Homeward Bound

My boss didn’t warn me that you need to be smart before you learn how to fly a helicopter.  By the time Oleg finished the first hour of ground instruction, I was convinced I would never make it to flight instruction.  I had no idea there were so many ways you could fall out of the sky like a rock.

 

“Failure to allow for lag in cyclic and collective pitch control will lead to overcontrolling.”  Oleg had to break that down into its parts, and repeat it several times, before I could grasp it.

 

I juggled altitude, forward speed, and blade speed in my brain, along with how to properly move the pedals and the stick.  Hovering, hovering turn, forward flight, sideward flight.  I developed a much greater appreciation for the skills of the pilots I had flown with.  I was aware they were talented.  I didn’t know how much experience and knowledge was required to fly one of these machines.

 

Oleg joked that piloting a helicopter is like a man walking on a tightrope.  Do one thing wrong and all of a sudden, the ground is rushing up to meet you.  More seriously, it is like playing chess. You have to think about the next move and the one after that, not just this one.

 

I regretted not listening more closely during Mrs. Nagel’s physics lectures.  Now, I had incentive.  I’d seen crashed helicopters in Afghanistan.

 

Learning with the tiny radio controlled helicopter was a good way to get started.  That was how I turned the theory Oleg had been cramming into my brain into practical knowledge.  The hardest part was developing a light, even touch with the controls.  I began to grasp the cause and effect relationship between various maneuvers.  Things like altitude and velocity factor into performance.  I gained some confidence I might actually be able to do this.

 

By then, I had memorized what the pilot needed to know about the Mi-1, and could go through the pre-flight checklist without making Oleg grimace.

 

Before I would attempt to fly our helicopter, I rode with him to the airport at Perm.  There, we rented a dual control Mi-1.  At first, he did the takeoffs and landings.  I would need quite a few hours of hovering and maneuvering before I tried the really dangerous stuff.  It was one control at a time.  Pedals only first, then just the collective, then the cyclic. 

 

Oleg was an awesome pilot and a good teacher.  Also, he was a skilled liar.  He claimed he taught his grandmother to fly helicopters and she was better than me.  Interspersed with all the practical advice on flying was a steady dialogue of insults.  I set my mind on how to dispel the grandma talk.  I challenged him to a shooting match on the range, as soon as we returned to the lodge.

 

Turns out Oleg’s interest in mechanical things extended to firearms.  Specifically, target shooting.  He put up consecutive sets of perfect scores at 25 and 50 meters in our first rapid fire pistol contest.  Then he admitted he had a bookcase full of ribbons and medals from shooting matches.  He had started competing in youth events when he was eight.  It was time for Plan B, which was soon followed by Plan C.

 

Before my pilot training concluded, the two of us had competed in every sport I could think of, in my attempt to one-up him.  Initially, I had the advantage on Oleg in bow shooting.  He’d never done that before.  When he signed up for my bow shooting class at the lodge, I knew the advantage would be short-lived.

 

The lessons continued, and I began to master the fundamentals. By the time I was focusing on the more sophisticated aspects of piloting a helicopter, I’d come to the conclusion there was only one way I could defeat my teacher.  With a pool cue in my hand, playing eight ball. 

 

The lodge had been completed by then.  A full-sized billiards table sat in the center of the den.  I had played on the old, somewhat uneven table at the recreation center in Wales.  When I worked for Semak, a few of the venues had tables.  I was an average shooter.  As usual, if Oleg had been at his best, I would have not been able to keep up with him.

 

However, I had discovered his weakness.  Alcohol.  Once he started drinking, his skill level at anything plummeted.  He was a professional, and would never drink while flying.  He was too serious about shooting to mix bullets with booze.  But there is a reason you don’t read about people getting arrested for playing pool under the influence.

 

I paid attention and figured out he never beat me after the fourth drink.  I always volunteered to go to the bar and get another of what he was having. 

 

I took what comfort I could in my tiny victory, knowing it would not be enough to shed the grandma label.

 

Oleg’s weakness with beverages became apparent to me about the same time I experienced my biggest stumbling block in learning to fly.  The emergency maneuver known as autorotation.

