Helicopter Pilots Quotes

Jason turned to Leo. “Do you think you can fly this thing?” “Um…” Leo put his hand on the side of the helicopter, concentrating hard, as if listening to the machine. “Bell 412HP utility helicopter,” Leo said. “Composite four-blade main rotor, cruising speed twenty-two knots, service ceiling twenty-thousand feet. The tank is near full. Sure, I can fly it.” Piper smiled at the ranger again. “You din’t have a problem with an under-aged unlicensed kid borrowing your copter, do you? We’ll return it.” “I-“ The pilot nearly choked on the words, but she got them out: “I don’t have a problem with that.” Leo grinned. “Hop in kids, Uncle Leo’s gonna take you for a ride.

Excellence in Western Fiction, is a member of the American Writers Hall of Fame and is a Pulitzer Prize nominee.   Vaughn is also a retired army officer, helicopter pilot with three tours in Vietnam. And received the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Purple Heart, The Bronze Star with three

Dr. Talbon was struck by another very important thing. It all hung together. The stories Cheryl told — even though it was upsetting to think people could do stuff like that — they were not disjointed They were not repetitive in terms of "I've heard this before". It was not just she'd someone trying consciously or unconsciously to get attention. really processed them out and was done with them. She didn't come up with them again [after telling the story once and dealing with it]. Once it was done, it was done. And I think that was probably the biggest factor for me in her believability. I got no sense that she was using these stories to make herself a really interesting person to me so I'd really want to work with her, or something. Or that she was just living in this stuff like it was her life. Once she dealt with it and processed it, it was gone. We just went on to other things. 'Throughout the whole thing, emotionally Cheryl was getting her life together. Parts of her were integrating where she could say,"I have a sense that some particular alter has folded in with some basic alter", and she didn't bring it up again. She didn't say that this alter has reappeared to cause more problems. That just didn't happen. The therapist had learned from training and experience that when real integration occurs, it is permanent and the patient moves on.

I do admire the new breed of fictional female PI's. The ones who'll survive a throttling, a kidnapping, a punch in the kidneys from a Mafia goon and then wind up the evening making love to a helicopter pilot. In the helicopter. I think I need more time at the gym.

Bill Black is said to be one of the most experienced helicopter pilots in the world, and he needs to be. He sits like a cuddly old curmudgeon hunched over his joystick and chews gum slowly and continuously as he flies his helicopter directly at sheer cliff faces to see if you'll scream.

Jason Bookman, right hand to Parable founder, Dorian Purcell, and his pilot died today in the crash of a helicopter owned by the company.

As one veteran Russian pilot dryly told me:"We have to be very careful flying in the clouds. Around here they are full of rocks.

Flying a helicopter is like flying a magic carpet. It’s the most fun in all aviation.

Mamaw often told a parable: A young man was sitting at home when a terrible rainstorm began. Within hours, the man’s house began to flood, and someone came to his door offering a ride to higher ground. The man declined, saying, “God will take care of me.” A few hours later, as the waters engulfed the first floor of the man’s home, a boat passed by, and the captain offered to take the man to safety. The man declined, saying, “God will take care of me.” A few hours after that, as the man waited on his roof—his entire home flooded—a helicopter flew by, and the pilot offered transportation to dry land. Again the man declined, telling the pilot that God would care for him. Soon thereafter, the waters overcame the man, and as he stood before God in heaven, he protested his fate: “You promised that you’d help me so long as I was faithful.” God replied, “I sent you a car, a boat, and a helicopter. Your death is your own fault.” God helps those who help themselves. This was the wisdom of the Book of Mamaw. The

On a training mission, he’d watched as Nightstalker pilots cut their own landing zone using the rotors of the helicopter as giant hedge clippers. They’d been landing in a pine forest and he marveled as the helo dropped into the hole of its own making—pine

Helicopter pilots were withdrawn from the war in Afghanistan and set to work flying constant sorties over Unit 4, dropping sandbags into the molten crater. At first, only three men filled the bags with sand - two Deputy Ministers and Major General Antoshkin of the Air Force. “We were soon in a sweat,” recalled Gennadi Shasharin, Deputy Minister of Power and Electrification. “We worked just the way we were: Meshkov and I in Moscow suits and street shoes, and the General in his dress uniform. All without respirators and dosimeters.”190

FLY A HELICOPTER? SURE, WHY NOT. Leo had done plenty of crazier things that week. The sun was going down as they flew north over the Richmond Bridge, and Leo couldn’t believe the day had gone so quickly. Once again, nothing like ADHD and a good fight to the death to make time fly. Piloting the chopper, he went back and forth between confidence and panic. If he didn’t think about it, he found himself automatically flipping the right switches, checking the altimeter, easing back on the stick, and flying straight. If he allowed himself to consider what he was doing, he started freaking out. He imagined his Aunt Rosa yelling at him in Spanish, telling him he was a delinquent lunatic who was going to crash and burn. Part of him suspected she was right. “Going okay?” Piper asked from the copilot’s seat. She sounded more nervous than he was, so Leo put on a brave face.

But the worst that the wind did was to be the primary cause of a huge, vicious, boat-flipping, morale-shattering seaway. The helicopter pilots, who, while hovering, had to dodge them, said the waves were as high as fifty feet. If that estimate were true, it still misses the point, for the danger of the waves lay not in their height but in their shape. “At daybreak the seas were spectacular,” remembered Peter Bruce, a commander in the Royal Navy who was navigator in Eclipse. “They had become very large, very steep, and broke awkwardly, but the boat was handling well.” George Tinley, who had been so badly beaten around in his Windswept, later said, “There were seas coming at one angle with breakers on them, but there were seas coming at another angle also with breakers, and then there were the most fearsome things where the two met in the middle.” After the gale, Major Maclean vividly described the appearance of the waves at night: “All around were white horses with their spray flurrying horizontally and slashing against us with the added impetus of the occasional rain squalls. But these white horses were just the top of some monster waves which hunched up, their tops flaring with spume, and marched on leaving us high at one minute so we could glimpse around, and then bringing us some fifty feet down into their troughs so we could appreciate the enormity of the next wave following. Some waves had boiling foam all over them where they were moving through the break of a previous wave, or, when the foam had fizzled away, they were deep green from the disturbance of the water. Otherwise the sea was black.

Auto rotation is practiced over and over when learning to fly helicopters. It is the prime life-saving maneuver, and it is an enormous amount of fun to do. To accomplish a perfect auto rotation, landing like a feather and right on the mark, is another pure joy of flying. So if you lose your only engine while flying, hope you are in a helicopter rather than an airplane. Your odds of a safe landing are infinitely greater.

