Cobraville by Carsten Stroud

Author:Carsten Stroud
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2004-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Cape Vincent

BELL UH-IH HELICOPTER TRIPOLI

ALTITUDE 65 FEET—SPEED 5 KNOTS

CAPE VINCENT, NEW YORK

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 20, 6:00 A.M. LOCAL TIME

The sidelong light from the rising sun lay full on the broad sweep of the deep blue St. Lawrence River to the north, and the heat of it was strong on Drew’s right cheek. Luna shaded her eyes with her hand and watched as Drew lowered the shuddering chopper toward a wide green lawn surrounding an old cedar-roofed farmhouse lined with tall oaks and maples. The rotor wash was flattening the long grass and making the heavy boughs of the trees heave and sway wildly. Their leaves showed silvery white and lashed back and forth as the heavy machine settled slowly, kicking up clouds of pale blossoms and seedlings that whirlwinded around the chopper like a spiraling swarm of bees. Drew pulled back on the cyclic and the machine went into a classic flare. Luna felt the struts touch down, lift, and then settle firmly onto the earth. Her heart slowed and the relief that ran through her was as intense as it was familiar. Drew flicked off several switches, and the Lycoming engine shut down. The machine rocked gently as the rotors flickered and strobed and the metal frame groaned.

Drew pulled his headset off and stretched his arms out. His shoulders ached from the strain of flying the Huey. He lifted his feet off the tail-rotor control pedals for the first time in hours and flexed both his hands. Holding the cyclic in your right hand and the collective in your left—in what is literally a death grip—has a price. And the constant vibration of the rotors works its way through your skeleton until all your bones feel soft. Flying a Huey over distance is like spending several hours trapped in an airborne Nautilus machine that will only stay airborne if you keep on pumping out bicep curls.

Luna watched with a less than sympathetic expression as he tried to work the ache out of his body. It hadn’t been her idea to take the chopper in the first place. The Cadillac was just fine with her.

“Why is there no autopilot in these stupid things?”

“I’m it. Hueys don’t belong in the air.”

Drew popped the door and eased himself out like an arthritic old codger. Luna slipped gracefully out of her side with all the oiled flexibility of youth. They crab-walked—needlessly but reflexively—out from under the 24-foot reach of the turning rotors through morning dew still wet on the long grass. The old white-painted clapboard house was shuttered and sealed. The screened-in porch that ran all the way around the low rambling construction sagged a little under the memory of eighty years of snow and falling leaves. But the steps that led up to the front door were solid, and new paint was on the trim around the screen door. They stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked around the property. It was ringed on three sides by a thick forest of mixed hardwood with a scattering of dense, dark-green pines.

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