 

When a helicopter works as designed, the engine turns the rotor.  That pulls air down and pushes the craft up.  This is, by far, the most desirable way to fly one of these machines.

 

However, s**t occasionally happens.  In the event that the engine fails in mid-flight, and cannot be restarted, the craft will either crash, or be guided carefully down to the ground.  The latter outcome requires a pilot skilled at autorotation.

 

When the engine fails, the helicopter will immediately start descending.  But the rotor is still spinning, and has a lot of energy due to its mass.  As the machine falls, air rushes up through the rotor.  This also helps keep it turning.  Thus, the term autorotation.  Properly controlled, the pilot can use the effect to slow the descent of the machine, similar to how a parachute works.  When Oleg gave his demonstration, the landing was only slightly harder than normal.

 

I watched how he handled the controls.  It seemed pretty simple.  I wasn’t terrified at all.  That wouldn’t happen until it was my turn to try.

 

There are good reasons training aircraft have dual controls.  Oleg managed to bail me out the first few times.  Like everything else, I eventually figured it out.  But according to him, I would never be as good at autorotation as his grandmother.

 

Still, Oleg was pleased with my progress.  I completed the requirements for my license.  One last time, I flew him to the airport at Perm.  We shook hands and he boarded a plane heading home to Volgograd.  I waited for Mr. Dmitryev to arrive from Moscow.  Flying the boss to the lodge was my first official job as a pilot.

 

I would work for Valery for three more years.  I flew him between the lodge and the Perm airport many times.  The helicopter was useful in several emergencies.  Like the time I flew a chef to the hospital, after he developed appendicitis.

 

One winter we had heavy snowfalls in the Urals.  Which caused flooding in the spring when the snow melted.  I spent several days evacuating nearby farmers and other residents, whose fields and houses were being inundated by the surging Kama River.  The lodge became a temporary home for some of our neighbors.

 

With experience, I became a proficient pilot.  I was confident I could handle my craft as well as anyone else.  But each time I flew my helicopter, I knew my place.  I could hear Oleg’s voice.  I fly like his grandmother.

 

There had been many turning points in my life.  The death of my parents, then my uncle.  The crazy joy ride through Siberia.  The chain of events that led me to adventures in Mongolia, Afghanistan and Russia. 

 

My world fell apart, all at once, the day Eastwood died.  That was catastrophic, and easy to see.  What was more difficult to notice, since it happened slowly, was how the pieces eventually fell back into place.

 

The long conversations with Irina planted the seeds.  The process of proving myself, first in the Army, then with my civilian jobs, set the stage.  Specific events, such as Mr. Rasmussen’s heart problem, were evidence of tangible progress.

 

As was the situation I encountered, on the road between Yakutsk and Saskylakh.

 

It was time for the biggest, most critical piece of equipment to be delivered to the mine.  The dragline.  So big it had taken three years to build.  When put into operation, it would replace a half dozen smaller machines, and work at double their combined output.

 

The machine was in Yakutsk, in pieces, on a series of tractor trailers.  The road had finally been leveled and graded all the way to the mine.  Mr. Dmitryev’s concern with this convoy was not the road, or the weather, but the potential of vandalism. 

 

On occasion, our trucks were set on fire, had tires slashed, or brake lines cut, while crews slept overnight.  That risk had been minimized with the improved road.  A typical convoy could now complete the trip nonstop.  But the trailers holding the pieces of the gigantic dragline were overloaded.  The trucks would have to drive much slower than usual.  We were expecting at least a two-day journey. 

 

Mr. Dmitreyev asked me to accompany the crew and oversee security.  I had done that before, while we cached supplies and did training for the drivers and crews.  Nothing exciting had happened on any of those excursions.  This time would be different.  The boss’s instinct for danger had hit the mark.

 

I was in the last truck and slept while we traveled.  As I expected, we did not encounter any human interference during the day.  The engines strained with the heavy loads when we went uphill.  The road crossed a number of small mountains.  There were sharp switchbacks where the grade was steep.  We had to stop and guide each machine, one at a time, through the tightest spots.  We were only halfway to Saskylakh when the sun started to set.