With apologies to the folks in Redmond, I’ll end on another Microsoft joke because it makes the point well (a point that applies everywhere, not just at Microsoft): A helicopter was flying around above Seattle when a malfunction disabled all of its electronic navigation and communications equipment. The clouds were so thick that the pilot couldn’t tell where he was. Finally, the pilot saw a tall building, flew toward it, circled, and held up a handwritten sign that said WHERE AM I? in large letters. People in the tall building quickly responded to the aircraft, drawing their own large sign: YOU ARE IN A HELICOPTER. The pilot smiled, looked at his map, determined the route to Sea-Tac Airport, and landed safely. After they were on the ground, the copilot asked the pilot how he had done it. “I knew it had to be the Microsoft building,” he said, “because they gave me a technically correct but completely useless answer.

When landing the J-3 Cub, the proper technique is for the tail wheel to touch the runway a millisecond before the main wheels touch. So before landing the pilot must raise the nose of the plane, which blocks his forward vision. He now must gauge his distance above the ground, and his location on the runway, by again using the side windows as he floats on down. After touching down he will again be blind to the front. After coming to a stop the back-and-forth taxiing begins again.

Captain Sergei Volodin was an Air Force helicopter pilot who often flew a specially equipped Mi-8 transport helicopter around Ukraine. The aircraft was fitted with a dosimeter that Captain Volodin had used in the past to test radiation levels around Chernobyl out of his own personal curiosity. Prior to the 26th it had never even flickered. On the night of the accident, he and his crew were on standby for the Emergency Rescue shift covering the wider Kiev area, making his the first aircraft to arrive on the scene. As he flew around Pripyat, an Army Major in the rear measured radiation from a personal dosimeter. Neither wore any protective clothing. Volodin’s equipment went haywire as he cycled through its measurement ranges: 10, 100, 250, 500 roentgens. All were off the scale. “Above 500, the equipment - and human beings - aren’t supposed to work,” he remembers. Just as he was seeing his own readings, the Major burst into the cockpit screaming, “You murderer! You’ve killed us all!” The air was emitting 1,500 roentgens-per-hour. “We’d taken such a high dose,” the pilot says, “he thought we were already dead.”161

Most people think that it is more difficult to fly a helicopter than an airplane. This is a myth. The myth survives because when a student pilot takes his or her first lesson in a small, single engine airplane, at the end of the hour of instruction the student can imagine that some day, way—way off in the future maybe, but someday—he will learn to fly the aircraft all by himself. When student pilots have their first hour of instruction in a small, single engine helicopter, they know that if they live to be one hundred they will never learn to fly it. They also believe this after their second lesson and into the third. The problem is the hover.

When we were a few minutes from the LZ, I turned around in my seat to look at the faces of the American soldiers about to go into battle. I did this as part of my plan, hatched months ago, to see the war up close from a helicopter. Although I guess I knew better, what I expected to see were grim, masculine faces with determined, steely eyes and firmly set jaws. The image of GI Joe. But that was not what I saw. I saw pimples and peach fuzz and eyes full of fear. Some of the soldiers were big guys and some were slight, but they all had one thing in common—they were young, really young. I’ll never forget that image. The typical American infantryman was a kid.

Rob thinks that a bullet has punctured the aircraft’s hydraulic system. PJs have a name for the red-colored hydraulic fluid: helicopter blood, and it is crucial to the aircraft’s flight-control systems. Without hydraulic fluid the pilots cannot control the helicopter. The reason for Rob’s alarm is that hot, red fluid seems to be spraying onto his arm and leg from somewhere behind him. He reaches up to locate the source and feels his face hanging down from his skull. He is stunned to realize that what he thought was hydraulic fluid spraying under pressure is really his own blood. His face is splayed open from his eye to his ear. The bullet exited from the back of his neck only a quarter of an inch from his spine. He feels the back of his neck and his fingers find the bloody exit hole.

And then I see it. Azure Helicopter Tours. I drag Toraf to the landing pad. “What is that?” he asks suspiciously. “Um. It’s a helicopter.” “What does it do? Triton’s trident, it doesn’t fly does it? Emma? Emma wait!” He catches up to me and burps right in my ear. “Stop being a jerkface,” I tell him. “Whatever that is. You don’t care about me at all, do you?” “You came to me, remember? This is me helping you. Now be quiet while I buy tickets.” It’s a private ride, no other passengers to worry about. Plus, we’re not stealing anything. The helicopter can return to land with its pilot as soon as we’re done with our part of the mission. “Why do we need to fly? The water is right there.” He points to it longingly. I almost feel bad for him. Almost. But I don’t have time for pity. “Because I think these helicopters can still cover more distance faster than you can haul me. I’m trying to make up for all the time we spent at security in LAX.” “Humans are so weird,” he mutters again as I walk away. “You do everything backward.” Since this is a sightseeing flight, the pilot, Dan, a thick Hawaiian man with an even thicker accent, takes his time pointing out all the usual tourist stuff, like the fishing industry, the history of the coast, and other things I have no interest in at the moment. The view of the blue water and visible reefs, the chain of islands, and the rich culture would be breathtaking if I weren’t preoccupied with crashing a Syrena get-together. I can imagine spending time with Galen here. Exploring the reefs like no human could, playing with the tropical fish, and making Galen wear a lei. But I need to stay focused if I ever want a chance to do it.

Mamaw often told a parable: A young man was sitting at home when a terrible rainstorm began. Within hours, the man’s house began to flood, and someone came to his door offering a ride to higher ground. The man declined, saying, “God will take care of me.” A few hours later, as the waters engulfed the first floor of the man’s home, a boat passed by, and the captain offered to take the man to safety. The man declined, saying, “God will take care of me.” A few hours after that, as the man waited on his roof—his entire home flooded—a helicopter flew by, and the pilot offered transportation to dry land. Again the man declined, telling the pilot that God would care for him. Soon thereafter, the waters overcame the man, and as he stood before God in heaven, he protested his fate: “You promised that you’d help me so long as I was faithful.” God replied, “I sent you a car, a boat, and a helicopter. Your death is your own fault.

A young man was sitting at home when a terrible rainstorm began. Within hours, the man’s house began to flood, and someone came to his door offering a ride to higher ground. The man declined, saying, 'God will take care of me.' A few hours later, as the waters engulfed the first floor of the man’s home, a boat passed by, and the captain offered to take the man to safety. The man declined, saying, 'God will take care of me.' A few hours after that, as the man waited on his roof—his entire home flooded—a helicopter flew by, and the pilot offered transportation to dry land. Again the man declined, telling the pilot that God would care for him. Soon thereafter, the waters overcame the man, and as he stood before God in heaven, he protested his fate: 'You promised that you’d help me so long as I was faithful.' God replied, 'I sent you a car, a boat, and a helicopter. Your death is your own fault.' God helps those who help themselves.

