rotor blades and the never-ending sloshing of the fuel bladders in the rear of the cavernous cargo hold.

The pilots expertly brought the big helicopter out to the end of the airstrip, then did a quick check of their vitals. Ricco was handling the controls; Gillis was reading their own photocopied flight manual. The Hook also had to take off like an airplane.

“OK, what next? We roll out for five hundred feet or so?” Ricco was saying as he ran a quick systems check.

“Or was it six hundred?” Gillis murmured, checking the manual.

“It’s six hundred and fifty,” Rooney reminded them, looking at his copy of the flying manual.

They bumped to a stop at the end of the runway and did another system check.

Ricco turned back to Rooney. “Are you sure that we can take this thing up and fly it like a KC-10?”

Rooney nodded. “This bird has been rewired so you will feel like you’re flying a tanker. Up is up, down is down, fast is fast, and slow is slow. It will respond to your touch, convert the energy to what you want the copter to do. The only difference is your takeoff speed and distance.”

“That sounds great, but are you really sure?” Gillis asked him.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe that,” the CIA man replied calmly.

Secretly, though, he wanted very much to light up a cigar and calm down a bit. But the load of fuel in the back prevented that.

One last check of the systems and everything seemed set. They made a brief report to the control tower and received their takeoff clearance. Ricco and Gillis shook hands—a preflight ritual of theirs. Then Ricco gave her the gas. They began rumbling along the runway at a very slow speed, the rotor blades screaming in protest as more fuel was laid on the gigantic engines.

“Let’s have a count-off up to the sixty-fifty and our rotation speed,” Ricco said, already battling the shaky controls.

“OK, we’re at one hundred feet,” Gillis called out, reading the distance indicator. “Speed at thirteen knots already.”

Ricco had a firm grip on the controls, his eyes glued to the bumpy potholed runway. The ride was getting rougher with each passing instant, however. He added more power.

“Why not spend a few hundred bucks and get yourself a new runway?” he complained back to Rooney.

“Two hundred feet, speed at twenty-two knots,” Gillis said. “You got the right power levels? We should be going much faster quicker.”

Ricco checked his board and was certain that the power settings were OK.

“It’s all green,” he said, his grip on the controls now giving him white knuckles.

“Three-fifty on the roll, speed at twenty-five knots,” Gillis said, his voice sounding more concerned with each word. “Maybe those recommendations were for high-altitude stuff.”

“You’re all right,” Rooney said, not knowing if in fact he was speaking the truth. “Just stay with it.”

“Four hundred feet on the roll, speed only thirty- two—make that thirty-one knots,” Gillis reported anxiously.

Ricco added a bit more power—but as a result everything in the chopper began shaking even more violently.

Five hundred on the roll…” Gillis intoned. “Speed holding at forty-one …”

“Shit, we’re not going make this,” Ricco said.

“Stay with it,” Rooney said again—but even he could tell they seemed to be standing still while the engines were screaming and every nut and bolt in the aircraft seemed to be coming apart.

“Six hundred on the roll—speed is not yet forty-five knots,” Gillis warned.

They were supposed to be at least fifty-five knots, or more like sixty, but it was no time to wonder why.

“What’s it say in that book about aborting takeoffs?” Ricco yelled back to Rooney, who was already madly flipping through the pages.

“Nothing!” he called ahead, his voice losing a bit of wind.

They continued rumbling along, engines screaming, fuel sloshing. The aircraft seemed ready to break apart at any second. But they were beyond the point of stopping. The rotors were so torqued up, to kill power now would most likely flip the copter on its side, blowing the fuel and no doubt killing them all in the process.