 

It was time for me to do my thing.  The boss had given me free rein on setting up security.  If anything bad happened while we were camped overnight, it would be on me.  I supervised the crew as they set up.  We had done a dry run in Yakutsk the day before.  I wanted to make sure we had everything we needed, and that every crew member knew his responsibilities.

 

It was dark when we fired up the portable stove and cooked the evening meal.  After we ate, most of the crew bedded down.  Not me.  I planned on staying awake all night.  Each of the drivers would pull a three-hour sentry shift, so two men would be ready for trouble at any time.  I carried a thermos of coffee with me as I climbed on top of the largest piece of the dragline. 

 

From there, I could see all of our convoy and a good distance both ways down the road.  I had a very expensive set of night vision goggles.  No one was going to sneak up on us without me noticing.  We had clamped lights to the roofs of the trucks and trailers, connected to the truck batteries.  With a flip of the switch, we could flood the area with artificial daylight. 

 

I could hear some of the men, snoring in the cabs.  The driver who was on sentry duty walked back and forth below me.  I sat on my perch and watched him make circles around the trucks.  It took three minutes to make a loop.  I wore a radio headset, as did the sentry, and we spoke occasionally.  That helped me stay awake.

 

We had made camp on a flat section of the road.  There were few trees in the area.  Mostly we were surrounded by thick, waist high grass. 

 

The three men who were trying to sneak up on us had no idea I could see them.  My goggles had a built-in infrared illuminator.  They were easily visible, crouched in the vegetation.  One of them had a rifle slung over his shoulder.  I considered the possibility I would become a killer again tonight.

 

No doubt, they had watched the sentry long enough to time his rounds.  They expected they would be able to do their damage, then run away before we had time to react.  They would try to keep the parked vehicles between them and the guard.  They had no idea I saw them coming.

 

I climbed down quietly and made my way to one of the spots I had picked out earlier.  I gave some instructions to the sentry over the radio.

 

He made a lap around the tractor at the rear and began pacing away from the intruders.   They moved in.  I was kneeling down in the grass, off to the side.  My rifle was in my hands.   One of the men pulled a knife out of a sheath.  I whispered “now” over the radio.

 

As planned, the sentry had made his way to the set of light switches.  The men put their hands over their faces as the bright lights hit them.  I stood up, and started shooting.

 

I was aiming at the ground, just in front of their feet.  The first bullet hit a meter ahead of them, and I walked three more shots toward them.  The last hit just in front of one of their boots.  Close enough to spray gravel particles on the men’s pants.

 

Between the blinding light, and being shot at, the men reacted like terrified children.  The one with the rifle jumped into the air, landed awkwardly, and fell to his knees.  The rifle clattered to the ground in front of him.  The next man, carrying the backpack, froze like a statue.  The last hit the ground and curled up in a fetal position.  Amateurs.

 

I yelled, “Do not move or I will fill your carcasses with holes.”  By then, the sentry had arrived.  We had two rifles aimed at the men.  I had them lie flat on the ground as I searched them.

 

The backpack contained Molotov cocktails.  Each of the men had a knife.  It would have only taken them a few moments to puncture tires, and light and toss the burning bottles.  A fire inside the dragline’s cab could do hundreds of thousands of dollars’ damage, and set progress back at the mine for years.

 

I had them stand up, and gave them a good looking over.  They didn’t seem very tough to me.  Probably just unemployed men desperate enough to do anything for money.  They also looked hungry.  I asked when was the last time they had eaten.  “Vchera utrom.”  Yesterday morning.

 

I told the sentry, “Let’s get the stove out and fix these men some food.  I’ve got a lot of questions and nobody likes to talk on an empty stomach.”  I motioned with the rifle and the prisoners walked ahead of us.

 

After the men had eaten, I started asking questions.  First, their names.  Maksim, Vlad, and Nikolai.  Then, I wanted to hear their story.  It was an ordinary tale, I’d heard it more than once in the past few years. 

