The day after: An apocalyptic morning (161 page)

              "Give me your arm," Paul told him from just outside the door. "I'll give you a little something for the pain."

              "Now you're talking," Skip said, handing over his left arm.

              Paul wrapped a rubber tourniquet around his bicep and tied it off, causing the vein in his elbow to poke up invitingly. He pulled an alcohol swab package from his pocket and ripped it open, discarding the wrapper and using the pungent smelling swab to rub the vein. He then produced a capped syringe from a fanny pack on his waist. He pulled off the cap and dropped it to the ground. A small needle on the end of the syringe gleamed up at him. He poked the needle into Skip's arm, just over the top of the vein, and a moment later some of his blood could be seen swirling into the clear liquid inside of the syringe, clouding it.

              "Okay," Paul said, "I'm in the vein. You should be feeling better in just a moment." With that, he slowly pushed the plunger on the syringe and injected the contents. "This is eight milligrams of morphine," he told him. "As much as I dare give you. It won't make you completely comfortable but it'll take the edge off and let you still stay awake and alert enough to make decisions and give instructions."

              "Whatever helps," Skip told him. Already he could feel the medicine coursing through his body, making him a little dizzy, relaxing him. "Damn, that shit works fast."

              "Nothing like IV push," Paul told him. "All right. I've done what I can for you."

              "You're a good man," Skip said. "But we need to get going. Get everyone well clear of the area."

              "Right," Paul replied. "See you in a bit."

              "Damn right you will."

              By the time Paul had pulled everyone away from the helicopter and back inside the community center, the morphine was up to nearly full effect in Skip's body. As Paul had told him, it didn't take the pain away, didn't make him completely comfortable. Instead, he just didn't seem to care about the pain as much. The swimming sensation in his head made it seem like more of an annoyance than a living thing.

              "All right," Skip said, looking over at Jack. "You ready to fly?"

              "I'm ready," Jack assured him nervously.

              "Then let's do it. Go through the engine start procedure and get the rotor turning."

              Jack flipped the proper switches and then engaged the starter, going through the motions mechanically and with confidence. This part he had done many times before. The turbine engine, still quite warm from the earlier flight, flared immediately to life, making the vehicle vibrate almost comfortingly. Jack then disengaged the rotor clutch, allowing the blades to begin spinning above them.

              "So far, so good," Skip told him. "Now go through the abbreviated pre-flight check real quick and then we'll lift off."

              Jack nodded and then began going through the checklist one by one. He called out each item as he checked it and then confirmed it's operational status. This was also something that he had done many times in the past and it took him less than two minutes to accomplish. "We're ready," he said when he was done, now starting to feel real nervousness. Was this really a good idea?

              Skip didn't allow himself to have second thoughts. "Then let's go," he said. "Keep the cyclic and the collective neutralized and throttle up to one hundred percent."

              "Throttling up," Jack said, turning the knob on the collective all the way up. The whine of the engine increased greatly, as did the vibration of the cabin. The needle on the RPM dial swung upward and stopped just below the red zone. The rotor blades became a blur above them.

              "Now push the collective gently forward," Skip told him next. "And I mean gently. We'll lift up into the air once the blades bite into it. Remember, the moment that the skids leave the ground, you'll have major torque to deal with. Push down on the right pedal as soon as we go up, about two inches, slowly. That oughtta keep us under control at least. You'll have to monkey back and forth until you find the neutral position."

              "Okay," Jack said, stuttering a little, he was so nervous. "Here I go." Slowly, as he had been told, he pushed forward on the parking-brake like lever to the left of his seat. As he did so, the angle of the rotor blades was changed, creating lift. The vehicle began to shudder as the force of gravity was countered and then, after an agonizing five seconds, it lifted up, the skids breaking contact with the ground. Immediately and violently the back end tried to swing in opposition to the rotor.

              "Right pedal," Skip barked, feeling the swing.

              Jack pushed down about two inches, dampening but not entirely killing the torque. The rear end continued to spin around as the helicopter reached the top of the ground effect and stopped there, unable to lift any more.

              "Get this thing stable," Skip said, watching Jack's every move. "Hurry up. There isn't a margin for error here."

              Jack pushed the two pedals up and down for a moment as they hovered three feet above the ground. He overcompensated the first time, sending them spinning in the other direction. He then overcompensated for his overcompensation, sending them spinning back the other way.

              "Easy," Skip told him, feeling adrenaline shooting through him despite the relaxing effects of the morphine. "You're pushing the pedals down too hard. Remember what I told you. Gentle movements. It's almost like you just think about doing it and it's done."

              Jack, his face sweaty, his pupils dilated from his own adrenaline rush, stopped pushing down so hard. Gradually he was able to get control of the spinning motion and arrest it, leaving them in a three-foot hover facing the community center. The faces of Paul, Steve, and several others could be seen peering out through the windows in front.

              "Very good," Skip said, taking a few deep breaths. "Now try to get the feel of this thing for a minute. If we were having formal lessons, I'd have you do this for an hour or so, but since we aren't, we'll only spare a minute. Spin us back and forth by using the pedals. Turn us around in a circle, both ways, and stop us right where we are now."

              Jack did this, holding the three-foot hover and pushing the pedals back and forth, allowing the aircraft to spin slowly around in a circle and then back again. The motions were jerky at first, almost nauseatingly so, but very quickly - quicker even than Skip had the first time he'd taken a trainer helicopter up so many years before - the young man got the hang of it. Within a minute he was able to spin them around and stop them on a particular compass heading and then spin them back the other way and do it again.

