That helicopter story that kept me awake – Episode 45

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

We flew north at low altitude, crossing the border into the Sudan, then ran along the border, heading back to the landing field we’d arrived on in Uganda.

It was basically a two-hour flight that in the end was eventless. After everything that had happened over the past 24 hours, it wasn’t hard to doze off, leaving Davies to get us back.

I was woken suddenly by a thump on my arm.

“Need your help landing this crate,” a squeaky voice in my ear said.

I could feel the plane losing altitude, and the engines not making the same noise as they had just before I’d dropped off to sleep. It seemed like it was only a few minutes ago we were taking off.

She leveled the plane at 1000 feet, and flew over the airfield, the landing lights on, and I could see the strip from start to end. It looked a lot longer than the one we’d taken off from.

Turning sharply, I could hear the landing gear being activated and saw green lights come on one the dashboard. Down and locked I assumed.

She then went through a series of landing checks and told me what she wanted me to do to assists, and then everything seemingly OK, we came in to land.

This landing was a lot bumpier than that in the C130 earlier, but she got us there, throttled back, and slowed the speed before heading for the terminal buildings.

Once there, she let the engines run for about a minute or so before switching them off.

Once the propellers stopped turning, the silence in the cockpit was strange. At the rear, the door was opened, and everyone was getting off, the Colonel first to make sure none of his men shot anyone by mistake, and then the rest of the team.

Davies and I were the last to leave. I got the impression she would have stayed, just a little longer, and it was telling that she patted the dashboard in what I would call a loving manner, thanking the aircraft for its service.

“I can see you like flying these old planes,” I said, still seated and taking in the moment.

“There’s something about them. You have to fly them, they don’t fly you, not like the F15’s or any of those other jets that have autopilots. No, this comes from the days of real flying.”

“You said your Dad has one?”

“Yep.”

“Then the art of flying is not lost on you. Perhaps one day when I get lost, somewhere where this plane lives, you can take me up.”

“Any time.”

She dragged herself out of the left seat and headed towards the rear of the plane. I took a moment longer, then followed her.

Maybe she could teach me how to fly.

Or maybe not.

I keep forgetting I hate flying in planes.

As I stepped off the plane onto terra firma again, I could see just inside the range of my peripheral vision, some activity by the terminal building.

Suddenly, a man was running towards us. He was also yelling out, words to the effect, ‘they’re coming’.

Who?

The Colonel looked up just as the man, almost hunched over out of breath, reached him.

“They’re coming. A helicopter, heading towards us.” Several more huge breaths, then, “An hour at best.” He looked at me. “You have to go.”

Then he handed the Colonel a sheet of paper, and he quickly scanned it.

Then he said, “Your friendly militia decided the ransom wasn’t enough and they’re coming to take them back.”

“How is that possible? Can they just cross borders like that?”

“This is Africa. Anything can happen. By the time their mission is done, it’ll be too late for us to scramble anything to attack them. You need to go.”

Davies had come back, assuming it had something to do with the plane, and after taking in what the Colonel had to say, said, “We need more fuel. Not much, but it’ll take time.”

The fuel truck had already come out and begun the refueling.

“Go tell the driver how much you need. You’ve probably got a half-hour, a little more before you take off and go before, they get here.”

She headed towards the fuel truck, muttering under her breath.

I yelled out to Monroe, “Round up everyone and get them back on the plane. Wheels up in half an hour.”

I could see her mouth the word why.

“Seems we’re about to get a visit from some very unfriendly people.”

Enough said.

If only something made sense…

It seems rather fortuitous that we have a holiday at the end of the year.

I mean, who sat around a table however many years ago and decided that holidays like Christmas should be at the end of the year. And who decided one half of the world could freeze to death on their holidays, and the other half burn?

At the end of a long year at that, you know, 52 weeks, 12 months, 365 days, where even when some of us get a weekend off once in a blue moon, it still seems like we’re working 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year.

So, who decided a week would have seven days, a year would have 12 months, and while we’re at it, who decided to give each month a different name? And who named names?

Was it Father Time. As children, we all learn about father time, or has political correctness stepped in and we now call ‘father time’, ‘person time’.

Anyway…

Who do we blame for this mess, we have to blame someone. It’s not our fault. If it were up to me I’d have Christmas in September when there’s more temperate weather in both halves of the world.

And who decided that Christmas should be attached to Winter and not Summer?

It’s like the whole mess was designed by a group of academics majoring in philosophy sitting in a back room and fed Coca Cola and Pizzas until they came up with an answer, which was probably to send it all to a parliamentary committee made up from candidates from Bellevue Asylum.