 

The three used to have jobs in a state-run factory in Yakutsk.  After the USSR crashed and burned, it closed.  They had done odd jobs since then, nothing steady.  When someone offered them a pile of rubles to do a night of dirty work, they didn’t say no.

 

When they finished, I told them about me.  I gave them a 30-minute autobiography.  Growing up with Eastwood, coming to the USSR, hunting and killing rebels, cutting off pinkie fingers, and so on.  They squirmed when I covered the interesting parts.

 

I looked the men in the eyes, and referred to them by their names.  I wanted them to be as comfortable as possible, and off guard, when it was time to start the game.

 

“So, I have made it a point to be generous and kind to you three gentlemen.  And I want you to know that I like you.  But the truth of the matter is this.  Technically, you and I are enemies.  I have a job to do.  But I like to have fun while I work.  So, we are going to play a game I learned a long time ago, watching television in the good old US of A.”

 

“The game is called Truth or Consequences.”

 

“Here are the rules.  I will take you off to the side, one at a time.  I will ask each of you the same set of questions.  If I decide that every answer I receive is the truth, the three of you will win the game.  The prize will be your lives.  I will let you go unharmed.”

 

“On the other hand, if I decide that any of the answers is a lie, you will face the consequences.  Regardless of who lied, I will kill all three of you.  Then I will burn your bodies, and smash your charred, dry bones into dust.”

 

“Are you ready to play?”

 

I didn’t expect an answer.  I stood, looked at Maksim, and motioned for him to follow me.  We walked far enough away that the other men could not hear.  The questions were simple.

 

“What is the name of the man who paid you to do this?”  “Pyotr Slivka”

 

I did not recognize the name.  “Where can I find this man?”  “He lives in Yakutsk.”

 

“What is his address?”  “He runs a restaurant, called Pyotr’s, on the corner of Lenina and Kirova streets.”  No doubt, a small time criminal who used the business as a front to launder money.

 

“Clearly, a man who runs a restaurant has no reason to spend his time and money attempting to sabotage a diamond company’s equipment.  Who does Mr. Slivka work for?”  There was a pause this time.  “Gennady Chernoff.”

 

Now we were getting somewhere.  Chernoff worked for the biggest mining company in Russia, the Mirny Corporation.  They were Mr. Dmitryev’s primary competitor.  When locals resisted selling land at a mine site, or refused to let Mirny build roads across their property, they got a visit from Chernoff.  Officially, he was a vice president.  On the street, he would be known as an enforcer. 

 

I didn’t need an address for Mr. Chernoff.  He liked the limelight and was a prominent member of the Moscow high society scene.  He would be easy to find, if I had a reason to look.

 

I asked each of the men the same questions.  All gave the same answers.  I had no reason to doubt them.

 

By then, the sun was coming up.  We needed to resume our journey.  And it was time to set our prisoners free.  They had won the game. 

 

When I searched the men, I’d taken a set of keys off of Nikolai.  He and I walked to where the vehicle was parked.  After I was sure it contained no weapons, we drove back to the convoy. 

 

I told the men, “One more thing before I let you go.  I am going to write a note.  I want you to deliver it to Mr. Slivka.  I know I can’t force you to do this, so I ask you to give me your word of honor.”

 

I wrote the short note on a piece of paper, signed it, and handed it to Nikolai, along with the car keys.  I shook hands with each of the men, and wished them well.  We watched as they drove south, towards Yakutsk.

 

The note said:

 

Dear Mr. Slivka and Mr. Chernoff,

 

With all due respect, if another illegal attempt is made to interfere with my employer’s business, I will hunt each of you down like an animal and choke the life out of you with my bare hands. 

 

Sincerely yours,

Ivan Andreyevsky

 

We broke camp and the convoy headed north to Saskylakh.  I chuckled when I thought about what Valery will say when I speak to him, particularly about the note.  I didn’t care.  While all this was happening, things had been clearing up in my head.  I had come to a realization. 

 

I had been in Russia for fifteen years.  Much had changed.  The lost boy, who once tried to run away from his fears, had grown up. 

 

It was time for me to become Evan again, and go home.