Billie Jones - Snake Typhoon!

“Don’t panic,” I say in a steady voice, following step one of the guidebook: How to soothe people in times of crisis.

Glasses found, I plonk them on and turn towards the pilot, who is trembling uncontrollably. I need his expertise, so my first priority is his health. His face is a shade whiter than ivory and his neck has broken out in angry red spots, which he itches with a maniacal gleam in his eye. He stops scratching once he draws blood and hugs his knees to his chest and rocks back and forth, muttering, “We’re going to die!”

I try to dampen my excitement that I’m about to get my chance to fly the helicopter, remembering that I’m on duty. I search my memory for what the manual would say to do in this situation. First, I press the big white button that says AUTO PILOT and turn it, glumly. It’s sort of not fair a button gets to man the chopper before me, but I am a professional and work comes first.

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