A young man was sitting at home when a terrible rainstorm began. Within hours, the man’s house began to flood, and someone came to his door offering a ride to higher ground. The man declined, saying, “God will take care of me.” A few hours later, as the waters engulfed the first floor of the man’s home, a boat passed by, and the captain offered to take the man to safety. The man declined, saying, “God will take care of me.” A few hours after that, as the man waited on his roof—his entire home flooded—a helicopter flew by, and the pilot offered transportation to dry land. Again the man declined, telling the pilot that God would care for him. Soon thereafter, the waters overcame the man, and as he stood before God in heaven, he protested his fate: “You promised that you’d help me so long as I was faithful.” God replied, “I sent you a car, a boat, and a helicopter. Your death is your own fault.” God helps those who help themselves.

Mamaw often told a parable: A young man was sitting at home when a terrible rainstorm began. Within hours, the man’s house began to flood, and someone came to his door offering a ride to higher ground. The man declined, saying, “God will take care of me.” A few hours later, as the waters engulfed the first floor of the man’s home, a boat passed by, and the captain offered to take the man to safety. The man declined, saying, “God will take care of me.” A few hours after that, as the man waited on his roof—his entire home flooded—a helicopter flew by, and the pilot offered transportation to dry land. Again the man declined, telling the pilot that God would care for him. Soon thereafter, the waters overcame the man, and as he stood before God in heaven, he protested his fate: “You promised that you’d help me so long as I was faithful.” God replied, “I sent you a car, a boat, and a helicopter. Your death is your own fault.” God helps those who help themselves.

Mamaw often told a parable: A young man was sitting at home when a terrible rainstorm began. Within hours, the man’s house began to flood, and someone came to his door offering a ride to higher ground. The man declined, saying, “God will take care of me.” A few hours later, as the waters engulfed the first floor of the man’s home, a boat passed by, and the captain offered to take the man to safety. The man declined, saying, “God will take care of me.” A few hours after that, as the man waited on his roof—his entire home flooded—a helicopter flew by, and the pilot offered transportation to dry land. Again the man declined, telling the pilot that God would care for him. Soon thereafter, the waters overcame the man, and as he stood before God in heaven, he protested his fate: “You promised that you’d help me so long as I was faithful.” God replied, “I sent you a car, a boat, and a helicopter. Your death is your own fault.” God helps those who help themselves. This was the wisdom of the Book of Mamaw.

On our first flight out, and for all the following ones, we boarded two Black Hawk helicopters. On that first flight, we were looking for the area where a marine in our group lost both of his hands. While we were airborne, the door was kept open. There were only a few pairs of headsets for the group, so whoever was the focus of the trip got first dibs on a pair and would help guide the pilot to the right spot. The rest of us shared the remaining few sets as we squinted against the wind to the terrain below. Right before we made it to this marine’s area, the guy sitting next to me handed me the headset. Just as I put it over my ears, I saw the marine looking out the window, and then I heard him say, “And that’s where my hands are.” Suddenly it wasn’t about me, the injured guy. I was privy to this man’s intimate struggle. It was a painfully shocking statement. I knew all of the rest of these guys were injured, too, but I don’t think it really hit me until that moment that these guys all faced the same kinds of struggles and confusion I’d faced.

In a matter of sixty short minutes, that thing could whisk Neil away to civilization, I thought. Hmm. My goodness, that was a beautiful prospect. Somehow I had to get on that chopper with him. I packed in thirty seconds flat, everything from the past three months. I taped a white cross onto my sleeve, and raced out to where Neil was sat waiting. One chance. What the heck. Neil shook his head at me, smiling. “God, you push it, Bear, don’t you?” he shouted over the noise of the rotors. “You’re going to need a decent medic on the flight,” I replied, with a smile. “And I’m your man.” (There was at least some element of truth in this: I was a medic and I was his buddy--and yes, he did need help. But essentially I was trying to pull a bit of a fast one.) The pilot shouted that two people would be too heavy. “I have to accompany him at all times,” I shouted back over the engine noise. “His feet might fall off at any moment,” I added quietly. The pilot looked back at me, then at the white cross on my sleeve. He agreed to drop Neil somewhere down at a lower altitude, and then come back for me. “Perfect. Go. I’ll be here.” I shook his hand firmly. Let’s just get this done before anyone thinks too much about it, I mumbled to myself. And with that the pilot took off and disappeared from view. Mick and Henry were laughing. “If you pull this one off, Bear, I will eat my socks. You just love to push it, don’t you?” Mick said, smiling. “Yep, good try, but you aren’t going to see him again, I guarantee you,” Henry added. Thanks to the pilot’s big balls, he was wrong. The heli returned empty, I leapt aboard, and with the rotors whirring at full power to get some grip in the thin air, the bird slowly lifted into the air. The stall warning light kept buzzing away as we fought against gravity, but then the nose dipped and soon we were skimming over the rocks, away from base camp and down the glacier. I was out of there--and Mick was busy taking his socks off. As we descended, I spotted, far beneath us, this lone figure sat on a rock in the middle of a giant boulder field. Neil’s two white “beacons” shining bright. I love it. I smiled. We picked Neil up, and in an instant we were flying together through the huge Himalayan valleys like an eagle freed. Neil and I sat back in the helicopter, faces pressed against the glass, and watched our life for the past three months become a shimmer in the distance. The great mountain faded into a haze, hidden from sight. I leaned against Neil’s shoulder and closed my eyes. Everest was gone.

In the shock of the moment, I gave some thought to renting a convertible and driving the twenty-seven hundred miles back alone. But then I realized I was neither single nor crazy. The acting director decided that, given the FBI’s continuing responsibility for my safety, the best course was to take me back on the plane I came on, with a security detail and a flight crew who had to return to Washington anyway. We got in the vehicle to head for the airport. News helicopters tracked our journey from the L.A. FBI office to the airport. As we rolled slowly in L.A. traffic, I looked to my right. In the car next to us, a man was driving while watching an aerial news feed of us on his mobile device. He turned, smiled at me through his open window, and gave me a thumbs-up. I’m not sure how he was holding the wheel. As we always did, we pulled onto the airport tarmac with a police escort and stopped at the stairs of the FBI plane. My usual practice was to go thank the officers who had escorted us, but I was so numb and distracted that I almost forgot to do it. My special assistant, Josh Campbell, as he often did, saw what I couldn’t. He nudged me and told me to go thank the cops. I did, shaking each hand, and then bounded up the airplane stairs. I couldn’t look at the pilots or my security team for fear that I might get emotional. They were quiet. The helicopters then broadcast our plane’s taxi and takeoff. Those images were all over the news. President Trump, who apparently watches quite a bit of TV at the White House, saw those images of me thanking the cops and flying away. They infuriated him. Early the next morning, he called McCabe and told him he wanted an investigation into how I had been allowed to use the FBI plane to return from California. McCabe replied that he could look into how I had been allowed to fly back to Washington, but that he didn’t need to. He had authorized it, McCabe told the president. The plane had to come back, the security detail had to come back, and the FBI was obligated to return me safely. The president exploded. He ordered that I was not to be allowed back on FBI property again, ever. My former staff boxed up my belongings as if I had died and delivered them to my home. The order kept me from seeing and offering some measure of closure to the people of the FBI, with whom I had become very close. Trump had done a lot of yelling during the campaign about McCabe and his former candidate wife. He had been fixated on it ever since. Still in a fury at McCabe, Trump then asked him, “Your wife lost her election in Virginia, didn’t she?” “Yes, she did,” Andy replied. The president of the United States then said to the acting director of the FBI, “Ask her how it feels to be a loser” and hung up the phone.

