45. Logan
Logan
Holy shit. These helicopters don’t fly that high to begin with, and when we start our nosedive, I’ve never felt time run out as fast as it does in these ten seconds.
If Chase doesn’t Hulk our pilot over these seats to get him off the control stick, we’re going to meet our Maker when we crash into the water and break apart like a ceramic plate.
As it is, not only am I fighting a low-G pushover with the sudden nosedive, I’m fighting a vortex ring state—we’re descending into our own rotor downwash, and warning lights and alarms are blaring all around this chopper.
Come on, baby, I think to myself, unsure whether I’m talking to Chase, begging him to get Erik’s body out of my way, or to the chopper to work with me.
I’m not familiar with this model, but I know helicopters.
I can make it good for you, I promise the inanimate object currently trying to kill me and the man I love.
Heaving like our lives depend on it—which they do—Chase pulls Erik’s body until he finally gets the man and his legs in the backseat.
Scrambling into the vacated seat, I try to pull us out of this spinning nosedive.
Ideally, I need to perform a Vuichard recovery, applying contralateral pressure to the joystick to stop the lateral spin, but the problem is that I’m quickly running out of space and the water is unforgiving.
So, saying a quick prayer, I pull back on the stick while also applying a lateral force in the direction of our spin.
If the rotors lose their thrust, I’ve just killed us all, but I don’t have time for trial and error, and we’re dead anyway if our nose touches the surface of that water.
The chopper dips low, but begins to bank out of the downwash.
I start to breathe a little easier, but it’s too soon, as my engine begins to stall from losing power thanks to the low-G pushover creating a near-weightless state. The chopper needs forward momentum to keep its blades turning.
Jesus fucking Christ, can’t a guy catch a break?
Letting my training take over, I immediately lower the collective control to flatten the pitch of my blades and troubleshoot a mid-air restart.
We swoop even lower, now within one hundred feet of the water, as my fingers fly over the fuel shutoff valve, turning it on, and reengaging my fuel pump and ignition switch before engaging the starter.
Time stands still as I hear the whomp-whomp-whomp slowly regain speed above me, and my bird levels out, giving us a little altitude.
Holy shit.
Ho-lee shit.
“Are you okay?” I yell back at Chase. When he doesn’t answer me, I risk a quick glance over my shoulder and see him checking for a pulse.
“CHASE!” I yell into the headset.
He looks at me.
“Are you okay?” I ask again.
He nods, and I’m able to breathe again, thinking through what happens next.
“Good. I need his helmet! His mic is connected to ground control.”
We both waste a second staring at the helmet in question, the dilemma clear: my hands are needed on this stick and my attention on the dials that are still blaring. His hands and attention are needed for restoring Erik’s heartbeat.
But it quickly becomes apparent that I can’t reach the helmet anyway, so Chase pauses his assessment of our pilot, pulls his helmet off, and hands it to me.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday,” I immediately say into the mic, using the distress call for a medical emergency.
“Oranjestad ground, Helicopter Airbus H130, tail number unknown. Pilot incapacitated. Life is in imminent danger. This is passenger Logan Kirkland, requesting immediate assistance and clearance to land.”