The same people, by the way, who are responsible for coordinating traffic lights.

And then there’s that other mystery I’ve never quite understood.

If you work for the FBI your first name suddenly becomes ‘Agent’. Everyone gets that name change whether you like it or not.

Which is much the same as all Russians once upon a time calling each other ‘comrade’. Beats the hell, I suppose, out of remembering peoples first names, especially in Russia where, to us, they’re unpronounceable.

Sorry.

You can tell it’s getting close to Chrismas.

I’ve become a gibbering idiot.

Writing about writing a book – Day 28

So after that rather undramatic ‘off with the fairies’ moment, it’s time to come back to earth. Holiday or not, there’s always something that can go wrong.

Even when you’ve been told to take some vacation days, and reluctantly stayed home. The notion that vacation meant going away somewhere doesn’t enter Bill’s mind.

Perhaps he’s like a lot of workaholics, using their job as an excuse to forget about life outside work.

Maybe he was hoping something would go wrong. Maybe he had considered manufacturing a problem so that he would have to go back.

Maybe not, but that was the sort of employee he was, not one that could willingly take a day away, just in case.

Like now.

I’d almost managed to doze off again when the phone rang.

I jumped to its equally shrill sound cutting through the silence. It had to be a wrong number because no one at work would call me, and I didn’t have many friends, so I let it ring out. As far as I could remember, it was only the third time it had rung since I’d moved in, four years ago.

Blissful silence. I looked at the bedside clock. 7 am. Who called anyone at that hour?

It rang again.

Ignore it, I thought. If it was anyone, it would be someone from the office. I’d told them all not to call me, not unless the building was burning down and they were all trapped in it.

And even then, I’d have to think about it.

Burying my head under the pillow didn’t shut out the insistent ringing, compelling me to answer. Almost reluctantly I rolled back, pulled the telephone out from under the bed, and lifted the receiver to my ear.

“Bill?”

It was Carl Benton, my immediate superior; an insipid, loathsome, irritating little man, the last person I would want to speak to. He’d insisted I take this leave, that the office could survive without me, adding in his most condescending manner that I needed the break.

I slammed the receiver down in anger. It was a forlorn gesture. Seconds later, it rang again.

“I seem to remember you were the one to tell me to go on holiday, that I needed a holiday. I’m off the roster. It can’t be that important. Call someone else.” I wasn’t going to give him the opportunity to speak. Not this morning. I was not in the mood to listen to that squeaky, falsetto voice of his, one that always turned into a whine when he didn’t get his way.

And hung up again.

Not that it would do any good. I knew that even if I was in Tibet, he would still call. Then I realized it was too early for him to be in the office, and if he was, he would have been dragged out of bed and put in a position where if he didn’t produce results, they might realize just how incompetent he was.

At last, my holiday had some meaning and smiled to myself. I’d make the bastard sweat.

He left it a few minutes before he rang again. And I let it ring out. I could see the expression on his face, bewilderment, changing slowly into suffused anger. How dare I ignore him!

Another five minutes, then the phone began its shrill insistence again. Before it rang again, I’d moved it from the floor to the bed. I counted the rings, to ten, and then picked up the receiver.

“Bill? Don’t hang up.” Almost pleading.

“Why? You said I should go, away from work, away from the phones, away to recharge my batteries, I believe you said.”

“That was Friday. This is Monday. You’re needed. Richardson has been found shot dead by his desk. All hell has broken loose!” Benton rarely used adjectives, so I assumed when he said all hell had broken loose, it meant something had happened he couldn’t fix. His flowery language and telegram style had momentarily distracted my attention from Richardson’s fate.

Harold Richardson was an accountant, rather stuffy, but good at his job. I’d spoken to him probably twice in as many years, and he didn’t strike me as the sort who would kill himself. So why did I think that? Benton had only said he was shot.

Benton’s voice went up an octave, a sure sign he was going into meltdown. “It’s a circus down here. Jennifer is missing, Giles is not in yet, the network is down, and that bunch of nincompoops you call support staff are running around the office like headless chooks.”

It all came out in a nonstop sentence, followed by a gasp for air. It gave me time to sift the facts. Jennifer, my sometime assistant, and responsible for data entry and accounts maintenance, was not there, which in itself was unusual, because she kept longer hours than me, Peter Giles, my youthful assistant, just out of university and still being beaten into shape was not in, and that was usual, so it could only mean one thing.

The network was down.