I am a pilot and I run a Medical Transport Squad. That means, for most of my life I am living it up in the air.” -- USN CAPT Joe Woodhaven

Tom's Navy SEAL team nicknamed him 'Tailspin', especially after sustaining his knee injury, but Joe likes to call him his 'Lucky Charm' -- saved his tail too many times to count.

So do they have rentals here?” Leor asked. “Not cars.” Jean replied. “Then how do we get around?” “Helicopter,” Jean said, walking toward the booth. “Don’t tell me this is where you learned to fly?” Leor looked up as he heard a helicopter overhead. It performed a barrel roll as it came toward the complex, and the pilot waved at Jean. “They are all as mad as you,” Leor whispered, horrified.

Radia Hosni alikuwa na bahati kuliko watu wote duniani. Frederik Mogens alipofika katika helikopta na kukuta Murphy na Yehuda wakihangaika kuutafuta mwili wa Radia, hakushangazwa na walichomwambia. Kwa sababu alijua nini kilitokea. Radia alikutwa akipumua kwa mbali. Hivyo, Debbie na marubani walimchukua na kumpeleka Mexico City haraka ilivyowezekana. Black Hawk waliyokuwa wakiishangaa ilikuwa ya DEA. Lakini si ile waliyokwenda nayo Oaxaca. Ilikuwa nyingine ya DEA, iliyotumwa na Randall Ortega kuwachukua Vijana wa Tume na kuwapeleka Mexico City haraka ilivyowezekana. Black Hawk waliyokwenda nayo Oaxaca ndiyo iliyomchukua Radia na Debbie na kuwapeleka Altamirano (hospitali ya tume) mjini Mexico City. Mogens angekwenda pia na akina Debbie; lakini alibaki kwa ajili ya kumlinda El Tigre, na mizigo yake, na baadhi ya makamanda wake wachache. El Tigre angeweza kutoroka kama angebaki na polisi peke yao, na Mogens hakutaka kufanya makosa.

What made it harder to stomach was the fact that the pilot of the helicopter with the television cameras was particularly keen to do his job to the best of his ability by coming as close as he could to get pictures of me, even though he was almost mowing the number off my back with his rotor-blades. Obviously, the turbulence he caused pushed enough wind at me to slow me down a fair bit. Two or three times I came close to crashing and shook my fist at him. Guimard was beside himself with rage. So was I. In normal circumstances, if all the stages had been run off in the usual way, or even with the bare minimum of morality, the time trial would only have been of secondary importance because the race would have been decided well before. And I would have won my first Giro d’Italia in the most logical way possible. Instead of which my chest burned with pain: the pain you feel at injustice.

Only John Steinbeck, who as both a Pulitzer and Nobel Prize winner in Literature, had the words to properly and beautifully describes helicopter pilots. In 1967 he wrote the following to Alicia Patterson, Newsday’s first editor and publisher after a chopper ride. “I wish I could tell you about these pilots. They make me sick with envy. They ride their vehicles the way a man controls a fine, well-trained quarter horse. They weave along stream beds, rise like swallows to clear trees, they turn and twist and dip like swifts in the evening. I watch their hands and feet on the controls, the delicacy of the coordination reminds me of the sure and seeming slow hands of (Pablo) Casals on the cello. They are truly musicians hands and they play their controls like music and they dance them like ballerinas and they make me jealous because I want so much to do it.

There were about twenty-eight folders, each with the words “TOP SECRET—PROJECT: GRILL FLAME” in inch-high red letters front and back. I’d seen these markings before, when I was being recruited for the unit. Inside each folder was a copy of some teletype message traffic: “MISSING—ARMY helicopter (UH-1H) tail number November Seven Nine, with crew: CW4 David Suitter (Pilot in Command), CWO Michael Foley (Co-Pilot) and Sergeant First Class William Staub (Crew Chief).

Harrison Ford was seen co-piloting a helicopter and driving his Tesla this morning!

There is a modern parable I am particularly fond of that illustrates my point: A man is caught in a flood and as the water begins to rise, he climbs up onto the roof of his house and awaits rescue. As the hours pass and the water rises, no help comes, so he begins to pray: Dear Lord, in your divine mercy please save me from the rising floodwater. Suddenly a helicopter appears and lowers a rope down to the stranded man—'take the rope' says the pilot. 'No thanks' replies the stranded man, 'I'm waiting for God to rescue me.' Three more times the pilot of the helicopter tries to convince the stranded man to climb up the rope and three more times he is refused: 'I'm waiting for God.' All the while, the water is rising and rising, until finally, the house is swept away, the man with it. His last words being 'God, why have you forsaken me?' So you see, when God announces his presence he always makes it obvious to humanity. How much more obvious than the events of the last few years does he need to make it before you will believe?

We spent twenty days and endured three thousand miles of jolting, pounding, off-road bush driving. But we had a hard-won sense of accomplishment when we pulled up on the stunning cliff-side view of the Great Australian Bight, a huge open bay carved out of the southern coastline. We had made it. Below us, three hundred feet down a sheer rock face, was the Southern Ocean. A pod of southern right whales passed by, their calves following along with them. Steve and I and the crew watched the family dramas of the whales play out below us. A calf felt naughty and went darting away from his mother’s side. Come back, the mother called, come back, come back, you naughty little whale. When she was under the water, we couldn’t hear anything, but as she surfaced we could actually hear the whale song from our perch three hundred feet in the air. Mama scolded the calf, and we saw the young whale come dutifully shooting back over to follow his mother for a while. Sometimes the calf would approach his mama for a drink of milk and nurse for a few minutes. Then he would escape once more, and the whole scenario played itself out all over again. We watched the whales for hours. That night around the campfire, we discussed whaling, how sad and cruel and horrible it was. “If we killed cows the way we killed whales, people wouldn’t stand for it,” Steve said. “Imagine if you drove a truck with a torpedo gun off the back. When you saw a cow you fired at it, and then you either electrocuted it over the course of half an hour or the head of the torpedo blew up inside of it, rendering it unable to walk or move until it finally bled to death.” “We’ve got to get that message out,” I said to Steve. But his idea was to bring the beauty and joy of the whales to people, so that they would naturally fall in love with them and not want to hurt them. He didn’t want to dwell on images that would make people sad and upset. Steve remained thoughtful and silent as the fire died. The ocean sounded against the cliffs below. The games of the whale families played over and over in our minds. In spite of our extensive searching, we never saw a live dingo down the whole line of our journey. It was time to try a different approach. The next morning the helicopter pilot arrived early. Going up with him, Steve actually finally spotted some dingoes from the air. The beautiful, ginger-colored dogs played along the fence, jumping over it or skirting under it with effortless ease.