              "Very good," Skip said, obviously impressed. "You have an uncanny way of getting a feel for it."

              "All those years of playing computer games and PlayStation," Jack said, giving them another spin to the right.

              "That, and the unnatural reaction times of the young," Skip said. "Anyway, this portion of the lesson is over. Let's get ourselves up in the air now, shall we?"

              "Let's do it."

              "Okay," Skip said. "It gets a little tricky here. I want you to push gently on the collective again, just a little bit more, okay? We'll go straight up slowly. Once you get out of the ground effect, you're going to be dealing with more torque, so get ready to compensate for it."

              "Right," Jack said, bracing himself. He slowly pushed the collective forward, causing the blades to bite harder into the air and produce more lift. They moved upward haltingly, the back end trying to spin again as more torque was created. Jack, ready for it, countered it smoothly by pushing on the pedals. They spun less than two degrees before he had them stable. They continued to rise slowly into the rainy sky, clearing the roof of the community center, the ground dropping away beneath them. The altimeter wound its way upward, the dial spinning clockwise.

              "Beautiful," Skip said, relaxing his grip on his seat a little. "You're doing very well. Take us up to 5000 feet and then we'll start playing with the cyclic. In the meantime, get us on the heading for Cameron Park."

              As they continued to rise into the air, Jack manipulated the pedals so that they spun around. He watched the compass as they turned, arresting the spin when it reached 234 degrees - the course to the Cameron Park Airport. He had to fine tune just a bit to achieve the exact heading and, so intent upon this was he, that he didn't notice his altitude passing over 5000 feet.

              "You're getting too high," Skip said. "Ease up on the collective a bit."

              He eased up too much, not just stopping their climb but actually dropping them back down a bit. He adjusted without being told, bringing them back up. He never did get them stabilized on the exact altitude before Skip started him on the next phase of the flight.

              "Don't worry about it," Skip said. "You're close enough. Let's put on some speed, shall we? Now remember what I told you, everything that you do with the controls has an effect on some other control that will require compensation. When you push the cyclic forward..."

              "Torque will change and lift will change," Jack finished for him, reciting one of the lessons he had been given time and time again.

              "Correct," Skip said. "So get ready to counter them. And remember: gentle movements. Handle those controls softer than you do Stacy and Sara's tits. You get it?"

              "I get it," Jack said with a nervous grin. "Here we go." He pushed forward on the cyclic, changing the angle of the rotor ever so slightly. The nose of the helicopter dipped down a little and they began to move forward through the air, slowly picking up speed. As Skip had told him it would, the torque eased up, trying to spin the back end around, and their altitude tried to drop as some of the lift was reduced. Jack pulled back on the collective and eased up on the anti-torque pedal. The forces stabilized and they remained more or less on course and at altitude.

              "You're flying, my man," Skip said, proud of his student despite the effects of the morphine and the pain beneath. "You're actually flying."

              "Goddamn if I'm not," Jack said, his grin as wide as it ever got.

              Skip had him slowly pick up speed until they were moving at nearly ninety knots. They shot over the canyon and over the rugged terrain south of it, heading towards the airport where the helicopter had once been housed. Jack had a little trouble at first keeping them at a steady altitude but, as he had with controlling the torque, he picked it up with uncanny quickness. It wasn't long before the airport and the devastated town surrounding it was looming before them.

              "Okay," Skip said, "there's Highway 50 up ahead. Now it's time you learned to bank."

              "Turn right to 270, right?" Jack asked.

              "That's right," Skip agreed. "Banking is different than turning with the anti-torque pedals. It's a lot easier to get out of control if you do it wrong. Just ease the cyclic to the right and the aircraft will start to bank. It will continue to increase the bank as long as you hold it away from the neutral position. If you keep it there too long and bank us too much, we'll lose all of our lift and go spinning to the ground, so don't do that."

              "Don't do that," Jack repeated. "Right."

              "And again, you'll have to compensate for the loss of lift during the bank with the collective and then decompensate once the turn is complete. So be ready to that. You shouldn't have to worry much about the pedals at this speed however."

              Jack performed the bank very well. If anything, he was a little too gentle with the controls, shooting them well beyond the landmark of Highway 50 and then having to bring them back. He countered the ups and downs of lift fairly well but had a little trouble getting them back on their course. This was all very well however since it allowed him some precious practice banking back and forth. At last they were at a steady altitude flying directly over the lanes of the four-lane highway (when it wasn't washed out by mudslides that is). In a Micker of minutes they saw the hills guarding El Dorado Hills coming up before them.

              "Slow up your airspeed to about sixty knots," Skip told him. "And start a gentle descent down to 2000 feet. Again, remember to compensate for your forces."

              "Right," Jack said, pulling back on the cyclic and the collective.

              As they did their jerky descent towards their neighboring township, Skip dialed up the radio frequency that matched the one on the portable they had given the town. When he was sure that they had been spotted approaching by the guard positions, he began to hail. It took only a few seconds before he was answered.

              "This is Pat," said a male voice that both Skip and Jack recognized. "Is this Skip I'm talking to?"

              "Yes it is," Skip agreed. "We're approaching your town with three badly wounded women from the battle. Request permission to land in the usual spot."

              "Permission granted," Pat answered. "I'll get the medical team scrambling and we'll meet you at the LZ."