What happens after the action-packed start – Part 46

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

…

It took longer, as everything does when you’re in a hurry.

The plane was loaded, the fuel truck had just disconnected the final hose, and was leaving the field, and Davies was firing up the engines.

Everyone was on board and strapped in. I gave my thanks to the Colonel and shut the door before joining Davies in the cockpit.

Looking at her cool, calm demeanor gave me confidence. If anyone could get us out of here in one piece, she could.

I put the headphones on and put on the seat belt, just as she revved the engines, saw the wave from the ground crewman who removed the wheel chocks, and we started moving.

15 minutes to spare. Would it be enough?

The Colonel had said that it was possible the helicopter might be one of those belonging to the air force and might have missiles that could shoot us down. Not a good thought. At the very least it would have a cannon, and if the bullets hit us, it could make an awful mess of the fuselage.

He didn’t have any good news though.

I was hoping it would just be a commercial helicopter with a couple of thugs with handguns shooting at us.

At the top of the runway, she didn’t waste time going to full throttle, and we started rumbling down the runway. Unfortunately, the wind had changed and to take off we had to initially fly towards Congo airspace before turning towards our destination.

Then we lifted off and started gaining altitude.

Then I heard Davies mutter, “Fuck.”

Trouble. I saw what elicited the curse. The helicopter, heading towards us.

“Military,” she added.

Not that I had any idea what I was looking for, but it didn’t seem to have rockets, but it did have a cannon barrel under the fuselage.

“Brace yourself,” she said. “We’re about to get on the roller coaster.”

Still climbing we were getting closer, and I could just see the cannon move. If it was shooting rounds, they didn’t hit us, not from such a distance, but they were getting closer because we were still flying towards them.

Then, suddenly, she turned the planes to the right and down, a plunge so quick that my stomach was in my mouth. I hate to think what it would be like for those in the back.

Aside from the fact my hearing was blocked by the headphones, I could still hear several mini-explosions coming from behind me.

Another curse, rather longer this time, from Davies and she twisted the plane back in the opposite direction, and heading around towards the airfield again, much lower down this time, with the helicopter in hot pursuit.

Now we couldn’t see it, but it would have a good view of our engines and tail.

If any of the bullets hit, we’d be in big trouble.

I was bracing myself for disaster.

Davies was coaxing the plane upwards, but it seemed sluggish.

Nothing happened.

“Gun’s jammed.” She said. “If you don’t maintain your equipment…”

That statement was cut off by a huge explosion and turning as far as I could in my seat I just saw the remnants of a firewall, what was once a helicopter.

“Ground to air rocket. The Colonel must have some interesting toys at his disposal.” Davies sounded very relieved.

I started breathing again.

“Are we damaged?” It was a valid question. The plane seemed like it was flying awkwardly.

“I’d say so., Those explosions. Cannon fire hitting the fuselage. Probably took out some controls, or failing that, since there’s still maneuverability, probably just a few holes creating drag.”

She was a matter of fact like, but that was more because she was fighting the controls to keep us moving in the right direction.

Away from trouble.

“Go check it out,” she said.

At the head of the cabin, I saw the problem, a row of neat holes carved from one window through to halfway along the fuselage, going down. We’d be lucky if one of the bullets hadn’t struck one of the wires that drove the flaps/

There was a hell of a noise from the air coming in through the holes.

By the second window, slumped forward, was Shurl. There was blood and blood spatter on the floor. Monroe came up to me and yelled in my ear.

“Damned good flying, and only one casualty. We were incredibly lucky. Shurl wasn’t quick enough to get on the floor. Other than that, we’re still in the air, and I’m guessing someone shot the helo down?”

“Ground to air missile. Any sooner, that would have been us. Try and sit back, rest, and enjoy the in-flight service. Oh, and a prayer or two might help.”

Travel is part of the story – Salzburg

Salzburg features in ‘One Last Look’

Along with My Fair Lady, another of my favourite musicals was Sound of Music and having seen it a number of times over the years, it had conjured up a number of images of Salzburg in my mind, and with them a desire to go there. We had been to Salzburg once before, an overnight train stop between Vienna and Innsbruck, an afterthought, but what we saw then was reason enough to come back later and spend several days.

A pity then the day we arrived, and for much of our stay, it rained. But, like hardened travelers, very little stops us from doing anything, and particularly sightseeing.

We stayed at the Crowne Plaza – The Pitter in a very well appointed room. Breakfast included, it was a great way to start the day. The afternoon we arrived we went for a short walk to the old city passing through the Mirabelle gardens with the Pegasus Fountain, Rose Garden and Dwarves Garden. Later we discovered that the archway had been used in part of the filming of Sound of Music.