What is proximate for one nation, one organization, or even one person may be far out of reach to another. The obvious reason is differences in skills and accumulated resources. My understanding of this was sharpened during an afternoon discussion about helicopters. A man I know only as PJ lives on the East Cape of Baja California, about thirty miles north of San Jose del Cabo, on the Sea of Cortez. He is now a surfer and fisherman, but PJ was once a helicopter pilot, first in Vietnam, and then in rescue work. The land in Baja California is unspoiled by shopping malls, industry, paved highways, or fences. Sitting on a hilltop in the warm winter we could see the gray whales jump and hear their tails slap on the water. Making conversation, I offered that “helicopters should be safer than airplanes. If the engine fails, you can autorotate to the ground. It’s like having a parachute.” PJ snorted. “If your engine fails you have to pull the collective all the way down, get off the left pedal and hit the right pedal hard to get some torque. You have about one second to do this before you are dropping too fast.” He paused and then added, “You can do it, but you better not have to think about it.” “So, everything has to be automatic?” I asked.

Wilbur Wright set the tone in 1909 when he said, “Like all novices we began with the helicopter [in childhood] but soon saw that it had no future and dropped it. The helicopter does with great labor only what the balloon does without labor, and is no more fitted than the balloon for rapid horizontal flight. If its engine stops it must fall with deathly violence for it can neither float like the balloon nor glide like the aeroplane. The helicopter is much easier to design than the aeroplane but is worthless when done.”1

In the years following WWII, American helicopter pioneers like Sikorsky, Frank Piasecki, Larry Bell, Stanley Hiller, Charlie Kaman and others continued their research and development, making progress in improving performance and reliability.

We need to get his jacket off,” I said. As Daniel helped me get the mayor out of it, the pilot yelled, “Whoa! Hold on! Back in your seats. We’ll be landing in a few minutes.” Fortunately, as long as he was flying the helicopter, all the pilot could do was yell. And if there are teenagers who actually respond to adults shouting at them, I’ve never met one.

Wake him up!” Hayley shouted. “Someone wake him up!” Daniel and I shook the pilot. The helicopter dropped a couple of feet and we stumbled. Corey ran over. “Help me get him out!” he shouted to Daniel as he grabbed the front of the pilot’s jacket. “I can fly it.” “Based on what?” Sam appeared at his side. “Video games?” Corey scowled. “You got a better idea?

SOS!” I said. “Helicopter out of Salmon Creek. Pilot unconscious. Repeat, helicopter pilot unconscious.” I stopped transmitting and listened. Static. “SOS!” I said. “Emergency situation. Helicopter over Vancouver Island. Pilot unconscious. Repeat, pilot unconscious!” The helicopter dropped again. Corey bent to look at the control panel. “You need to--” “I’m working on it!” Sam snarled. “Here, let me--” I didn’t see what Corey did, but the helicopter pitched to the side, hard and sharp. Corey fell onto the mayor. Kenjii barked, claws scraping the floor as she slid onto the unconscious pilot. Sam swore, her hands shaking as she reached for a lever. “Everyone sit down. Just sit down!” The helicopter lurched again and Sam’s hand hit something. A crack and a rush of air. Nicole shrieked. This time, Hayley joined her. “The door!” Corey said. “Holy hell. The door’s open!

The first people who come for us will likely be the kidnappers. It’d be safer to get to a phone and call our parents.” Everyone looked around. The mainland was a dark blob on the eastern horizon. To the west was Vancouver Island. About a kilometer of water separated the two. “Umm…” Corey began. “Not to question your judgment, buddy, but that’s a bit of a swim. The water’s damned cold. I bashed my knee good in the crash, and I’m not the only one who’s hurting. I get what you’re saying, but the pilot’s radio seemed to be out, so they won’t know where we are. If we light a fire, someone out boating might see us.” “That’s a good idea,” Sam said. “Or it would be. If we had matches to light a fire. Or if anyone was actually out boating.” “Why don’t we just find a place to hide?” Hayley said. “That way, when someone does come, we can see if it’s a real rescue or not.” “How the hell are you going to tell the difference?” Sam said. “Ask them? And no one’s going to find the crash site. You know why? There is no crash site.” She pointed out over the empty water. When the helicopter had dropped over the ledge, it had disappeared. Only a few small pieces of debris floated, already being dispersed by the tide.

I don’t know what to think,” he interrupted. “What happened in the forest, when I yelled at that guy…I thought I’d hit him without realizing it. I was mad enough, seeing him pointing that gun at you. But when it happened again on the helicopter, with the pilot, I knew I’d done something. I just didn’t know what.” After a few more steps, I opened my mouth, but again he got there first. “I think…I think Sam might be onto something. Everything she says is true. Even about the pilot. I had a bad feeling, when we got on the helicopter, but only a slight one, and with everything that happened, I figured I was just stressing out. I don’t believe the parts about demons and all that, but I can see maybe having some power to sense bad vibes in people. I mean, it’s not like she’s saying I’m a vampire or a werewolf. That would be crazy. This is just a little weird.” Not, it wasn’t like she’d said he was a werewolf. It wasn’t like she’d said he could change into an animal. That would be crazy. I shut my mouth and carried on in silence.

We told them everything--well, almost everything. I was saving the stuff I’d found out at the cabin. This was enough for now. Too much actually. Despite having seen our powers in action--my near-transformation and Daniel knocking out the pilot--Corey and Hayley couldn’t seem to process it. Corey kept saying, “Are you sure?” tentatively, as if he didn’t want to insult our intelligence, but he couldn’t help thinking there had to be a logical explanation. Hayley just stared at me. When I finally stopped talking, she said, “Are you crazy?” “Hey!” Sam said. “No, seriously. You think you’re going to change into a cougar? Maybe in thirty years you’ll start thinking college boys are kinda hot, but that’s the only sort of cougar you can turn into, Maya. Anything else is nuts.” “Right,” Sam said. “So you weren’t here an hour ago? When her face started changing?” “Yes, something did happen to her face. I don’t know what it was, but I’ll bet it has to go with those vitamins and drugs they were feeding us back in Salmon Creek. That’s what all this is about. They were doing medical experiments on us. It explains what Daniel did on the helicopter and what happened with Maya’s face.” “And Rafe?” Sam said. “Does medical research explain why Rafe thought he was a skin-walker, too, when he’d never even been to the clinic?” “I…I don’t know.” Hayley squared her shoulders. “No one ever saw Rafe do anything magical. He just thought he was one of these skin-walkers. That’s from your religion or whatever, right?” “My religion?” I said. “The stuff you people believe in.” “You people?” Corey said. “Holy hell, Hayley. Did you really just say that?” She went beet red. “I--I didn’t mean--” “We know exactly what you meant,” Sam said. “Got a racist streak there, huh? Surprise, surprise.

mother.

to

Neil’s feet were still numb from the frostbite. Long exposure up high, sat waiting in the snow for all those hours at the Balcony, had taken their toll. At base camp, we bandaged them up, kept them warm, and purposefully didn’t discuss the very real prospect of him losing his toes. He didn’t need to be told that he was unlikely ever to feel them again properly. Either way, we realized that the best option for them was to get him proper medical attention and soon. There was no way he was going to be walking anywhere with his feet bandaged up like two white balloons. We needed an air-evacuation. Not the easiest of things in the thin air of Everest’s base camp. The insurance company said that at dawn the next day they would attempt to get him out of there. Weather permitting. But at 17,450 feet we really were on the outer limits of where helicopters could fly. True to their word, at dawn we heard the distant rotors of a helicopter, far beneath us in the valley. A tiny speck against the vast rock walls on either side. In a matter of sixty short minutes, that thing could whisk Neil away to civilization, I thought. Hmm. My goodness, that was a beautiful prospect. Somehow I had to get on that chopper with him. I packed in thirty seconds flat, everything from the past three months. I taped a white cross onto my sleeve, and raced out to where Neil was sat waiting. One chance. What the heck. Neil shook his head at me, smiling. “God, you push it, Bear, don’t you?” he shouted over the noise of the rotors. “You’re going to need a decent medic on the flight,” I replied, with a smile. “And I’m your man.” (There was at least some element of truth in this: I was a medic and I was his buddy--and yes, he did need help. But essentially I was trying to pull a bit of a fast one.) The pilot shouted that two people would be too heavy. “I have to accompany him at all times,” I shouted back over the engine noise. “His feet might fall off at any moment,” I added quietly. The pilot looked back at me, then at the white cross on my sleeve. He agreed to drop Neil somewhere down at a lower altitude, and then come back for me. “Perfect. Go. I’ll be here.” I shook his hand firmly. Let’s just get this done before anyone thinks too much about it, I mumbled to myself.

I retired from the army.” Her eyebrows shot up. “Like my uncle!” “No, not like your uncle. Like a warrant officer, helicopter pilot. Jack said your uncle is a retired three-star. A whole different thing, kid.” She grinned at him, but her cheeks took on a little flush. “Just remember, he’s retired. He really isn’t in charge anymore.” He

Foreword By Jonathan Aitken IN IT is one of the best books on prison life I have read. Jonathan Robinson writes with passion and authenticity of the time he served in HMPs Bedford and Hollesley Bay. Yet although his diary-based narrative of inmate life, his ear for dialogue and his humour combine to make a rattling good yarn, the importance of IN IT lies not in its chronicles of detail but in its crusading for reform. A former helicopter pilot who stole from his employer, Jonathan Robinson wastes

In a book published in 1963, Richard Tregaskis reported interviews with American helicopter pilots who describe how the “wild men” of the 362nd Squadron used to shoot civilians for sport in “solid VC areas.

A flight suit. ’Cause you’re a big bad pilot, right? You fell out of your helicopter. Now unzip your onesie so you don’t bleed to death.

She’d insisted on buying only things native to the island,

So maybe she liked him. Liked having him nearby, liked talking to him, liked not having to traverse a new place by herself.

really found it amusing, Charlotte didn’t know. She knew she liked lying in his arms, watching the sun sink into the water, the scent of her new flowers below the deck lilting through her nose.

his phone securely in his pocket so he wouldn’t text her.

Today, I give myself to you in marriage. I hope to encourage you, inspire you, laugh with you, and comfort you in times of sorrow. I’ll love you from here to the end of time, and I promise to put your needs ahead of my own. I really can’t wait to be your husband.

You came into my life when I didn’t want you there. You sprayed me with water, were living in my house, and stole my heart when it wasn’t even whole yet.” She gave him a wobbly smile, and Dawson squeezed her hands. “You gave me time when I needed it. Love when it was hard to give. Comfort when I pushed you away. I love you for all of that, and for being the man that you are. I promise to love, cherish, and honor you forever.” She glanced out at the small crowd and back at him. “And I really can’t wait to be your wife.

everything seemed perfectly fine on the outside. But inside Charlotte, a war waged, and she had no idea which part of her would come out the victor: her mind or her heart. She could only hope she didn’t hurt the handsome, kind, hardworking man across the table from her.

she caught sight of him through the huge windows. She didn’t even smile. In fact, it looked like she was about to cry. Dawson’s heart couldn’t handle the pain he saw on her face. He wanted to make everything better for her. In fact, he’d do anything to help her. Charlotte’s mouth moved and she held up one finger in a silent way of telling him she’d be another minute. He wanted to leap through the glass and swat the phone over the railing. Whatever her sister was saying, Charlotte didn’t need to hear it.

Bass notes played by helicopters not too high above us By pilots who have not yet realized That this is all part of the native song of America Our national anthem of greed, violence, suppression, and oppression To which we have all learned to dance and dutifully accept Until the next time

But along with the importance of work, he also believed in the magic of flight. He was a helicopter pilot, after all, so he particularly loved seeing me steer these jets over the marshy flats at ungodly speeds.

Little did I know that it was reported in the media at the time, that the average life expectancy of an Army Helicopter Pilot in combat was only 19 minutes!

Phobie de l’avion?’ said the man in the next seat. Marc shook his head, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the helicopter’s rotors. ‘No. It’s more like I have a professional sense of concern . . .’ Beneath them, cerulean-blue waters flashed past as the red-and-white EC130 followed the French coastline north toward the Ligurian Sea. The journey from the airport in Nice was a short one, but flying over the water was always enough to dredge up some of Marc’s more unpleasant memories. He had hoped it wouldn’t show on his face, but that clearly wasn’t the case. ‘I used to fly these things myself,’ he added, feeling compelled to explain away his reaction. ‘I don’t like it when someone else is the pilot.’ For a giddy second, he feared the sea was rising up to reach for them – it could be deceptive that way, easy to gauge your height wrongly if you weren’t paying attention – and he closed his eyes to banish the thought. It didn’t work. He remembered a stretch of ocean half a world away, and the heart-stopping impact of a Royal Navy Lynx’s canopy hitting the water. He took a deep breath before the recall could take hold and pull him under. ‘Backseat driver?’ Somewhere in his late fifties, deeply bronzed beneath a panama hat and an expensive safari suit, the man next to him studied Marc’s face. Marc gave a wry nod. ‘Yeah, you could say that.