We took the Festungsbahn funicular railway up to the Fortress Hohensalzburg, dating back to 1077, and the largest fortress still standing in Europe. We spent a pleasant afternoon wandering through the rooms and exhibits, and then had lunch at a café, the Salzburg Fortress Café, that overlooked the country side. This was where we were introduced to Mozart Gold Chocolate Cream added to our coffee.

It led us to searching for the product which we eventually found in a confectionary store, Holzemayr in the Alter Markt. Not only sis we find the Gold liqueur there was also a dark chocolate variety as well. We bought a whole box to bring back with us, as well as a number of other chocolates including Victor Schmidt Austrian Mozart Balls, a delicious chocolate and marzipan combination.

With another afternoon to spare we visited the Salzburg Residence which previously housed Salzburg’s ruling prince-archbishops. We visited the reception rooms and living quarters, as well as the Gallery. It is as ornate as any of the palaces in Austria, resplendent with furnishings and paintings. After that, the visit to Mozart’s birthplace was something of an anticlimax.

But, what we were in Salzburg for, the Sound of music tour, and the places we visited:

The Mirabelle gardens, where Maria sang Do Re Mi in front of the gates to the gardens. We spent some time here before and after the tour, and also has a look inside the Mirabelle Palace, which is not open to the public as it is the city administrative offices.

Leopoldskron Palace where the boating scene was filmed as well as exteriors. They were not allowed to film inside the place and were only allowed to use the exterior. An interesting tidbit of information, one of the children nearly drowned.

Helbrunn palace is now home to the gazebo where Rolf and Leisl sang their song, ‘16 going on 17’. The interesting part of this was the fact the Gazebo used to film the scene was much larger than the actual Gazebo on display.

The walkway from the fortress back to the old city passes Nonnberg Abbey where Maria was a novice, and where the opening scenes were filmed. A number of scenes were filmed here, including the song ‘Maria’ in the courtyard. The tour only showed the exterior of the Abbey.

Salzburg lake district where panorama and picnic scenes were filmed. Even on the dullest of days, during which throughout our tour in continually rained, the scenery was still magnificent.

Mondsee church, where the wedding scenes were filmed. It was surprising just how small the church really is. It was also a stop to have afternoon tea or some ‘famous’ apple strudel.

Needless to say we watched Sound of Music straight after the tour, and managed to pick out all of the places we had been to. The only downside to the tour, singing along to the songs. I’m sorry, but I do not sing, and some of those that were, well, I say no more.

Writing about writing a book – Day 27

Well, it’s been a monumental process to get to the point where I think I can start writing Chapter One.

This, of course, might not be the first chapter, it might finish up somewhere else.

If there was a plan, then this would be chapter one. In fact, right now, I’m going to sit down and do a plan with as much as I know about where the book is heading.

One, about Bill and his introduction to the reader

Two, a phone call to interrupt the dream

Three, having to go into work – there’s a disaster going on, and he’s the only one who can fix it.

Well, not necessarily others, but this is the nineteen seventies/eighties, and women were still not looked upon or considered as being able to hold the same position as Bill – we’ve certainly come a long way in forty years.

And that, of course, is anther stream in the book, proving that woman, and one in particular is clever and given the recognition she deserves.

I’ve also got to remember that there is no internet, and there are no mobile phones and a lot of other stuff that is now regarded as commonplace and taken for granted.

We had telephone boxes, telephones on desks that connected to a switchboard, dumb terminals connected to mainframes, modems that were bulky and very very slow, and comms ran very differently to those today, and networking was a variety of technologies that mostly don’t exist anymore, like ethernet and token ring, and software like 3Com and Novell.

I know I’m going to forget sometimes because it’s going to be hard not to have the MC pull out his cellphone and call on the spot.

Anyway, here’s the first attempt…

A cool breeze blew briskly across meadows of tall grass, giving the impression of the ocean in a storm. High above, clouds scudded across the sky, occasionally allowing the sun to shine through to bathe the ground in the sunshine, intensifying the richness of the greens and browns.

It was spring. Trees were displaying new growth, and flowers were starting to show the promise of summery delight. An occasional light shower of rain added to the delightful aromas, particularly where the grass had recently been mowed.

I was there, too, with my grandmother, the woman who had, for the most part, brought me up at her country residence. But, as I got older, the dream changed and sometimes there were storm clouds on the horizon, or I was caught in the rain, alone and frightened, or lost in the woods in the dark.