Sandy continually worries about me serving in Vietnam. She fears for me and is always asking herself, Will he be alright? Will he get wounded? Will he get captured? Will he be killed, and I’ll lose another husband? These haunting questions shouldn't be on the mind of any wife for a day, let alone an entire year of their life.

Not a new chapter, she told herself. A completely new volume needed to begin

The next aircraft to appear were a pair of Mirages which attacked the anchorage at 9.45 am. Thereafter raids seemed continuous, except for a short break for lunch. The helicopter pilots, landing-craft and Mexeflote crews bravely continued with the offload. It was uncanny to see a Sea King helicopter, with a gun or pallet of ammunition slung underneath, purposefully flying to its appointed landing site, while a pair of jets flashed by pursued by missiles and streams of tracer. The scenery and the bright sunshine, like a glorious day in the Western Islands of Scotland, added to the air of unreality.

glinted

the bay breezes whispering dreams to me.

Lord, I pray for the eyes of an eagle, the quickness of a hummingbird, the reflexes of a cat, the radar of a cave bat, the heart of a lion, and the balls of a helicopter pilot.”)

KRULAK and Dyer wrote the first textbook for Marine helicopter pilots and war planners. Usually doctrine and tactics are developed after a weapon is available, but Krulak believed that doctrine should drive, not follow, the development of the helicopter. He

We piled into the helicopter moments after it landed. Frank first, me last, Sarah and the prisoners in between. I settled in, sitting with my back to the pilot, which left me facing the men. They glared

I’d never been winched out of the sea by a hovering helicopter before and it was a little bit of an experience.  I knew I’d be pretty heavy but the crewman made it look very easy when he spun me around and pulled me in the cabin.      Capt Birbeck and he were both talking to me at once, wanting to know if I was alright.  He and the crewman were busy examining the mark on my neck.      “Spicer, are you sure you’re all right?”      “Yeah, I got a little scrape on my throat from the helmet chin strap and a small lump on the bridge of my nose, but I’m ok; why, is there something wrong?”      “You might say that.  The pilot decided he didn’t like the way the swell was running and decided to move to a different location to put us out.  The crewman was tapping you on the shoulder to tell you to get back in because we were going someplace else.  We aren’t sure but think you may have gone out about 100 feet instead of 50 and we were pretty sure you’d be injured.  You may have accidentally broken a record.”      “NO SHIT?!!”      “They were really worried but I told them you can’t hurt one of those damn U.S. Marines!”      “Same for the Royal Marines, right!”      He broke into a big grin and gave me a light tap on the head.      He said, “Right, but I’m not jumping out of this helicopter at a hundred fucking feet just to prove it mate!!!

contrary to belief, airline pilots, unlike some helicopter pilots, do not practice ditching in water.

an Arctic desert with no rain and minimal vegetation that was every bit as desolate and bleak as the Tibetan plateau. Along the way we passed what is billed as “the world’s most northerly golf course”, laid out in 1986 by a couple of bored helicopter pilots working for Greenland Air with the help of a night watchman from the Kangerlussuaq Hotel.

You are an inspiration, Teresa, in so many ways. Somehow you balance it all—being a soldier, a Black Hawk helicopter pilot, a wife, and a mother—and you do it with grace and courage. You are truly an example of everything that is right with our country.

The president called upon the Marine emergency evacuation helicopter that the White House Military Office had stationed nearby in the event of a surprise Soviet nuclear attack. The flight across Narragansett Bay lasted just six minutes, as opposed to the hour Eisenhower would have spent on the ferry—and the helicopter, piloted by Virgil Olson, was nearly triple the size of the Bell Ranger passenger-wise. This, Eisenhower decided, was a much better option. Since the Air Force didn’t possess the large transport helicopters Eisenhower desired, the Marine Corps took over the presidential helicopter fleet. Within two months—lightning speed in government

TO BE CONTINUED... Name: Scarlett Bio: Scarlett is a princess by birth, but an adventurer at heart. She rarely needs rescuing, and piloting a helicopter while battling an evil super genius -- in the middle of a freak thunderstorm -- is her idea of a good time. Hobbies: Singing, Fighting, Annoying Ollie, Castle Remodeling, Reading Comics, and Laughing at YouTube Comments (seriously, do yourself a favor and stay away from the comment section) Weapon of Choice: She isn't picky when it

The pilot put the helicopter in a sideways crab over the bow, enabling him to see the superstructure out his right side window and maintain the same relative position to the ship as he matched its forward speed. The crew in the helicopter cabin opened the big sliding door on the right, and I swung out in the horse collar. As I was lowered to the ship, I saw hundreds of passengers lining the rails and windows on all the forward decks with cameras and binoculars trained on me. This was probably the most exciting moment of the cruise for those folks!" (Page 273)

Helicopters Nothing has done more to change the face of wilderness rescue than helicopters. They land in remote areas that were inaccessible to aircraft only a few years ago. If the spot isn’t flat enough, helicopters have been known to land on one skid while a patient is quickly loaded. When there is no spot to land, they have hovered with a rescuer hanging from a rope or cable, a rescuer equipped to attach the patient to the hauling system for evacuation. Helicopters go where the pilot wants because of the rapid spinning of two sets of blades. The large overhead blades create air by forcing air down. The pilot can vary the angle at which the blades attack the air and the speed at which they rotate to vary the amount of lift. The entire rotor can be tilted forward, backward, or sideways to determine the direction of travel. Without a second set of blades spinning in an opposite direction, the helicopter would turn circles helplessly in the air. Some large helicopters have two large sets of blades spinning in opposite directions, one fore and one aft, but most helicopters used in the wilderness maintain stability with one small tail rotor. When they are close to the ground, the spinning blades build a cushion of air that helps support the helicopter. This cushion of air varies in its ability to work, depending on its density. Rising air temperatures and increasing altitude reduce air density. So trying to land a helicopter on a mountaintop on a hot day is dangerous, and the weight of one person may prevent liftoff. Air density also is altered by the nearness of a mountainside. The downward shove of air by the blades can recirculate off the mountainside and reduce lift. One of the greatest fears of mountain flying is a sudden downdraft of air that can slam a helicopter toward the ground. Downdrafts are not only dangerous but also unpredictable. Add to air density and downdrafts the possibility of darkness and fog and wind, and you can understand that even if a helicopter is available it may not be able to come to your rescue.