There were other visions like these from my childhood, now a million years away somewhere in a distant past that was hard to remember or say where and when they belonged. It was a pity some were now based on images stolen from the start of a movie seen on TV late at night as I was trying to get to sleep. Or that the psychiatrist had said there was some trauma from my early childhood, trying to work its way out.

Like every other morning, these images came to me as I was hovering somewhere between conscious and unconscious, just before the alarm went off. Then it did, filling the room with a shrill noise that would have woken the dead.

I cursed, and then dragged myself over to the other side of the bed where I’d put the alarm clock, and hit it, killing the shrill sound. I’d put it there so I would have to wake up to turn it off. And, worse, I’d forgotten to turn it off the night before because it was, technically, the first day of my holiday.

Not that I really wanted one because since Ellen left, my life consisted of work, work, and more work. It kept my mind off being alone, and in an empty apartment except for the books, a bed, a table, and two chairs, a desk, and a well-worn lounge chair. I’d been there for years and still hadn’t bought any new furniture or anything else for that matter.

And the last holiday I’d gone on had been organized by Ellen fifteen years ago in Italy after our two daughters had finished school and graduated almost top of their class. We’d been happier then, but happiness was fleeting for me, and soon after the rot had set in, and it was the beginning of the end.

I remembered it only too clearly, coming home, opening a letter addressed to her, and finding proof of what I think I’d known all along. She was having an affair, had been for quite some time.

It should not have been a surprise given what I had put her through over the years, since my discharge from the Army, and the nightmares active service had fueled, but it was and sent me spiraling to a new low.

But that was five years ago. I came out of the fog a year after that. Ellen was gone, the girls came to see me from time to time, and all I had left were memories.

I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. I was on holiday. No work, no pressure, nothing. I could go back to my grandmother’s house and visit. I had been promising myself I’d do that soon, even if it was now a country hotel. From the advertising it had not changed one bit, the house and grounds intact.

Or I could throw a dart at a map and get on the next plane there, though knowing my ability with a dart, it would be in the middle of the ocean.

I could do almost anything I wanted.

It’s not much, just a taste. But it’s enough for now. I’ve made a start. Now, all I have to do is come up with the next 100,000 words or so.

Searching for locations: A long, narrow, winding road to the top of a hill

Or in other words, going up the mountain to O’Reilly’s Rainforest Retreat.

…

The road, from the turn off the Greenlee cottages, Is narrow, winding, and not one you can go faster than 40kph. Buses and trucks are restricted to 20kph, but as you get further into the mountains, it’s difficult to see how they can get along the road at all.

It’s difficult enough in a mid-size SUV.

At times the road is so narrow that you wonder how trucks and buses could get between the trees, because the close you get to the guest house, the narrower the road. And, at times, the car has to scrape by the overhanging branches, especially when having to make way for oncoming traffic.

The road in places is definitely not wide enough for two cars, but there are a lot of points where you can pull off to the side to let them pass.

It is tarred, but being in the middle of a dense tropical forest, it’s pitted and rutted, and very uneven. There is not one moment where can relax, or tale your eyes off the road, as some of us do, to take in the surrounding scenery.

But, whilst most of it looks the same, it’s certainly not boring, and every now and then you break out of the darkness into a clearing. And, sometimes a house.

Yes, people do live on the side of a mountain, and, just to be clear, their view, every morning, from the back verandah must be spectacular

At the end of the three quarters of an hour drive we emerge onto a mountain top, and what is O’Reilly’s guest house, though after a more investigative look around, the guests stay in motel like rooms. Those were the rooms we could see, but apparently there are villas that are part of the rainforest, but we did not get to see them.

That would be where I would stay, if I was going to stay up here.

There is an old wooden structure, but if this is the original guest house, it doesn’t look like people stay there any more.

But, it’s not the accommodation the people come here for, it’s the endless bush walks. Of course, there’s other stuff there, but I suspect for most people, it’s more about communing with nature, discovering the wildlife, and taking in the fresh country air.

Oh, and a plane, like one that had crashed nearby, with an interesting story to go with it.

We went into the souvenir story and whilst the prices are higher than I expected, there’s a wide variety of items that are worthy of being a reminder of the place.

We also went into the cafe, a large cavernous space that was a reminder of the chalet style building in alpine areas, made completely of wood. I was expecting it to be older than it was, but certainly, it was more atmospheric than the modern cafes. The food, though expensive, was good, and the coffee excellent.

It was a pity that we could not do more walking that day, but it was a pleasant interlude, and a place I would go back to.