When you’re in need of a rescue the approaching thump-thump-thump of rapidly rotating blades is a joyous sound. To give the helicopter rescue the greatest chance of success, a suitable landing zone will have to be found. The ideal landing zone should not require a completely vertical landing or takeoff, both of which reduce the pilot’s control. The ground should slope away on all sides, allowing the helicopter to immediately drop into forward flight when it’s time to take off. Landings and liftoffs work best when the aircraft is pointed into the wind because that gives the machine the greatest lift. The area should be as large as possible, at least 60 feet across for most small rescue helicopters, and as clear as possible for obstructions such as trees and boulders. Clear away debris (pine needles, dust, leaves) that can be blown up by the wash of air, with the possibility of producing mechanical failure. Light snow can be especially dangerous if it fluffs up dramatically to blind the pilot. Wet snow sticks to the ground and adds dangerous weight. If you have the opportunity, pack snow flat well before the helicopter arrives—the night before would be ideal—to harden the surface of the landing zone. Tall grass can be a hazard because it disturbs the helicopter’s cushion of supporting air and hides obstacles such as rocks and tree stumps. To prepare a landing zone, clear out the area as much as possible, including removing your equipment and all the people except the one who is going to be signaling the pilot. Mark the landing zone with weighted bright clothing or gear during the day or with bright lights at night. In case of a night rescue, turn off the bright lights before the helicopter starts to land—they can blind the pilot. Use instead a low-intensity light to mark the perimeter of the landing area, such as chemical light sticks, or at least turn the light away from the helicopter’s direction. Indicate the wind’s direction by building a very small smoky fire, hanging brightly colored streamers, throwing up handfuls of light debris, or signaling with your arms pointed in the direction of the wind. The greatest danger to you occurs while you’re moving toward or away from the helicopter on the ground. Never approach the rear and never walk around the rear of a helicopter. The pilot can’t see you, and the rapidly spinning tail rotor is virtually invisible and soundless. In a sudden shift of the aircraft, you can be sliced to death. Don’t approach by walking downhill toward the helicopter, where the large overhead blade is closest to the ground. It is safest to come toward the helicopter from directly in front, where the pilot has a clear field of view, and only after the pilot or another of the aircraft’s personnel has signaled you to approach. Remove your hat or anything that can be sucked up into the rotors. Stay low because blades can sink closer to the ground as their speed diminishes. Make sure nothing is sticking up above your pack, such as an ice ax or ski pole. In most cases someone from the helicopter will come out to remind you of the important safety measures. One-skid landings or hovering while a rescue is attempted are solely at the discretion of the pilot. They are a high risk at best, and finding a landing zone and preparing it should always be given priority.

ACs very seldom took part in unnecessary or idle conversation during any mission. They constantly cross-checked flight instruments for normal readings, planned every minute for an area to land in case of an emergency during flight, and maintained proper intervals in formation during combat assaults.

When the weapon systems of a minigun ship were on hot, or fire, these same miniguns moved in relation to a pilot’s cockpit input, and could be fired. They were said to be in a Flex Mode. So, somehow, the cats became Stowed Mode and Flex Mode. One day when a few of us were relaxing in the Croc Lounge, I believe it was Gollogly, nicknamed Golly-Golly, because no one could pronounce his name, was behind the counter trying to close the refrigerator door, and it wouldn’t close. I stepped behind the counter and saw that the door’s obstruction was, in fact, Stowed Mode’s head. Golly-Golly couldn’t see the cat because he had his hands full. Every time he tried to close the door, the stunned cat’s head was in the way, and his body went spastic as if he were just plugged into an electrical outlet.

I forgive as is my place for evil is not absolute, and it has its time.  What is evil now may not have been evil in the past, and what is good now may be evil in days to come.

Not engaging is the most frustrating thing to a protestor, right? “Guns don’t kill people! People kill people!” he yells. Of course this line almost stops me. Should I have a conversation with this sad sack about the disingenuousness of this statement? Should I hold a two-minute seminar on the many machines, chemicals and drugs that are strictly monitored because of their potential lethal power? Should I point out that we don’t let people walk around with heroin or bombs or cyanide or mercury, or let just anyone pilot helicopters or cruise ships or 18-wheelers? But why bother with this guy? A discussion in causation or semantics isn’t going to change his mind.

What had happened at My Lai may have shocked the American public. But it was not news to the Army. Hugh Thompson, the helicopter pilot who had tried to stop the massacre, reported what he had seen. So did at least five other pilots. The word went steadily up the chain of command—all the way to the division commander, Major General Samuel W. Koster. No one took any action. Instead, the brigade log was falsified to say that 128 Viet Cong had been killed by U.S. artillery. The slaughter was covered up. The Army Public Information Office released a widely disseminated story that described an operation that “went like clockwork” in which the “jungle warriors” of the Eleventh Brigade had killed 128 Viet Cong in a running “day-long battle,” chalking up the largest body count in the brigade’s history. On the strength of reports like these, General Westmoreland had sent his official congratulations.

Ellen Kwame Corkrum is a U.S. military Black Hawk assault helicopter pilot, who previously served as an officer in the United States Army and as a commercial pilot.

My family lives in Canada. My omega father is a helicopter pilot, and my alpha father used to be a lumberjack. He’s retired now.” Leo’s lips quirked. “A proper Canadian lumberjack?” “Yes. Except a dragon shifter one.” “Wow.

I’d also like to thank retired Army Colonel Douglas Moore, Dust Off helicopter pilot and recipient of the Distinguished Service Cross, awarded to him for actions during the Vietnam War. Doug flew 1,847 combat missions, evacuated nearly 3,000 wounded, and was inducted into the Dust Off Hall of Fame in 2004. Thank you for taking the time to read and critique an early draft of The Women, and for answering an endless series of follow-up questions.

Never Doubt His Plan A cargo helicopter flying over Alaska had some engine trouble. The pilot did excellent work to get the aircraft down, but electrics had been damaged, meaning he couldn't radio for help. He knew a search party would be looking for him, but there was such a vast area to cover. Being from a family of deep faith, he started to pray for God to send the rescuers in the right direction. Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse. One day while out getting freshwater, there was an electrical fire in the helicopter. He stood at a safe distance and watched it going up in flames. Then the gas tank exploded. He fell to his knees as it did. Watching his pride and joy go up in smoke felt like pouring salt on his wounds. He cried out to God, "I give up, I ask you to help me, and this happens. A few hours later he heard a distance sound, he perked up, he couldn't see anything, but it kept getting closer. Next thing he saw a helicopter in the distance, it was the coast guard coming to rescue him. When they landed, he ran over and gave them a big hug—asking how in the world did they find him. It turned out the smoke from the wreckage had travelled over 300 miles with the wind. The rescue team had followed the smoke. Sometimes what looks like a disappointment is God positioning us for a new level. If your helicopter is on fire today, so to speak, instead of being bitter, complaining, being upset. Have a new perspective, trust in God's plan. It may not make sense now. Being stranded is tough; being in the pits of life will feel uncomfortable. The setbacks, the closed doors can be discouraging, but you have to remind yourself. It's not working against you; it's working for you. Now you only see in part, but one day you will see in full.

You haven’t flown until you’ve taken to the air in a third-world country on board a craft with visible rust and a pilot who keeps the manual in his lap. Fortunately, our pilot seems to know what he’s doing, and the helicopter looks brand new.